LANE HELPS JORDAN UP ONTO the upholstered seat in the Northwest Hospital waiting room. The cushions have a sort of a worn-out, early ’90s digital Navajo pattern. The creases around the edge and the lacquered wood frames are filled with flesh-colored crumbs. Psoriasis? Kids eating Saltines, Lane hopes.
He grabs the hand-sanitizer pump from the counter and juices out a liberal dose into his cupped palm. Racing against the rapid evaporation, he slathers it all over Jordan’s hands and works it up the kid’s arms to the elbow. Jordan shivers from the chill of the alcohol. His skin puckers with tiny white bumps.
Lane is not sure why Inez would keep the poor kid in his short-sleeved SANTA’S FAVORITE LITTLE HELPER shirt. Doesn’t seem like a thoughtful choice for the first week of January. But a little cold never killed nobody. That’s what Perry used to say to Dottie when she made Lane add on an extra Goodwill sweater under his coat. One that he would take off and hide in his backpack before school. His mom still suggests it now when he steps out of the house.
When Inez returns from Wanda’s hospital room, Jordan is half asleep. Lane holds his head in his hands but sits on the first three inches of the chair, worried that he’ll be consumed by bacteria and mites.
“Still waiting on the lazy doctor to sign us out. Might take a while,” Inez says while rubbing Jordan’s shoulders. He wakes up and goes straight into tears.
“I gotta go back there,” she says.
“Wait, what am I supposed to do?” Lane puts Jordan on his lap and tries to pet him back to sleep with no success. “It’s already been like forever.”
“Take him out to eat. Come back in a few hours and my mom’ll be ready to go home,” she says, and walks through the swinging doors into the back hall.
THEIR EXPERIENCE IN THE HOSPITAL cafeteria is less than ideal. Lane should have known better. The place reminds him of the state liquor store. The library. But with food. His collar feels tight.
He buys the bread bowl with clam chowder for Jordan. The kid can’t even hold the full-sized metal spoon. His mouth reaches right to the edge of the table, where an older woman with skin tags and a walker with tennis balls stuck on its back feet has just finished a paper cup of chicken noodle soup. No matter how many times he tells Jordan not to put his mouth on the table, the kid doesn’t listen. They need a change of scenery.
Lane tries to belt Jordan into the car seat. Inez hadn’t known how to do it either. She said that the caseworker gave the seat to her but she’d never installed it in a car before. Something about looping the lap belt through it. Lane stretches to try to pull the belt across Jordan in the seat. It is not long enough, and Jordan starts to cry again as Lane pulls it to try to buckle. Perhaps it’s the wrong belt. Is he using the middle one? He digs into the seat, looking for the correct one, and something small and metallic jams between his thumbnail and cuticle. He pulls his hand out and it’s bleeding, covered with crumbs or sand reminiscent of what’s to be found in the upholstered waiting room chairs. He sweats, imagining the particles entering his bloodstream. Jordan cries. He gives up and puts Jordan in the car seat but free-floating from the actual bench seat of the car.
It takes three attempts and then letting the car roll across the parking lot in neutral to gain some momentum before the engine turns over. Too cold. Gas getting low. He’s not sure.
Jordan screams. This is no longer tears but a protest. Lane is trying to drive as carefully as possible. Doesn’t Jordan appreciate what all Lane is doing for him? He is driving like this because he has someone else’s child in the back without an attached car seat. Even if he got in an accident and no one is hurt, it could detonate his suspended sentence, his plans, his life.
But the kid keeps screaming. Lane might need to stop for gas. It’s unclear if the gauge is moving or not. But he doesn’t know if the car will restart and he’ll be stuck at some gas station looking like a child molester with some random kid having a temper tantrum.
He points the car toward the one place he knows he can go.
LANE’S MOM QUITS PACKING, ORGANIZING closets and cleaning with Toby to tend to Jordan. She gets a new diaper from the neighbor at the corner with the five kids. Inez hadn’t thought to pack one. Or water. Or a snack. Or anything, for that matter.
“All he needed was a fresh diaper.” Dottie peels and feeds Jordan a piece of American cheese. He plays with the plastic wrapper and repeats, “Ma, ma, mas.”
Lane exhales. “I think he wants his mom. I can’t believe she left me with—”
“I think that’s Spanish for ‘more,’” Toby says.
“The fridge is pretty thin right now,” Dottie says, “but I could go up to Fred Meyer to pick up—”
“Jesus, let Lane do it himself.” Toby storms out of the room and starts packing again.
“I was on my way, dude. I got it,” Lane announces loud enough that it can be heard in the other room. He doesn’t need anyone’s help. Except to install the car seat. After messing with that for another ten minutes while Jordan wails, Chaz and Toby have to step in and figure out how to thread the belt through the frame.
JORDAN AND LANE WAIT TO order food at the Lake City Dick’s. The place is packed. The lines from each of the Plexiglas ordering windows run back eight people or more.
Turning off the car makes Lane anxious. It’s not like Jordan can help him push or drive. Nor can he leave the kid by himself in a running vehicle while he orders. The line is too long, and there are some scrubs about. Sullen redneck laborers in pickups. High school boys in letterman jackets chewing tobacco and shoving each other for fun.
Lane orders a chocolate shake, Deluxe and cheeseburger, plus the little plastic cup of diced onions. He decides to get a cheeseburger and fries for the kid. He tells Jordan to stay by his side as he counts out the cash. They don’t need to hold hands or anything, but the kid needs to keep close in the crowd.
He considers putting the change into the charity box; it’s nothing more than a few nickels and some pennies. But he holds on to it. As he looks down to put it in his pocket, Jordan is gone. Like not there at all: gone.
As Lane’s adrenaline spikes and he spills his onions and change across the cement patio, he sees the kid standing to the other side of him. Easy now. Lane talks himself down off the ledge. There’s no big trick to this. All sorts of total fuck-ups and burnouts have raised children. That neighbor at his mom’s corner who gave them a diaper, is the same lady who accidentally ran over her own dog. Lane can manage one kid for a couple of hours. This whole society of overprotectiveness is to blame for his anxiety. When he was a kid, things were much more free-range. He’s gotta relax and be normal, and things will go fine.
They open the trunk of the Celebrity wagon and sit on the back edge, Jordan’s legs dangling over the bumper. Lane is starving. He takes a moment to pull the paper off of the cheeseburger and pass it to Jordan. The kid looks a bit awkward holding the burger with two hands in front of his face, but Lane is too hungry to dwell on it and tears into his Deluxe. And once he starts one, he doesn’t like to risk putting it down and having the whole stack misalign.
Jordan is quiet. Lane notices the kid’s dark eyes. Their long, black lashes. His soft baby cheeks and double chin. He must admit that Jordan is a damn charming little guy. And he seems to be enjoying the food. Good. That’s what Lane needs, a moment of peace and quiet to get down some calories and get his head back on straight. He smiles to Jordan. “Is it good?” Lane feels the urge to hug him.
Jordan doesn’t answer.
“When I was little like you,” Lane says, “I used to come here with my folks. I mean, I don’t remember being two. But when I was like eight or nine. And I’d always have that same burger as you.”
Jordan is still silent. Timid, Lane thinks.
He leans in closer. The kid isn’t even chewing, just staring off into the distance. Perhaps he doesn’t like it? Lane remembers from Christmas that Jordan’s not always a fan of red meat. But it does look as if he’s eaten a few solid bites.
“You OK? Little man?”
The kid’s eyes flutter. Is he breathing? No, Lane’s imagining things, letting his paranoia get the best of him. He’s inexperienced at the parenting game. OK, no, wait, this is happening. For real. Jordan’s not choking so much as quietly not able to inhale. Accepting his fate.
What is Lane going to tell Inez? Anxiety ripples out to his hands and feet, driving his heartbeat up his throat and into his jugular.
He tackles Jordan, folding him over the edge of the trunk and knocking the rest of the burger to the ground. Lane pounds the child’s back with an open hand. Nothing comes out.
Lane starts screaming Jordan’s name. A deeper loss of control peels open before him. Why didn’t I wait to eat my own food? he repeats in his head as he slaps Jordan between the shoulders. Why am I so selfish? What is wrong with me?
“What is wrong with you?” a woman in a sweat suit and Seahawks jacket yells at Lane. “What are you doing to that child?”
Jordan coughs and then throws up part American cheese and ground beef, part whatever else was in his stomach on the pavement and the tips of the lady’s off-brand performance footwear. The kid starts to take in air in frantic gulps that steadies into regular breathing, save for a quick second round of vomiting.
Lane delivers a burst of contrition to the woman until she backs away from the vehicle to scrape the toes of her shoes on the curb. He and Jordan sit in the car without speaking for a number of minutes until Lane’s hands stop trembling. Until the people in line stop staring. Until he knows he’s not going to have a heart attack. They watch the seagulls at dusk.
He picks up the remainder of the uneaten cheeseburger and lets the kid throw pieces to the birds.
Lane hand-feeds tiny pieces of subdivided french fries to the kid, leaving nothing to chance. Jordan is like a desiccated plant receiving water. His posture straightens, and he does something that could be construed as a smile. Lane offers him a sip of his shake, not sure if Jordan knows how to use a straw. Once he starts, he won’t let go of it and sucks the rest of it down with no sensitivity to the cold on his palate. Lane feels a sense of accomplishment, if not fulfillment, that the kid has eaten. He did something right. The kid is still alive and now even kind of nourished.
Jordan climbs up onto Lane’s lap and asks, “Mommy?”
“Mommy? Mommy Inez?” Lane wraps his arms around the child.
“Sí. Yes,” Jordan shakes his head. Only when Jordan finishes relieving himself, when the smell comes to Lane’s attention, does he realize that he needs to loosen his embrace.
“Mommy?” Jordan repeats.
He considers how long it would take him to hightail it back to his mom’s place to grab another diaper from the neighbor but recognizes the immediacy of the situation. He holds Jordan’s hand tight as they stand in line to get a cup of tap water, a grip of napkins and an extra paper bag from the order window.
THAT NIGHT WHEN LANE LIES in the bunk, watching the beads of condensation run down the bubble windows, he digs for that elusive excitement over his impending return to New York. He is excited, he tells himself again. That’s why he can’t sleep. It’s a lot for his mind to compute. Putting Lake Shitty in the rearview mirror. Restarting school. Things with Mia. It’s too much for one person to wrap his head around. That’s why he lies on the thin plasticized mattress in the bunk rehashing the evening over and over again.
Earlier, when they returned to the hospital, he drove right up to the door. Inez wheeled Wanda out in a chair, and Lane bundled her into the passenger seat.
On the drive back to University Trailer Park, Lane watched Inez and Jordan through the rearview mirror. Inez lay across the seats with her head in Jordan’s lap. He smoothed her hair and neck with a gentle adoration that made Lane wish to be a child again. To not understand the shortcomings of the adults around you. The backwardness of your neighbors. The hurdles and booby traps that life is about to throw in your direction. You and your mother. When that is the extent of the universe.
He couldn’t see Inez’s face, but he assumed she was smiling. When he did get a better view as they passed under a set of streetlights, he thought that he saw the tracks of tears curling down her cheeks.
He goes over it again and again while watching the condensation streak off the window and into the night. “I don’t care,” he repeats to himself until it sounds so forced he must admit that it’s not true. He changes it to “I can’t care,” which becomes “It’s not my problem,” but he knows that, directly or not, he was the catalyst. And that he will benefit from her downfall.
LANE EXCELS AT A FEW different things. But his main forte, the thing that made him who he is, is his tenacity. He is more aware of his Darwinian realities than his more entitled cohorts at Columbia. Than Mia. He has to be. He’s been made aware of his realities with greater frequency—his slender buffer between daily life and catastrophe.
During high school, he took a parks department Intro to Lifeguarding class at the Meadowbrook public pool up the street from his mom’s house. He thought it’d be glamorous to become a lifeguard once he got into the UW. He’d meet girls. Be on campus. Work shirtless. Not smell like deep fat fryers. But he didn’t have the funding to go to the UW straight out of high school and had to grind through years of poolless community college. He also wasn’t a good enough swimmer to complete lifeguard training. But he did remember the rule not to swim too close to people who are drowning or they will drown you too. Take you down with them. You have to be defensive at all times. If you get close to someone who is drowning, you might have to punch them or even put them into a sort of half nelson before you can attempt a rescue. If they climb atop you, you should swim down underwater and not provide them a platform. What good is it if you both drown?
Then again, what good is it if you are the one who kicks them into the pool and walks away?
He is no monster. He tells himself that he wants to do the right thing. In this case, he’s still not sure what the right thing is. He can’t leave her to drown herself. Nor will he go down with her. But there is a middle path. Avoid the damage he has done. Get her off on her own and let the powers that be, the universe, whatever determine the outcome.
If he follows up with his earlier plan and gets her out of town, he can get the cash and get back to New York, and Nina will have to sort it all out with the judge. The justice system will make the right decision in the end. Whether that is Nina and Tracey. Or whether Jordan goes back to Inez. It’s not Lane’s decision to make. He never should have been involved in the first place. And Nina can take the financial hit; he’s sure she writes off that much on client lunches on random Thursday afternoons.
THIRTY-THREE
WHEN LANE AND NINA MEET up, it’s on her turf: a new café in Green Lake. Sandwiched between a running shoe store and a women’s fitness apparel boutique, it has poured concrete floors, semiprofessional local artwork for sale on the walls and ample space between tables so they can talk without intrusion.
Lane orders a double Americano. He doesn’t want to be cliché and order a latté or be basic and order a plain coffee, although he considers dressing it up and asking for “drip” or a handcrafted “pour over.” It’s an iced coffee for Nina, but the barista says they don’t have iced coffee at this time of year.
“I’m sure you can figure out how to make one,” she responds and then turns to Lane. “It’s an LA thing.” Lane’s never been there. Like all Seattleites, he grew up despising and being secretly intrigued by Southern California. It’s like the gaudy and somewhat dilapidated mansion at the end of your block and all you can do is crave their imported sports cars while shit-talking how dysfunctional they really are, how much they ignore their children and how much they’ve sacrificed authenticity for crass materialism.
The barista serves up Lane’s coffee and improvises for Nina by pouring hot coffee over ice cubes.
Lane knew high school friends with a dirtbag hippie dad from Eureka or with folks who got pri
ced out of Hayward. But he’s impressed that she is from LA and lived there as a real adult. He notes the highlights in her hair, the painstaking eye makeup, and asks if she grew up near the beach or was more of a Hollywood girl.
They collect their drinks and make their way to a table in the corner. Once they’re out of earshot of anyone else in the café, she says, “Between us: I’m straight-up Inland Empire. Ontario, California. Colony High. Don’t go back there much. Never, actually.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” He smiles as they sit. “What about your folks?”
“Pentacostalists. God, guns and NFL people. They couldn’t even handle my two-month vegetarian phase in high school. The whole lesbian thing makes their heads explode.” She takes one sip of her coffee through the straw, holds it in her mouth for a moment, then removes the lid from her cup and spits it back in. “Hold on.”
Nina walks to the barista and tells him that he was supposed to figure something out, not fill up a plastic cup with undrinkable watered-down piss. Iced coffee, not coffee with melted ice water, for God’s sake. When his hands start to flutter, she softens and reconsiders. “Just give me a normal latté.”
She returns to the table. “I’m supposed to be working on forgiveness. Mindfulness. Gratitude. All that shit. Step by step, right?”
Lane nods and takes a sip of his coffee.
“I know you’re not there yet,” she continues, “but being a parent changes you. It’s not all about you anymore. You can’t control everything. You have to build a lot of like empathy or it crushes you.”
“Jordan is a pretty cute kid.” Lane tries to not get into it with her.
“I’ve accepted that Inez, no matter how piss-poor of a mother she is . . . she has some level of brute maternal instinct that is trumping her rationality. She feels like she loves Jordan even if many of her actions show the contrary. But loving someone and being able to take care of them are very different things.”
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