by Lisa Wingate
When everyone was finally situated, we waved good-bye to Pop and headed for the river. Geoff and I sat silent while Sydney and Mr. Grits bonded. It was surreal in a way, all of us in the car together, bumping slowly along the dirt road. To a casual observer, watching from a distance through a long-range lens, it would have looked like the perfect scene—Mom, Dad, dog, daughter in perky pigtails, driving to a charming vacation destination with swimming equipment in the back.
Only it was anything but perfect. Geoff faced out the window so he wouldn’t have to look at me, and in the rear seat Sydney began cheerfully telling Mr. Grits about the harrowing trip out of Mexico. Police cars, a mad rush at the airport, a rickety plane that had to toss off cargo because it was overweight for takeoff. Two plane changes in tiny Mexican airports, where Geoff scrambled, begged, and bribed to get them onto flights, an argument with customs officers who didn’t believe they had no luggage. An hour in a locked, unairconditioned room waiting to talk to a detective, a walk across a border bridge in the middle of the night, a cabdriver who warned them not to talk to anyone, because they might get mugged. Another airport in El Paso, more layovers during which a nice man gave her Krispy Kreme doughnuts because she was such a pretty little girl, and finally a flight to Dallas, then Austin, where they tried and tried to call Aunt Laura’s house, until finally they got Uncle Graham. Oh, and she was worried about Whitney, because after the big fight she left home without any suitcases, and Sydney hoped she made it out of Mexico and back to England all right.
I felt sick to my stomach. In the passenger seat Geoff got shorter and shorter, until he was barely there. Bracing his elbow on the armrest, he cupped his hand over his eyes and stayed that way. His head bounced up and down in rhythm with the SUV, colliding repeatedly with his palm. He didn’t seem to care.
When we reached the riverbank, Sydney bailed out before I could stop her. Mr. Grits was right behind her, and they dashed across the grass through the uneven spray of afternoon sunlight and shadows. “Not into the water until I get there!” I hollered, opening the back hatch and struggling to untangle the tightly packed jumble of rubber and sun-bleached nylon.
Climbing out of his seat, Geoff stretched as if he had all the time in the world.
“Hurry up,” I barked. Shades of the old, married days, when I handled all the practical details, while Geoff dreamed and played and amused himself. “She shouldn’t be down there by herself. There could be snakes or something.”
“She’s got the yeti with her.” He gave me a smile that was probably supposed to be cute and charming, but only served to make me want to choke him. “Anyway,” he added, standing nonchalantly behind the Jeep while I pulled out flotation devices, flinging them intentionally in his direction, “you told her not to get in the water until we were down there.”
I squinted at him, unable to believe how stupid that sounded. “Did it ever occur to you that she might fall in? Or that she might, just might, get tempted and disobey? She’s an eight-year-old child, Geoff. She has to be watched every minute.” Slamming the hatch shut, I stalked around, yanking tubes and towels and squeaky plastic fish out of the grass. “I can see you haven’t learned much about parenthood in the past month.” I headed for the riverbank as fast as was possible with a giant inner tube on my hip and a stringer of plastic fish wrapped around my legs.
Grabbing the army boat and the life jacket, Geoff followed. “Well, you know what, Lindsey? Not all of us are as perfect as you.”
“Oh, come on, Geoff,” I snapped, rapidly moving beyond the boundaries of self-control. “I never said I was perfect, but at least I never dragged Sydney halfway across two countries in her swimsuit and dirty clothes. Is everything she says true? Were you and Sydney thrown out of Mexico by the police?”
Geoff winced—the first time I’d seen him look regretful on Sydney’s behalf. Ever. “Someone reported my team for a customs violation—trafficking in antiquities, something like that. All of us got kicked out of the country with no warning. They took our equipment, the fossils, everything. Some local official is probably making big bucks off our stuff right now.”
“Were you trafficking in antiquities?” I was almost afraid to ask.
Geoff had the nerve to look shocked and offended. “Of course not. We were set up, plain and simple. The dig was completely legit. No problems with the local police. No problems getting permits to dig. Nothing. Then Whitney and I had a fight, and she left me. The next thing I knew, the police were at my house. Whitney’s dad probably had something to do with it. He hates my guts, and he has a lot of pull down there. It wasn’t my fault.”
“Nothing is ever your fault.” I threw the inner tube down, then snatched it up again. “My God, Geoff, you’re lucky you didn’t end up in a Mexican prison. Then what would have happened to Sydney?”
Geoff threw up his hands, boat and all. “How about giving me a break, Lindsey? The rest of us don’t have everything mapped out, minute by minute, on a little spreadsheet. Some of us make mistakes. We screw up, and then we have to go back and try to fix things.”
“Well, that’s just great!” I whipped around so quickly that the inner tube collided with the boat and both of us bounced backward, which was probably good, because I wanted to slug him. “Sydney isn’t a thing. She’s a person. What if you screw up something that can’t be fixed? What about that? My God, Geoff, she’s not some fragmented piece of pottery you can try to fit into your life this way or that way until you figure out something that works for you. She’s a kid. You only get one chance. You have to do everything right. You can’t run some kind of daddy experiment with her and then give up when it doesn’t work out.” Tears rushed into my eyes, and I knew I was cutting close to the quick, removing scar tissue so near wounds, that they were starting to bleed again. “She’s been waiting all her life for you to want her, and now that you’ve got her, you can’t even be bothered to spend time with her.”
Geoff stood stunned, staring at me with his dark eyes blank and his mouth hanging open, the army boat drooping at his side. In his flowered shirt and baggy shorts, his shoulders sagging, he looked like Charlie Brown right after Lucy tells him he’s a blockhead.
I didn’t wait for an answer. I could tell he didn’t have one. He couldn’t imagine what I was talking about. He’d finally stepped up to the plate after eight years, exercised his custody rights and taken his daughter for the summer. Wasn’t that enough?
Tears clouded my eyes as I stumbled down the hill and stopped on the rocky ledge above the water. Below, Sydney had stripped off her travel-stained shorts and T-shirt and tossed them over a tree limb, where the wind stirred them gently, giving them a life of their own. She stood at the edge of the water in her swimsuit with the big white dog, the two of them a greeting-card photograph, a perfect portrait of summer, and silence, and childhood. A representation of softness and innocence, two creatures shedding the cares of the world like old clothes and losing themselves in the dance of sunlight on water.
Turning, she smiled up at me, and hollered, “Mommy, can I get in now?”
“Sure, honey,” I called, suddenly wishing I could dive in with her and hide in the quiet below the surface. Standing the tube on end, I sent it rolling down the bank like a giant doughnut. “Here you go.”
The tube bounced into the water, Mr. Grits barked, and Sydney splashed in after the toy, laughing as the dog plunged in with her. “Look, Mom, he can swim!” Scrambling onto the inner tube, she waved at me as she drifted into deeper water. “C’mon, Mommy, come do seesaw with me.”
Shaking my head, I laid my towel on the rock ledge and sat down, calling, “No swimsuit. Sorry.”
She turned her attention up the hill, beckoning past me. “C’mon, Dad. It’s not cold.” Throwing her hands over her mouth, she squealed, and the next thing I knew Geoff was careering down the hill in a barefoot run. Stripping off his shirt, he tossed it on the grass without slowing down.
“Yoweee!” he screamed when he left the grass and hit
the rough rock shelf above the water. “Yow, yow, yow! Ouchy feet! Look out, here I come!” Bailing off the rock shelf in one huge jump, he landed in the water, hooked an arm over the tube, and bounced Sydney into the air. She flew up, laughing and kicking, and hit the water in a cannonball that made me rise partway before she came up laughing and sputtering and begging him to do it again.
Sitting back down, I pulled my knees to my chest and rested my chin, watching them play inner-tube seesaw over and over as they drifted slowly down the river, while Mr. Grits ran along the shore, yapping like a puppy. It was, I knew, exactly the kind of moment Sydney had dreamed of all those nights she lay awake imagining the father she’d seen only in pictures.
How could I deny her that?
In one quiet instant, before they drifted, laughing and jostling, around the bend, I realized something with startling clarity: Geoff could give her things I could not. I could keep her safe; I could teach her to be practical, to plan, to pay bills, have a real job, get up and go to bed on a regular schedule. I couldn’t teach her to shed her cares, no matter how bad they were, run down the hill barefoot, and plunge into the water without knowing how deep it was. I couldn’t teach her to be bold, to meet life head on and embrace the possibilities. I couldn’t give her the courage to tilt at windmills, because I didn’t have it myself.
Letting my eyes drift closed, I listened to the two of them laughing just beyond the trees. They’d pulled the tube out and were coming back to the swimming hole again, where the rapids started… .
My mind floated away, back to Zach and me sitting on top of the windmill tower, drinking Dublin Dr Pepper and watching the day fade. I felt his body warm against me, his lips touching mine, the light stroke of his fingers through my hair. The kiss was long and slow, and when it ended I looked into his eyes, those incredible silvery-green eyes, and everything else fell away. I didn’t want the moment to end. I wanted it to go on, and on, and on.
I like a woman who knows her tools, he said, and I laughed. The motion jerked me from my dream, and I frantically scanned the river, afraid for just an instant that Geoff and Sydney were part of the dream, too. Somewhere out of sight I could hear the faint sound of Mr. Grits barking enthusiastically. Sighing, I relaxed again.
“Good daydream?” The voice from behind surprised me, and I bolted upright, twisting around, though I didn’t need to.
“Zach,” I said. He was sitting on the spotted horse, with a saddle this time. The horse had its back foot cocked, resting. I wondered how long they’d been there. Standing up, I started toward him. “What are you doing?”
“Watching you.” He grinned, and all the old feelings came back in a rush so powerful it stopped me where I stood.
“When …” I blinked hard, trying to clear my head, listening again for the sounds of Geoff and Sydney, trying to be sure they were real, really here. I wanted them to be, and then I didn’t, and then I did again. It was all so complicated now. “When did you get back?”
Zach dismounted in a casual way that told me he had no idea my daughter and ex-husband were just beyond the bend. “A little while ago. No one was at the house, so I thought I’d get this colt ridden. He needs it. I thought you might be down here.”
“I was … I am …” Shaking my head again, I tried to clear the fog. “I mean, I’m here, but …”
A high-pitched squeal from the riverbed spun me around, and my two realities collided with five excited words: “Oh, my gosh, a horse!” Sydney was up the hill before I had time to think, standing there dripping in her bathing suit between Zach and me, jittering up and down, looking at the horse.
I took a breath, swallowed hard. Be calm. You have to handle this well. Don’t tip Sydney off to anything romantic. I laid a hand on Sydney’s shoulder to calm her down. “This is my daughter, Sydney. Sydney, this is Za … Mr. Truitt, or Dr. Truitt, I guess it is, really.”
“Zach,” he corrected, offering his hand to shake Sydney’s in a very grown-up fashion. “Or Mr. Zach, or Dr. Zach, as you prefer, madam. Nice to meet you, Miss Sydney.”
He smiled, and Sydney was thoroughly charmed. After all, he did have a cowboy hat and a horse. “It’s just Sydney,” she said, shaking his hand. “Is this your horse?” She sidestepped him slightly to get a better look.
“Well, more or less.” Zach turned his attention fully to Sydney, holding the horse steady as she touched its nose. “Like this,” he said, slipping his hand over hers and turning both palms up, so that the horse sniffed, then nuzzled her outstretched fingers. In my mind I saw Zach and me stroking Sleepy’s silver hair, our hands intertwined, our bodies close, moving beyond the barriers of fear. “And never with the fingers sticking up, because he might bite one accidentally, and that hurts,” Zach was saying, and Sydney hung on every word.
“Can people ride him?” Sydney asked, covetously eyeing the saddle.
“Sydney!” I scolded.
Zach’s good-natured laugh slipped over me like warm honey. “Well, not this colt, because he’s a little young and rancorous yet, but in the morning I’ll saddle your mom’s horse and you can take a ride. How about that?”
Sydney’s eyes widened until the rest of her face seemed to disappear. “Really? Cool! Oh, my gosh. Cool!”
No, no, no! I thought. Don’t promise her things that aren’t going to happen, that can’t happen. “Oh, well, I think we’re supposed to meet Collie in the morning to take some pictures,” I said.
Sydney didn’t hear me, probably because she didn’t want to. She only had eyes for Zach, the horse guy. “Mom has a horse?”
“Sure, she does. Everyone gets a horse to care for while they’re staying here,” Zach answered, winking at Sydney. “Tell you what—after you finish taking pictures with Collie, then I’ll saddle Sleepy and we’ll go for a ride.”
Vibrating in place, Sydney fanned her hands like a crazed teenager at an Elvis concert. The spotted horse snorted and backed to the end of his reins.
“Dad!” Sydney hollered, turning around. “Mom has a horse named Sleepy!”
Oh, God. I glanced over my shoulder, and Geoff was coming up the hill in his wet shorts with his beach-bum shirt hanging unbuttoned. My worlds collided again in an even bigger way, a full nine on the Richter scale. “Zach,” I heard myself say mechanically, “this is Sydney’s father, Geoff Attwood. Geoff, this is Zach Truitt. He …” Taught me how to fix windmills and tame wild horses, and made me feel alive for the first time in years. “His family owns the ranch.”
Zach and Geoff looked equally confused. Zach reacted first, offering his hand with a cordial, even slightly friendly greeting. “Nice to meet you, Geoff.”
“Likewise,” Geoff returned, then slanted a gaze from me to Zach and back, like he was surmising that we were more than casual acquaintances.
Sydney was completely oblivious to the goings-on around her. “Mr. Zach’s going to let me go riding tomorrow. On Mom’s horse.”
“Oh, well … I don’t think we’ll be here long enough to do that,” I interjected, and Sydney turned to stare at me, openmouthed and ashen faced, shivering because the sun had faded and the evening air was getting cool.
Worse than her expression was Zach’s. He looked completely confused, blindsided.
Geoff surveyed the circle and broke the stalemate by ruffling Sydney’s wet hair. “Why don’t we just wait and see,” he suggested. “In the meantime, looks like we’d better get some clothes on and pick up the swim things, huh?”
“All right,” Sydney agreed glumly, giving Zach and the horse one last, forlorn glance before she turned away and followed her father down the hill.
“I’m sorry about that,” I said to Zach when they were gone. “I didn’t realize … I didn’t know … they were coming. Geoff had some kind of breakup with his wife and trouble in Mexico, and he and Sydney showed up here completely unexpected. Sydney’s caught in the middle of Geoff’s mess, of course.”
Zach nodded, and for an instant I had the feeling that he understood all to
o well. “At least she’s back safely. That’s what matters, right?”
Tears pressing my throat, I swallowed hard. “It’s such a screwed-up disaster. All of a sudden, she’s using words like domestic disturbance and customs violation. The Mexican police hauled her to the airport in a patrol car.” Combing my fingers into my hair, I pulled until it hurt, trying to smooth away the images. Half of me wanted to tell Zach the story, slip into his arms, be comforted, and forget everything. Half of me knew I couldn’t let that happen. “She shouldn’t have to go through all this. I just want to take her home and let her enjoy the rest of her summer.” Tears spilled onto my cheeks as I looked over my shoulder and watched my daughter put on the filthy shorts and T-shirt. “I just want her to have a normal life.”
Squinting down the hill, Zach smoothed a hand up my arm, onto my shoulder. “It looks like she’s doing fine now.” He nodded toward the river as Sydney’s laughter lifted the air. His hand slid into my hair, and I wanted to lean against it.
“She’s not fine.” What would you know about it? the bitter voice of Divorce Lindsey spat in my head. What would you know about raising children? You aren’t even raising your own. Opening my eyes, I jerked away. “It isn’t fine. I can’t do”—waving my hand vaguely, I indicated the ranch, the horse, him—“this. I have to take Sydney back to Colorado, petition the judge, and see what can be done about the custody arrangements. It’s bad enough that her father inolves her in his screwed-up love life. I can’t do it, too. I can’t be like him. She deserves stability. I have to go home, Zach.”
Zach looked down at the ground, watching the toe of his boot scrub a bare spot in the grass. The brim of his hat concealed whatever he was thinking. The moment seemed to stretch on forever, until there was a chasm of silence too big to cross.
Say something, I thought. Say something that will change it all. Tell me about Macey. Tell me about your daughter. Make me understand. Tell me who you really are.