He Gets That from Me

by Jacqueline Friedland

“One of the first things you taught me as a parent,” he says, “was that I can’t control what you do.” He shrugs lightly and then crosses his arms against his chest, resting them on his shirt. The plaid flannel button-down he’s wearing looks more appropriate for a ski vacation than a summer night in the city. I wonder if my mom used to help him choose his clothes, if he’s now floundering and clueless about fashion choices without her. Another daughter would probably know something like that. There are doubtlessly several other ways in which he’s been struggling since her death, but I’m ignorant of those as well.

  “You’ve been pretty lucky,” he says, “if your experience as a mother hasn’t yet made your own powerlessness clear to you.”

  I wait for him to continue, not sure where this is going.

  “Of course I want to meet him,” he finally says. “A child of yours, a grandkid of mine. But he’s not my son. I think the bigger question is, is he yours?”

  “Are you saying he’s not, that he’s not mine?” I bristle, remembering immediately all the reasons I couldn’t get along with my parents—how judgmental they’ve always been, all the snap decisions they always made before listening to my opinion on anything. My mom with her high-voltage, clipped words and then my father’s passive agreement with whatever unreasonable, frenzied decision she grabbed.

  “No.” He holds up a hand in a defensive gesture. “I’m saying”—he pauses to choose his words—“that this is something you need to figure out. If he’s yours, you don’t back down until you bring the kid home. But first, you have to be certain you’re not taking something that doesn’t belong to you. Only you can decide. You and Nick.”

  I feel my lips turn down at the mention of Nick’s name.

  “What?” He walks closer to the counter and starts wiping at a wine glass with a dishrag. It’s still jarring to see him do domestic work, tasks he never would have bothered with when my mother was well.

  “I’m just thinking ten steps ahead, I guess. I told the lawyer we want to move forward, to send whatever it is they use to start the custody proceeding. I kind of failed to mention that to Nick, and when he finds out, I’m pretty sure he’ll want to strangle me.” I glance reflexively at the bruises on my wrist, faded now to a greenish yellow. I know my dad is about to say that I have to tell Nick, that it’s wrong to be secretive, but I cut him off at the pass. “I’m thinking about leaving him.” The words come out in a rush, like an ugly confession filling up the kitchen, scattering onto the counter, over the tile floor.

  “Again?” he asks, a hint of irritation—or is it disbelief?— in his voice. I don’t need to look up from the crystal glass I’m cleaning to know that his eyebrows are raised, his mouth a little twisty at the corner.

  When I don’t answer, he takes that as his cue to start lecturing.

  “Marriages hit road bumps,” he says. “You can’t hightail it out of town every time you have a major disagreement with someone you love.” I know he’s talking about more than my relationship with Nick, and I’m hit with a fresh wave of guilt about all the time I lost with my mother, all those years I stayed away because I couldn’t relate to her outlook on life, her goals, and the aggressive anger to which she so often surrendered when things didn’t go her way. I will not be a parent like that, and I will not let space and time separate me from my child the way my own parents did.

  “I’m not hightailing it anywhere,” I shoot back. “I guess maybe we should go back to Sedona while we get the legalities sorted, but I think this case will have to be litigated in New York, which will require a lot of back and forth for me. Even though Kai was born in California, apparently the laws of New York govern since this state is his primary residence. I’d bet money that Nick won’t come back to fight alongside me.”

  My dad doesn’t say anything, and I can hear all his disappointment in the silence.

  “I’m not saying I want to leave him,” I hedge, “just that I feel strongly enough about fighting to bring Kai home that I’m doing it regardless of what it might cost my marriage. It’s our only chance, Kai’s and mine. And Wyatt’s.” I don’t know if my father can possibly appreciate how badly I wanted another child, how crushing it was to try and fail, over and over again. And during all that time, with the repeated losses and the constant longing, my child was already out in the world—waiting to be found. I’m still struggling to wrap my head around it.

  I grab for the rumpled dish towel on the counter, folding it in half once, twice, and then a third time before I drape it over the back of the full dish rack—just the way my mother used to, just the way I do in my own house.

  “Seems to me,” my dad says gently, “that you and Nick have some talking to do.”

  “Talking about what?” Nick asks, as we step into the main room of the apartment where he’s standing in the open door with a paper bag in hand. At the expression of surprise on my face, he says, “Tess and Wyatt are lounging on one of those bean bag chairs while they eat, but I bought a couple of pints that I thought we could all share, so . . .” He trails off, waiting for me to fill him in on the conversation he’s unwittingly joined.

  My dad glances at me, and instead of seeing apology in his dark eyes, I see a command.

  “I have to check a couple of things on the computer,” he says before disappearing down the hallway.

  I walk back into the kitchen, grab a couple of bowls and spoons, and bring them over to Nick where he has just taken a seat on the thirty-year-old sectional sofa. I retrieve the first container from the bag and begin scooping out coffee ice cream into one bowl, then the other.

  “Here.” I hand the larger serving to Nick.

  “What did you need to tell me?” he asks, and his tone is kinder than it’s been in the day and a half since our fight.

  “I emailed Donovan this afternoon,” I start, knowing I have to come clean.

  “Okayyyy . . .” He draws out the word, making it a request for more information.

  “I told him that we would be seeking custody of Kai.” I brace for his reaction.

  Nick blinks twice, hard, and then folds his lips over on themselves, like he’s physically holding his words inside his mouth, restraining himself.

  We stare at each other another moment and then Nick asks, “Did he write back?”

  I shake my head, waiting for the inevitable eruption to follow.

  “This is really what you want?” he asks. His tone is probing, curious, but not argumentative. “You think we should yank Kai out of his life, bring him across the country to live with us?”

  “I think he was yanked out of his life already. All we’d be doing is bringing him back to where he belongs.”

  Instead of answering me, he stands and walks toward the window, and I notice that my hand is resting on my belly, as if I’m trying to contain the emptiness inside of me, to protect myself from it. He finally opens his mouth to say something in response, and I brace, but then he closes it again and turns his gaze back toward the evening lights outside the window.

  “I don’t think I disagree with you,” he says, looking back at me and sounding as surprised as I feel.

  “What do you mean?” I’m suspicious.

  “I can’t get his face out of my mind.” He runs a hand over his own chin. “So many mannerisms just like Wyatt. You’d think that would be a nurture thing, not nature.” He’s talking to himself almost as much as me right now. “I thought that it was selfish, to come in like bandits and demand to take him home, but hearing you say that we’re going for it, I just feel relieved, like it is actually the right choice. I don’t want to devastate him, but ten-year-olds are resilient, right? He’ll adjust to a new life eventually. We’ll get a therapist. It’d probably be easier on him than knowing we didn’t even fight for him, right?”

  As Nick lets his thoughts spill forth, I berate myself for my own snap decisions, my knee-jerk judgments. It’s time for me to confess the rest. “I called Tom Wellan, too.” I scrunch my nose. “Told him to file the initial
petition.”

  He lets out a long, slow breath and closes his eyes for a moment. The silence stretches as he pinches the bridge of his nose. While I wait, I catch sight of the bruises on my wrist and feel another self-righteous bubble of anger float up, but then he looks over at me, his eyes searching.

  “Okay.” He finally nods. “So, what happens next?”

  I shake my head. “We wait for their response. Either Donovan will write back to me agreeing to settle outside of court, or, more likely, they’ll lawyer up and fight this out against us.”

  “It would be pretty crazy to have another kid at home,” Nick says almost wistfully as he lowers himself back onto the couch. “I guess we’d give him the guest room, unless Wyatt wanted to share. And we’d have to contact the school, obviously. That’ll be a fun one to explain to Principal Willis.” He smirks in that sheepish way of his, and I feel myself soften toward him.

  I also find myself thinking about logistics in ways I haven’t allowed myself to until this moment. “I wonder if he plays any sports?” I muse. “Or if he’d want to start?” I picture the Sedona Middle School soccer uniforms and an even crazier carpool schedule.

  “So many of Wyatt’s friends have siblings going into the sixth grade,” Nick adds, probably pairing Kai with various kids in his head.

  “For the record”—I hold up a finger—“I would never, ever, have named him Kai. He probably has to spell it every single time he’s introduced to someone new.”

  “I think that’s one detail we’re going to have to live with.” Nick reaches out to squeeze my finger, and I marvel at how quickly we’ve gone from the brink of destruction back to being teammates. Maybe it’s true what they say about how the secret to a successful partnership is having a common enemy. I never imagined that could apply to a marriage, and yet, here we are.

  Chapter 26

  DONOVAN

  AUGUST 2018

  Rather than having Chip’s parents bring the kids back to the city after their two-night sleepover, I decide to use some of my newfound free time to drive out to Greenwich and pick them up myself.

  I keep replaying the conversation with our lawyer in my head, looking for loopholes, anything else we can do. When I finally spoke with her on Tuesday morning, Lorraine explained that after the Wingates file their petition, we will be able to submit a response, and then there will be a period for discovery, for both sides to collect information about living situations, what Kai’s needs are, and the like. If I had to guess, I’d wager that Maggie’s hotshot lawyer sister has found her some sword-wielding shark of an attorney. Even so, Chip insists that we clearly have the stronger case and I shouldn’t stress too much. Right.

  I’ve learned that in custody cases in New York, the primary litmus test is to ask which outcome would most effectively serve the “best interests of the child.” Apparently, all we have to do is prove that Kai is happy and thriving in his current life, with his brother, his friends, his school, camp, extracurriculars, so on and so on, and that removing him from his present living and guardianship situation would be detrimental to his mental health and well-being. Handing Kai over to a different set of parents to live in a totally new family would so clearly be counter to his best interests. It’s not like he’s a dress-shirt that was returned to the wrong customer from the dry cleaner. We can get testimony from his teachers, doctors, friends, grandparents, you name it.

  The lawyer seems pretty confident about our case too, but she’s forgetting about all the people out there who still think gay men don’t belong raising children. Chip keeps reminding me that it’s 2018, that families with same-sex parents are no big deal anymore, but what if we end up with some octogenarian homophobe judge? I take a few deep breaths as a I pull into my in-laws’ sweeping semi-circular drive, the red brick of the home’s exterior baking in the sun and beckoning me toward the extralong deep blue swimming pool that I know awaits in the backyard.

  I try to put back on my regular face before I step out of the car, the one that is only subtly marred by my constant low-level anxiety, not the face I’m sure I’m wearing now, the one that is stunned and filled with terror.

  I grab my tote bag from the passenger seat and make my way toward the back of the house. I can hear splashing and laughter before I even reach the wrought iron gate.

  Teddy sees me first and shouts in delight.

  “Papa! Watch!” he demands as he runs from the grass onto the stone patio surrounding the pool and then propels himself into the deep end, cannonball style. I offer up a two-fingered whistle in appreciation, like my dad would have done for me as a kid, if we’d had access to a pool like this. My mother-in-law, Lynn, is sitting at the stone table on the other side of the patio, and she laughs good naturedly as she rises from her seat.

  “Now me!” Kai shouts, water dripping from his hair, as he climbs the ladder. He runs to the spot where Teddy started. “Teddy, the ball!”

  “Go!” Teddy shouts, and Kai runs toward the pool. Teddy throws the football and Kai jumps and catches the ball seconds before he plunges into the water, swells of pool water erupting into the hot air as he disappears triumphantly below the surface. It’s something I’ve watched them do nearly a hundred times before, but suddenly, I see this as a beautiful, choreographed moment—the epitome of a child’s “best interests.”

  “Again!” I demand. “I’ll tape it.” I drop my bag on the grass where I’m standing and begin fishing for my phone in my shorts pocket.

  “Oh, stop,” Lynn says warmly, coming in for a hug and then a wet kiss on my cheek. “Film them later. They’ve been at it all morning. Rosie’s just bringing out lunch.”

  I glance toward the French doors that lead to the kitchen, and they open on cue. Rather than Rosie, Chip’s dad, Chris, emerges, wearing a pink polo shirt and a pair of his signature madras Bermuda shorts. I imagine he’s just returned from a round of golf at the country club. As the semi-retired chairman of the board at Tryptum Industries, he doesn’t demean himself with trips into the office on beautiful summer days.

  “Donny!” He shouts the greeting like we’re old football buddies. After making a beeline across the grass and giving me the requisite “man hug,” a couple of strong whacks of his palm against my shoulder blade, he picks up my bag and starts back across the lawn, assuming Lynn and I will follow, which we do.

  “You brought a suit? Go for a dip with the boys?” He’s being overly cheerful, the way you do in a crisis.

  “Lunch first,” Lynn declares, and now Rosie does appear from the kitchen, a tray full of white melamine bowls in her arms. She sets it down on the long table and rushes back inside, leaving me to marvel, as I do every time I’m here, what a different childhood Chip had from my own.

  I glance again at the boys, who are now wrestling in the pool, and I try not to think about the different childhood they each might have had if we had known the facts from the beginning.

  “Let the boys keep swimming,” Lynn says, motioning to the chair across from her at the table. “I want to hear how you’re holding up.”

  Chris gives Lynn a quick look, like he doesn’t think we should talk about “the situation,” but Lynn shrugs and says, “They need to know we’re on their side, that we will do whatever it takes, whatever you need.” She looks at me again. I think she’s offering financial help at this moment, but luckily, we have the resources we need in that department.

  “Best interests of the child,” I say. Maybe saying it over and over again will help me process, push me to start thinking more about logistics and strategy. “That’s the standard in these cases,” I explain. “What’s in the best interests of the child.”

  “Well if anyone would say that removing a happy boy from his home is in a child’s best interests, our court system is even more troubled than I realized,” Chris says.

  A squeal from Teddy interrupts us as Kai takes a hose from the pool sweeper and starts squirting it at Teddy’s head.

  I open my mouth to reprimand him—playin
g with the sweeper like that has always been against the rules—but Lynn holds up a hand.

  “Let them,” she says, glancing at the boys and then back at me, and that’s when I notice the sadness around her eyes. It’s not just concern for me, or for the kids, but for herself, as well. If Maggie and Nick take Kai from us, so many people will suffer.

  “I’ve been researching custody cases in New York—adoption law, surrogacy law. I feel like I’ve earned half a law degree in the past twenty-four hours.”

  “Maybe I should grab the gin,” Chris offers, but I shake my head.

  “I still have to drive the kids back into the city and then have a sit-down with them to discuss all this.”

  “You’re going to tell Kai?” Lynn is incredulous; the tuna wrap she’s holding paused halfway to her mouth.

  “Maybe not.” Chip and I haven’t reached a decision about this. “I suppose it’s not necessary yet, but eventually there’s going to be evidence collection, court visits, maybe home visits, God knows what else.”

  “Couldn’t we just pay her off?” Chris asks. “She sold the kid once before. How much do you think it’d take for her to do it again? We’ll double it.” He pats at his pocket, like he’s ready to write out a check at this very moment.

  I open my mouth to tell him that no, I don’t think Maggie can be bought this time around, but Kai is out of the pool, walking toward us with Teddy only a few steps behind him, so I change the subject.

  “In other news . . .” I decide to come clean, even with Teddy and Kai filling their plates within earshot. “I’ve been let go from Hopper.”

  “You got fired?” Teddy demands as all eyes land on me.

  “Well, yes and no.” Can’t I save face a little at least? “The firm is moving in a direction that doesn’t exactly gel with my skill set, so we decided to part ways.”

  “Do you need me to make some calls?” Chris’s voice is warm and full of assuredness. I imagine he feels relieved to be back in familiar territory, as finagling employment through nepotism is more within his comfort zone than the particulars of buying and selling children.