He Gets That from Me

by Jacqueline Friedland

  As we work our way through our salads, Tess fills me in on the latest with Isaac—recent improvements he’s devised for the prosthetic hands he builds day and night in a lab. As cool as it is to hear about technological advancements in the medical field, it’s hard for me to get fired up about something that keeps him stuck at work during almost every social event Tess tries to get him to attend. She is so overcome with his genius and doesn’t seem to mind, but I mind on her behalf.

  “You know,” she says, getting suddenly serious, “no one would judge you if you dropped the case.”

  I pause with my near-empty iced tea halfway to my mouth. “Why would I drop the case? I’m not dropping the case.”

  “I’m just saying,” she offers lightly, like she’s pointing out the weather. “Regardless of what I think, or what Nick thinks, or anyone else, you shouldn’t feel trapped.”

  “I don’t know why you would say that. I’m not going to abandon him again. Not when it would be intentional this time.”

  “You’re the only one who would see it that way.”

  I don’t answer.

  She glances at her watch and pushes her chair back from the table. “I’ve got to get back. Give Wyatt a hug for me when you get home, okay?”

  We both stand and she leans forward to kiss me quickly on the cheek—breezy, like we might see each other again in twenty minutes, when in fact it will likely be several weeks until I’m back in town for the next court appearance.

  After I leave the restaurant, I begin to wander on the city streets, aimless except for my reluctance to head back to Jersey, back to Nick. The thought of his clenched jaw and clipped remarks has me turning east again, away from Penn Station. As I make me way over to Lexington, glancing into the various storefronts, I replay Tess’s words in my head, her bold assertions that I can just change any of my circumstances at will—my marriage, my pursuit of custody, my satisfaction with my life. Until she has kids of her own, I’m not sure she’s qualified to be doling out so much advice.

  The mid-afternoon streets are growing increasingly crowded. Teenagers zigzag past me, shouting at each other, their knapsacks flailing behind them. I wander past a few repetitive coffee shops and candy stores, trying to decide how long I can stall, and then I notice a music store across the street that I’ve never seen before.

  The sign over the store reads MAINE STREET MUSIC. Back when I was a kid, I could have located every instrument vendor in Manhattan with my eyes closed. I cross the street and stop outside the shop, studying the window display. There are several instruments visible on a platform behind the glass, arranged for pedestrians to admire as they happen past the store, including one Stratocaster that’s the exact same shade of powder blue as the only guitar I’ve ever owned.

  I haven’t thought about that guitar in more than a decade, probably longer. After I turned thirteen and celebrated with a big bat mitzvah party, I was allowed to use a small portion of the gift money I received to buy myself one special present, any item of my choosing. My parents made me put the remainder into a savings account, but I was permitted the one indulgence, and what I wanted more than anything was to make music. I found a not- so-gently used Fender down at Sam Ash, its body a shocking icy blue, and I was smitten. My small hands turned out to be a bad fit for guitar playing, however, and it wasn’t very long before I sold that guitar back to the store in exchange for my first saxophone.

  As I push open the door and step inside the shop, a bell jingles overhead. The store is surprisingly busy, and also larger than it appeared from the outside. Several patrons are milling about in the different areas, sampling instruments and chatting with salespeople.

  An older man is standing just inside the door, a ring of keys hanging from his hand. “Let us know if you need any help,” he says casually as he rounds a glass display case and unlocks it.

  I nod and let my eyes wander over the expanse of the store as the clerk begins arranging microphones in the case. There are several other glass display cases throughout the store, many filled with recording equipment and electronic instrument tuners. A platform running the length of the store displays drum sets of various sizes, their glittering purple and red shells calling to mind rock bands of the 1970s. The other side of the store is dedicated entirely to guitars, the true king of music stores. Various styles of electric and acoustic guitars hang on the wall, amplifiers and other equipment artfully arranged beneath them. There are also cases filled with guitar accessories, wah wah pedals, capos, humidifiers, shoulder strap clips. I keep scanning the store, my eyes moving past the shiny brass section of tubas and trombones, until I find the section for woodwinds.

  As I make my way toward the saxophones, past the instrument cases and music stands, I’m filled with such nostalgia that I suddenly can’t believe I ran away from it all. I squeeze past a cramped display of baritones and sopranos until I locate an alto sax. My eyes land on a Yamaha. It’s brand-spanking-new, not long-used like the only one I was able to afford after my guitar trade-in. I run my hands over the keys, remembering the hours I used to practice, the spittle that dripped from the instrument onto my jeans, baptizing me each day as a musician, a badge of honor, just like the red indentation from the shoulder strap that was a constant presence on my neck. In retrospect, I wonder for a moment if I loved the music or if I was simply delighted that I was good at something, that I possessed a natural skill. I’ve hardly been pining endlessly for my sax over the years. Maybe if I’d had more time as an adult before becoming a mother, I might have thought to pick one up again. I lift the instrument off its display stand and hold it like I used too. It feels awkward, like I’ve forgotten the basics.

  “Maggie Fisher?”

  I look up to see a man in a baseball cap emerging from behind a rotatable rack full of sheet music. He takes the cap off, and I recognize him instantly. Of course. Naturally I would bump into my old music teacher on my very first trip into a music store since the day he derailed my entire musical career.

  I notice two things about Trent immediately. He’s not nearly as handsome as I remembered him, and he also seems very close to my own age. His light hair is shorter now, cut close to his head, but his wide, angular face is the same. He seems to be aging well, his angled cheekbones still pronounced in a way that makes me think of Johnny Depp. He’s wearing small, round spectacles that soften his entire appearance. I had allowed him to achieve some sort of mythic monstrous status in my mind, but seeing him in person again, I remember that he was just a regular guy, someone I even admired.

  “Trent.” It’s all I can think to say.

  We stare at each other for a moment—in the way of long-lost friends, I think.

  “You’re still playing?” He motions with his chin to the saxophone I’m holding.

  “Not one note since high school.” If the comment sounds pointed, well, good. I place the instrument back on the stand. “I was just walking by, and I don’t know. I never saw this store before.” I shove my hands into the back pockets of my jeans, trying not to appear as awkward as I feel.

  “You’re all grown up.” It’s a little skeevy, the way he says it, and I wonder how he ever made me swoon.

  “A married mom and everything.” I hope the reference to a husband isn’t lost on him.

  “Look . . .” His eyes dart around the store and then back to me. “Maybe it’s too late to say it, but as long as we’ve bumped into each other like this . . .” He swallows. “I’m so sorry.”

  I hold up my hand, trying to stop him. I don’t want to go wherever he is trying to take this conversation.

  But he’s building momentum.

  “I never should have changed your schedule after everything that went down. I was trying to do the right thing. I was trying to do what I thought was best for you. Not being one of my students anymore, I thought. I just—I didn’t know nearly as much about what you needed as I believed I did back then, and I’m sorry.”

  I thought he was going to apologize for encouraging
my feelings for him, for crossing the line and toying with the emotions of a student when he was in the position of teacher. Instead, he’s gone straight to the big picture, and to my surprise, this apology actually matters more.

  “It was a long time ago,” I answer, glancing behind him at an older couple who are just walking into the store. I’m unwilling to go deeper with him.

  He looks like he wants to say something else, but instead he just lets out a long breath and considers me. “I’m glad to see everything’s going so well for you. Take care.” He walks toward the register with his stack of music booklets.

  I watch him for a moment as he pulls his wallet out from the back pocket of his jeans. I’m digging around inside myself, trying to tap into the anger I once felt for him, or to find relief in his apology. Instead, I feel only defeat. I blink hard and then leave the store.

  Nick is quietly snoring beside me. It’s late, but I can’t sleep. I’m wired, thinking about our day in court tomorrow, wondering about everything that could occur. Unlike Tess, who parades around courthouses all the time, I don’t think I’ve ever actually been inside a real courtroom before. I’m basing all my expectations of tomorrow on the scenarios I’ve seen on television and movie screens. I keep picturing crazy situations arising, like Donovan slapping me across the face or Chip storming out in an angry rage. I don’t think they will bring Kai to the hearing. Our attorney explained that there’s no need for him to be present, and I’m sure it would only be stressful for him.

  After I bumped into Trent, I went directly to Penn Station and hopped onto the next train to Jersey. As I turn onto my side now and push my back up against Nick’s for warmth, I gaze toward the window, where a faint sliver of moonlight creeps around the edges of the guest room’s gauzy curtains. I wonder if I shouldn’t have felt better to hear Trent finally apologize, to know that he wasn’t trying to be vindictive when he kicked me out of honors band. Instead, all I keep wondering is, What good is the apology now? The decision he made was the catalyst that led me to drop out of school, to waste years of my life trying to find myself, and ultimately to enter into a gestational surrogacy arrangement.

  Would it all have happened anyway? Maybe. I was itching to get away from home, to make some sort of point to my parents, to punish them for never understanding who I was or who I wanted to be. Maybe I was being punished by the Universe for never understanding who my parents were—my mom, especially.

  I suppose it’s nice to know now that Trent thought he was looking out for me. It strikes me as very similar to the way my parents thought they were looking out for me when they cut me off. After I left home and quit school, they didn’t chase me down; instead, they gave me the space they thought I needed. What I actually needed was so entirely different. I needed more attention and support. I needed them to stand up and bring me home. But space was all they gave me then, and I ended up losing years with my mother that I can’t get back. My heartrate speeds up as the anger—the frustration that I was so woefully misunderstood, to my own detriment, time and again—rises inside me.

  With a start, I wonder if I’m doing the same thing to Kai. What if I’m superimposing my own ideas and completely failing to understand what that child needs? I think about the loving home he’s grown up in since the day he was born. He’s been raised for over a decade alongside a boy he believed to be his brother, and relying for everything on fathers who clearly love him more than words can express. What if trying to do what’s best for him isn’t the same as actually doing what’s best for him?

  Chapter 30

  DONOVAN

  SEPTEMBER 2018

  As we approach the boxy white exterior of the courthouse, I can’t get my emotions in check. I know that this morning is only supposed to be an administrative hearing, but it’s also the beginning of so much more. Chip is climbing up the stone steps beside me, and somehow, maybe because it’s finally go-time, he seems so much calmer, eerily composed. He’s also astonishingly handsome in his crisp dark suit and shiny silver tie, and I’m sorry he’s not dressed up for some other, happier, occasion.

  Lorraine the Lawyer is waiting for us inside the lobby, standing next to the metal detector with a frustrated expression on her face.

  “I missed three calls from Tom Wellan this morning,” she says by way of greeting, referring to the Wingates’ attorney. “He’s not answering now.”

  Chip and I both speak at once.

  “He better not be requesting an adjournment,” Chip says.

  “This is bad, isn’t it?” I ask, but my words are drowned out by Chip’s louder ones.

  “Well, we’d better just go up and see,” she says, motioning us toward the metal detector.

  When we get upstairs, we read the signs beside the various courtrooms until we find Room 222a. Just before we push open the doors, I see Maggie and Nick rounding the corner at the far end of the hallway with a portly, middle-aged man who I assume is the illustrious Mr. Wellan.

  “They’re here,” I say quietly, pushing the words out of the corner of my mouth toward Lorraine.

  She lets go of the door handle.

  “Give me one second.” She points us toward a bench on the opposite wall.

  After glancing at each other uncertainly, Chip and I do as we’re told and settle onto the bench.

  When Lorraine reaches the Wingates, she speaks with them in hushed tones. Whatever she says results in Maggie and Nick nodding and turning to walk back the way they came. Nick glances back over his shoulder at Chip and me before they disappear from view.

  Lorraine and the other attorney continue to confer as he props his briefcase against his thigh, opens it halfway, and removes a document. When he hands it to her, she scans it, nods, and then points to a part of the paper and asks him something.

  “We’re just supposed to sit here?” Chip nearly spits.

  “Shhh,” I warn, afraid to make any of this worse than it already is.

  But now Lorraine is walking back toward us, her heels clicking purposefully against the shiny floor.

  “They’re requesting an adjournment,” she says when she reaches us.

  Chip shoots out from his seat. “What? No. No way. Why? This has taken long enough already.”

  I stand too and realize that I’m just as anxious to move forward as Chip is.

  “The birth mother is requesting a meeting with the child to see if the matter can be resolved.”

  “With Kai? Why?” I ask, reluctant as ever to subject Kai to any portion of what’s happening here.

  “I think this could work in your favor,” Lorraine says, glancing back at where she was just speaking with the other attorney. He’s no longer there, and I imagine he’s gone to find Maggie and Nick. “It sounds as though the birth parents are having second thoughts. Tom didn’t spell it out so completely, but he implied that moving forward, the Wingates would like to base their actions on what Kai tells them he wants.”

  My heart speeds up at the idea that we could get through this case so easily, that a simple meeting with Kai could resolve all of this.

  “No,” Chip declares. “We’ve waited long enough. We’re not dragging Kai down here and freaking him out just to pick up where we left off, except on a later timeline.”

  Lorraine holds up a manicured finger. “We can set the meeting for tomorrow morning. I’ll suggest we use a conference room at my office. I agree there’s no reason to distress Kai by bringing him to family court. I think this is worthwhile, though, Chip. If everything goes well, the matter could be resolved by the end of the day tomorrow.”

  Chip looks from Lorraine to me, and I nod vigorously.

  “We’ll be in the room with them, right?” I ask her.

  “Well, in this particular instance . . .” she begins slowly, and I know I’m not going to like her answer. “They want to meet with him alone.”

  “No,” Chip says again, and this time I agree with him. Kai does not have the emotional constitution to attend a meeting like this on his own.


  “There’s an argument that he might feel pressure to adjust his answers to your liking if either of you is in the room with him.” She purses her lips as her eyes dart to the side with a new thought. “I can be there, though. I can make it a condition of our acceptance of this proposal—that at least your attorney should be present in the room.”

  “He’s going to be so nervous,” I say, looking at Chip. “What will we even tell him is happening?”

  We’re all quiet for a moment, which Lorraine correctly interprets as cautious acceptance of this development.

  “I’ll go tell the attorney that we consent to the adjournment, provided that the meeting with Kai occurs tomorrow, at my office, and in my presence.”

  As she walks away, I turn to Chip. “What will we even tell him?” I ask again, picturing Kai’s confusion, his fright, when he realizes that Maggie and Nick want to remove him from our custody.

  Chip rubs his hands together slowly, the way he does when he’s thinking. “We just tell him that the Wingates would like to get to know him a little better, that Maggie and Nick want to talk with him some more. We’ll say that you and I made Maggie nervous, that’s why she got weird at the end of their visit to our apartment, so we agreed to wait outside the next time they talk. I don’t think we even have to get into the fact of Lorraine being our lawyer or any of that.” He shrugs, as though everything he’s said is obvious. When I don’t respond, he continues, “Look, I know we don’t want to upset Kai. He’s . . .” He pauses, as if he’s struggling with how to craft his thought into words. “I know he takes things to heart. But if a meeting between Maggie, Nick, and Kai is all it will take to resolve this situation, we have to go for it. Kai’s going to have to take one for the team on this.”