“What do you think about going to the playground?” I ask, clapping my hands together. It’s the exact kind of utterance that causes my father to frown during family visits, his eyebrows knitting together. “We never used to ask you kids where you wanted to go,” he’d say. “We just told you. You were lucky to be going at all.”
So, in that vein, when Randall shakes his head, No, I scoop him up with one hand and snag his sneakers in the other. “It’ll be fun!”
With our destination not up for further discussion, we have crossed one hurdle. Actually pulling out of the garage is quite another matter entirely. We pause outside my sister’s minivan in disarray. “I’m hungry,” Randall groans, holding his stomach as if he hadn’t just eaten a grilled cheese sandwich and a box of Goldfish an hour ago. But apparently I’ve forgotten snacktime. To delay any longer would invite an upset of biblical proportion. I also realize that Owen’s wearing fuzzy slippers, which Jane would tell me is an invitation for injury on the playground. And I cannot find Lucy’s backup pacifier, which even Randall declares we are not leaving the house without.
After nineteen minutes scrambling between the mudroom and the garage, I have assembled a small cargo of goods that would likely ensure survival in the minivan for at least a week. A diaper bag, a toy bag, a snack bag, three sippy cups, a tiny pink sweater, one more cup of coffee, and a pair of knotted sneakers later, we are ready to go. Buckling the kids into their respective car seats should only take another seventy-two minutes. When I finally slide into the driver’s seat and glance in the rearview mirror, Owen looks stricken. “What about Randall?”
I swivel around. Sure enough, Randall’s car seat, which I strapped him into not thirty seconds ago, is now empty. Owen points. Beyond the windshield, in the far corner of the garage, attempting to scale a stepladder, is his brother. Not for the first time this weekend I offer a reverential nod to my sister and make a mental note to stop at the liquor store on the way home; I don’t know how she does it. I pull out my phone and call Cam.
We drive to the playground at Owen’s school. It’s a gorgeous afternoon, and a towering leafy maple provides just the right amount of shade as Lucy and I sink onto a bench together to watch the boys who have taken off at breakneck speed for the swings. There is only a small handful of other parents and children around. “Take turns, boys!” I call, as Randall scrambles up the front of the slide into Owen, who is coming down. We’re only four hours away from their parents’ much-anticipated return: all front teeth are still in place, and I plan to keep it that way.
“Boys can be rough,” someone says from nearby.
Lucy’s head swivels. But I know this voice.
“Cam.” My chest flip-flops as I slide over to make room for him on the bench.
Emory is strapped to Cam’s chest in a baby carrier, facing out, and as he sits next to us, she and Lucy lock eyes. Over Lucy’s cherubic smile is Cam’s own, and in the face of all that brightness I can’t help but grin back.
“Dare I say, it looks like you have your hands more full than I do?” he says jokingly. He unstraps the carrier and lifts Emory out, placing her close to Lucy. Her chubby legs kick in excitement. “I certainly didn’t expect to see you with two more kids than I have.”
I laugh. “I didn’t expect to be here with them,” I admit. “I’m watching my nephews and Lucy for the weekend while Jane and her husband are in Newport.” I lift Lucy up so she can look at them. “But I think I’ll stick around a bit.”
“You staying for the summer?”
“Not the whole summer,” I say, emphatically. But it occurs to me that even after a grueling few days planning the wedding with Erika, and now babysitting Jane’s kids—things that would normally have me hightailing it back to Boston—oddly enough, I still have no burning desire to pack up. Evan’s been so busy at work, all we’ve managed is a few brief calls. And besides, it’s been surprisingly nice being back at home. “Yeah, the school year ended and I figured it’d be good to get out of the city for a little while.”
Cam turns and smiles. “Welcome home, Griffin.” He’s got an attractive couple of days’ growth on his chin, and that weekend-rumpled look that I like: relaxed and happy. Very different from the last time I saw him on Main Street, and in a good way. I glance away and turn my attention to Lucy.
“How old is she? Six months?” Cam asks.
“Seven,” I say, marveling at his accuracy. Jane complains all the time that Toby can’t remember the ages of his own kids.
The babies are entranced by each other, and Emory’s leg thumps against Cam’s lap as she tries to wiggle closer. Lucy keeps turning her head away, then glancing back coyly, giggling.
“So, how beat are you after a weekend with the kids?” He pauses, then adds, “Tell the truth!”
I laugh. “Totally beat.” By the time I tucked the kids into bed both nights, I forgot all about my plans to steal a few hours’ peace in front of the TV, collapsing instead into a dreamless fog beside Owen. “How’s Emory as a sleeper?”
“She’s getting better,” Cam says, “though I’ve aged about ten years in the process.” His eyes crinkle when he says it, the same way they used to when we’d joke around together.
“Kids. They’re no small job,” I say, in agreement.
“Speaking of small . . .” Cam looks at Emory with obvious tenderness. “You can’t believe the quantity and scale of the equipment these little people come with. The high chairs, the Pack ’n Play, the swing, the changing table . . .” He lets out a long breath.
I point across the playground at Randall, spinning at vomit-inducing speed on a tire swing. “Just wait until she can get away from you.”
Cam shakes his head. “Honestly, I’m so tired, I can’t think five minutes past now.”
I stand Lucy up on my lap and bounce her on my knees. “I can’t wait for a good night’s sleep tomorrow night,” I admit, thinking wistfully of my childhood bed and an open window. But I feel foolish the second it comes out of my mouth. I’ve only had to do this for two days, after all.
Cam just smiles knowingly. “Tell me about it.”
On the jungle gym, Randall is poised at the edge of a high landing. “Randall, no jumping!” I call, remembering that I’m not only using “no’ again, but now yelling it across the expanse of the playground. “Let’s make safe choices,” I add quickly.
As we watch the boys fling themselves onto the playground equipment, I question my decision to call Cam. Strapped with four little kids between us, it’s more like a test in sanity than a chance to meaningfully catch up. And at this rate I am probably only cementing the impression that I have no idea what I’m doing.
“You’re doing great,” Cam says, as if reading my mind.
“You’re lying.”
“No, you are. But you may want to take Randall to the restroom.”
I look up just in time to see Randall tugging on the waistband of his pants and assuming the squat position by the slide.
One breakneck stop in the Porta-Potty later, I’m beyond ready for Jane to come home. My phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Maggie? It’s John Hartman.”
Lucy begins to fuss and I cradle my cell under my chin while jiggling her up and down on my hip.
“I tried calling you at home but couldn’t reach you.”
“Yes, sorry about that. I’m visiting family for a couple days,” I say, knowing that the board must have made a decision for John to be tracking me down. I hold my breath.
“Is now a good time?”
I move away from the playground noise toward a small grove of trees, straining to listen. “Now is great,” I lie. “Do you have any news?”
John sighs. “I just heard from the board of directors. I’m sorry, Maggie. They’re cutting both positions after all.”
I spin around. Randall is perched at the top of the slide. I watch as he flops down on his bottom and launches himself down the chute, my breath escaping my chest with the same
whoosh. “I see.”
“We looked at every viable option to try to avoid this, but with enrollment down, the board can’t justify the expenditure. I really wish it were otherwise, Maggie.”
Randall’s feet emerge from the tunnel at the bottom of the slide. He lies very still, looking up at the sky.
“I know, John. I appreciate you pulling for me.” Tears prick the corners of my eyes.
“I’ve written you a strong reference, Maggie. You’re a natural, and I hate to lose you. If there’s anything I can do to help, don’t hesitate to ask.”
John’s sincerity is palpable, and I know this is hard for him, too. But I can’t help but wonder that my reference is already in the mail. I think of the cardboard box sitting on my desk at Darby. The sole box I didn’t pack in the trunk of my car as a last-ditch attempt at wishful thinking.
“I will,” I say, turning back to the bench. “Thank you.”
“Everything okay?” Cam asks. The sun is low in the sky, highlighting his earnest expression.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just a friend.” There is nothing I can do right now. Not about the box on my desk back in Boston or the teacher applications I will apparently be filling out now with fresh urgency. At the moment all I can think about are the facts that I have nothing for dinner, Lucy’s diaper probably needs to be changed, and I’ll need to cajole everyone off the playground before I can even contemplate the joy of strapping them back into their car seats. A fresh sense of helplessness washes over me.
Beside me Emory starts to fuss. “I should probably get her home,” Cam announces. “It’s about dinnertime. And that’s a nonnegotiable in our world, huh, Em?”
Suddenly the thought of Cam getting up and leaving is more than I can bear. Without thinking I blurt out, “Wait. Want to grab a couple of slices at Mystic Pizza?”
Cam pauses to adjust Emory on his lap. His blue eyes travel lovingly over her face. “Well, I’m afraid Emory’s too young for the pepperoni special,” he says, gesturing at her toothless smile.
I nod, embarrassed both by my rash invitation and lack of attention to detail—Cam’s most important detail of all. I should just round up the boys and take them home. I should get back to Boston and get my life together.
But then Cam grins at me. “Though I’d love a slice.”
The boys are wiped out, the playground having exhausted the last fumes of their seemingly bottomless tanks. They slump wordlessly into the vinyl booths at Mystic Pizza while I settle Lucy’s car seat on the bench beside me, and, for the first time all weekend, we all sit still.
Across from me, Cam balances Emory and her bottle in one arm and holds up a menu. “What do you think, will two pizzas do it?”
I do a silent count in my head, knowing the boys will easily eat two pieces each. “We could probably get away with a large,” I say.
Owen begins to protest. “Nah,” Cam says, waving his hand, “let’s get two. Then you can bring home leftovers, right, Owen?”
Owen and Randall clap.
“Okay, who can draw their favorite toppings?” I ask, smiling gratefully as the waitress delivers crayons and paper to the booth.
As they get down to business with their paper pizzas and I get Lucy started on a jar of butternut squash baby food, I look up to find Cam watching me. “Look at you. You’re quite the natural.” Emory, also worn out from fresh air and new faces, is nodding off in the crook of his arm. Glancing down at Lucy, I see she’s not far behind.
“It’s always a toss of the dice taking her out,” I say. “I get so focused on keeping up with the boys that I have to remind myself to slow things down and stick to her feedings and naps. Or all the wheels fall off the bus.”
Cam laughs. “Yeah. I’ve had too many rides on that bus.” He leans closer, admiring Lucy, who sucks noisily on the spoon. “But she looks rather pleased with life. I’d say Aunty Mags has pulled it off.”
Pulling off the burp is another matter entirely. Lucy is not an easy burper, but I know from experience it’s not something I can skip. This isn’t my last clean pair of jeans for no reason.
Cam watches as I lift her over my shoulder, suddenly self-conscious. Despite my gentle flat-handed pats, Lucy won’t give up the burp. I pat a little faster and firmer. Still nothing. And she’s starting to protest.
“Did you ever try the sitting burp?” Cam asks.
“The what?”
Cam sits Emory up facing out, to demonstrate. “That looks complicated,” I say, switching shoulders instead, and resuming my rapid-fire patting. I’m beginning to break out in a sweat.
He shrugs. “Or you can keep thumping. It’s got a decent beat.” I give him a level look. It’s not lost on either of us that he is the expert here, so finally I surrender.
“Face her toward me, and lean her forward just a little.” I try my best to mimic Cam’s demonstration. On the first pat Lucy emits the loudest belly burp I’ve ever heard, which sends the boys into a fitful of giggles.
Cam winks. “Well played.”
The pizza place is still empty at this early hour. Having settled Lucy, I’m finally able to lean back and let out a long breath. “So, you’re the one tearing apart my favorite house in town,” I say.
Cam’s eyes twinkle. “You know the Bate house?”
“Jane and I used to call it the Wedding Cake House, it was so beautiful. Please tell me the owners aren’t changing it.”
“Oh, they’re changing it,” Cam says.
“What do you mean?”
He smiles. “Relax. They’re actually restoring the original design. We’re even returning the front portico to its former self. Which you’ve probably never seen, unless you’ve looked at pictures in the Historical Society.”
I shake my head. “My favorite part was that portico; it looked so grand, especially flanked by the formal landscaping.”
“Then you’ll love the restoration. It’s even grander,” he says.
“Are they having the side gardens restored, too? Wasn’t there a fountain?”
Cameron nods, seeming genuinely surprised at my interest in the house. “You seem to know quite a bit, Griffin. You should come by sometime. Make sure I’m doing it honor.”
“I’d love to.”
As we talk softly over the kids’ heads, the scratch of crayons on the tabletop the only other sounds, I’m struck by an overwhelming sense of peace: this sticky, sleepless, minute-to-minute marathon of a weekend with the kids has actually been the most rewarding few days I can remember.
When the pizzas arrive the boys devour their slices, reviving just enough to pepper Cam with questions. “How do you know my aunt?” Owen asks, studying Cam carefully.
“Your aunt and I have been friends for a long time. We both grew up here in Mystic.”
Owen considers this information as Randall interjects with his own questions in quick succession. “What’s your baby’s name? How old is she? She’s smaller than my baby.” He points across the table at Lucy. “That’s my baby.”
Cam answers each question, and even balances Emory in one arm as he helps Randall cut his piece of pizza into small squares with the other.
“Thanks, Cam, but I can do it.”
“I’ve got it,” he says, watching as Randall shoves three small squares into his mouth at once. “Easy there, tiger.”
Emory has begun squirming in his lap. “I think I need to change her,” Cam says, rising. He glances out the window to where his Jeep is parked.
“Outside?”
He shrugs. “Typical single-dad problem—the only changing table is in the women’s room.”
I hold out my arms. “Let me.”
Cam shakes his head. “Thanks, but you’re still eating. Besides, it’s no big deal, I’m used to this.”
I stand up. “Cam, hand her over. Unless you think it’d upset her.” I look at Emory’s thick-lashed eyes warily. Such tiny people can exert such huge control.
Cam looks relieved. “Thanks, Mags. She won’t mind at all,”
he adds, passing her gently to me. He slides into my seat beside Lucy, who looks at Cam like she might mind, however, and I say a quick prayer for everyone at the table to just keep it together for five more minutes.
Cam rummages through Emory’s diaper bag. “It helps if you give her this guy to hold when you change her.” He pulls out a fuzzy gray hippo. “And there’s one more thing.” A look of consternation crosses Cam’s face. “You’ll probably notice her scar.”
“Scar?”
He touches his chest gently. “Shortly after she was born, Emory had to have some surgery.” He pauses, glancing over at the boys still working on their pizza, and lowers his voice. “She has a heart condition.”
Standing in the middle of the pizza place with Emory tucked against my chest, all I can do is nod. But a thousand urgent questions fill my head.
“She’s fine—you don’t need to worry about handling her like china or anything,” Cam adds quickly. “I just thought you should know. I didn’t want it to surprise you.”
“Of course. Thanks for telling me,” I say, willing my expression to remain neutral, even though fresh panic fills me. What kind of condition would necessitate surgery at infancy? And how bad a scar could a baby have that Cam felt compelled to warn me? But before I can put words to any of these fears, Emory starts to squirm in my arms and Cam quickly hands me her diaper bag.
“You’ll be fine,” he says, as if reading my mind.
The women’s room is dimly lit as I lock the door behind us. I unroll the cloth changing pad covered in little ducks and balance her gently on my hip. Unlike Lucy, Emory does not protest when I lay down her down, but instead puts her chubby fist to her lips and starts sucking on it calmly.
“Hi, baby girl.” I unsnap her onesie gently. Emory doesn’t take her eyes off me. “Just going to get you changed,” I tell her, softly.
Mystic Summer Page 12