One True Theory of Love

by Laura Fitzgerald

  “He called me,” Jonathan repeated.

  “You’re lying,” Meg said. “That’s all you are—a liar.”

  “I’m coming to Tucson over Thanksgiving, and we need to meet,” he said. “There are some things I need to say to you in person.”

  “Are you in some sort of twelve-step program and you’re at that stage where you’ve got to apologize for your past transgressions? Because if that’s the case, consider yourself forgiven and leave me the hell alone.”

  “Am I forgiven?” he asked.

  “Are you in a twelve-step program?”

  “No.”

  “Then hell no.” Meg flipped her phone closed, turned off the ringer and stood dazed, looking toward the Catalina Mountains. The innocent cotton-candy clouds crushed the mountaintops where she’d once hiked, camped, made love with Jonathan. Three military planes from David-Monthan Air Force Base, so clean and competent, cut through the sky overhead that belonged to the park. Had Jonathan really just said that her son, the flesh of her womb, had placed a phone call to her mortal enemy?

  The next time there was a break in the game, Henry grinned at her and made a peace sign. She stared at him as if he were a stranger. If he’d really called Jonathan, there’d be no peace in their household that day.

  They won, 1-0.

  Because of Henry’s goal, his team won. Henry was the hero, and Meg could barely stand to look at him. She led her mother over for introductions. “Mom, this is Ahmed,” she said. “Ahmed, this is my mom.”

  Ahmed warmly shook Clarabelle’s hand. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

  “You, too.” Clarabelle seemed mesmerized by his eyes. “I don’t know why my daughter has insisted on hiding you away from us.” Henry tugged on Clarabelle’s sleeve and whispered something to her. “Would you like to join us for Thanksgiving dinner?” she asked when she straightened. “We’re having it at my other daughter’s house.”

  “Ho, ho. Hold up,” Meg said. “Mom? Can you take Henry to the car and I’ll meet you there in a few minutes?”

  Clarabelle, sensing Meg’s mood, led Henry off without protest. As Meg watched them walk away, she felt light-headed again. Loose. Worthless. As if she could blow away in a slight breeze and no one would even notice.

  But Ahmed noticed and took her gently by the arm. “What’s wrong?”

  She looked at him desperately, drowning. “Pretty much everything.” How could she tell him that Jonathan had called, and not only that, but it had been Henry who’d asked him to? Henry hadn’t betrayed just her. He’d betrayed Ahmed, too. Ahmed, who’d been more of a father to Henry in the past couple months than Jonathan had been in ten years.

  The ingrate.

  Ahmed would remember the moment she delivered this news for the rest of his life. You know how crazy you are about my kid? Well, it doesn’t matter how great you are with him. It seems he’s more fascinated with his father, who’s ignored him for the past ten years. Meg owed it to Ahmed to tell him right. Without anger. Without sarcasm. With compassion. And so she decided to hold off.

  “My parents separated last night and it’s hitting me like a ton of bricks,” she told him. “I don’t think Thanksgiving is going to be especially thankful this year. I think it’s going to be hell, actually, and I’d rather it not be your first official introduction to my family.”

  “Poor Meg.” Ahmed pulled her close. “Tell me what I can do for you.”

  “I just . . . Damn it.” She stopped as tears sprang to her eyes. In a world that didn’t seem to reward it, Ahmed was so very kind. “I just wanted us all to be happy. I didn’t want anything to get ruined.”

  And now it is. Jonathan’s going to ruin everything. That’s what he does. That’s who he is. A ruiner. A destroyer. A breaker of hearts, mine in particular.

  Ahmed pulled back and took her hands. “No pity parties, Meg. There’s a happy ending ready and waiting for us, like an apple on a low-hanging branch and all we’ve got to do is stretch the tiniest bit and it’s ours. Maybe a happy ending’s waiting for your parents, too.”

  He honestly believed it. Meg could see it in his eyes. She didn’t feel nearly as hopeful.

  “But that’s what ruined Adam and Eve,” she said. “Reaching for the low-hanging fruit. Wanting more than they were entitled to.”

  When Meg arrived at the car, Henry was up in a nearby tree, while Clarabelle watched him from below.

  “Okay, Henry,” Meg said. “Let’s go.”

  “Hold on.” Henry reached for the next branch. “I want to climb higher.”

  “We’re leaving now.” Meg turned to her mother. “I told Ahmed I’d prefer that he not come for Thanksgiving. Henry doesn’t run the show, and I really need you to talk with me before you issue invitations. We’re not welcoming Ahmed into the family quite yet.”

  “Yes, we are,” Henry called down.

  “Get in the car, Henry.”

  “I said, in a minute.”

  “The car won’t be here in a minute.” It took Meg about fifteen seconds to get to her car, and as she unlocked it, she saw out of the corner of her eye that Henry still wasn’t coming. They were a mere six blocks from home, and Clarabelle was there and wouldn’t let Henry walk alone, and damn it, he was being such a brat. She was going to leave him. Teach him a lesson for a change. Make him take her seriously. Meg got in, buckled up and started the ignition before he even looked over. He held up two fingers, for two minutes. She put the car in reverse. So sure she’d wait for him, he sat leisurely on the branch dangling his legs.

  When Meg backed out of her spot, Henry finally jumped down and started over. Meg inched forward a few feet. When she saw that Henry had begun to run, she considered whether she should keep going and really teach him a lesson or if she should give him a break. Not that he’d cut her any breaks lately. Far from it. But still. She stopped for him and stared straight ahead, shunning him at the same time she was chauffeuring him.

  Henry got in, buckled up and waved goodbye to Clarabelle. “Hey, Mom? Mom, Mom, Mom? Can we go for ice cream?”

  “Are you kidding?” Was it even conceivable that he didn’t know she was mad at him? Or was he just so sure her forgiveness was a given?

  “Can we?” he asked.

  “No! When I say it’s time to go, we go. I’m in charge. I make the decisions.”

  “I thought we both made the decisions,” Henry said.

  “We aren’t a democracy,” Meg said.

  “But I thought we were a team.”

  “If we’re a team, then I’m the coach and you’re the player,” Meg said. “You don’t tell Ahmed how to run the practice, do you?”

  “That’s different.” Henry kicked the back of the seat. “Why didn’t you say anything about my goal? You saw it, right?”

  “Of course I saw it,” Meg said. “That’s how I spent my Saturday morning. Out of all the things I could have been doing, I chose to stand in the cold and stomp my feet and watch you and cheer for you and be there for you. And, yes, congratulations. It was a very nice goal.”

  “Thank you,” Henry said. “When we get home, can I play pool in the clubhouse with Violet?”

  “No, you may not.” Meg felt like knocking her head against the steering wheel. How thick in the head was this kid? Who was this kid?

  “Why not?” Henry said.

  “Because I said so.”

  “I hate when you say that.”

  “And I hate saying it,” she snapped. “So when I say no, that’s it. End of discussion.”

  “Can I later?”

  Meg gripped the steering wheel to keep from screaming at him. “I’m not talking to you right now.”

  She jerked to a stop at the sign on Third and Treat streets and started up again with a whiplash-worthy acceleration. A woman coming in the opposite direction on Treat in a green Mercedes station wagon made a slow-down gesture at her and Meg’s first impulse was to flip her off, even though she knew perfectly well the woman was right.

 
; “Mom,” Henry said.

  “Not now, Henry.”

  “But why—”

  Meg yanked the steering wheel to the right and came to a fast stop on the side of the road. She twisted to look Henry dead in the eye. “Enough with the questions. Let me ask you one. What in God’s name possessed you to call your father, and where did you get his number?”

  Henry shrank back in his seat. “That’s actually two questions.”

  Meg glared at him. “I actually have never been so mad at you in my entire life as I am right now.”

  “I won’t talk anymore.” Henry’s voice was a squeak. “I won’t say another word all the way home.”

  “Thank you,” Meg said. “We will drive in silence, and when we get home, we will talk.”

  “Okay,” Henry said and then added, “Oops.”

  Meg faced forward, closed her eyes and tried to summon her place of central calm. But Jonathan’s face popped into her mind and then Ahmed’s appeared right next to it, and when Henry’s face popped in between them, Meg knew the pursuit of calm was useless. She inched Coop back onto the road and drove five miles below the speed limit for the final few blocks.

  Once home, they walked in silence from the parking lot to their apartment, Henry behind Meg, head down. Her little soccer star was drooping, and sympathy tugged at Meg’s heart-strings. It was so easy to get mad at him, yet so hard to stay that way. He clearly had no idea about the can of worms he’d opened—of the unintended consequences, of which Meg was sure there’d be many. After she unlocked the door, she turned and gruffly kissed his sweaty scalp.

  Henry went directly to the living room couch, sank down onto it and began unlacing his soccer cleats. Meg poured him a glass of lemonade and set it on the end table nearest him and went to her favorite armchair. Sitting down, she felt dissatisfied. They were supposed to be cuddled together on Ahmed’s couch, drinking hot chocolate, and Meg was supposed to be getting off on the softness of Ahmed’s flannel shirt. Instead, here she and Henry were, about to embark on their most difficult discussion to date.

  “Okay, Henry, I love you. Let’s start there,” she began. “It’s obvious I’m angry. I don’t know what’s going on with you that you felt you needed to call Jonathan. I simply don’t understand. Tell me what was going through your mind.”

  And how the hell did you get his number?

  Henry pulled off his shoes and stripped off his shin guards and long socks as if he hadn’t heard her. Meg watched him, expressionless, until he met her eyes.

  “What did he tell you?” he said.

  “All we’re going to talk about right now is why you felt the need to call him.” Meg’s voice was even-tempered, but her anger bubbled beneath the surface because once again, unsurprisingly, Henry was pulling a Henry. He just sat and looked at her, rock-dumb.

  “Speak,” she said, “or I will begin to yell.”

  “Why should I?” he said. “You’re just going to get mad at me.”

  “I’m already mad at you,” Meg said. “Trust me, you’ve got nowhere to go but up.”

  “Did he tell you that I called him? Is that how you know?”

  “How else would I know, Henry?”

  “Did he tell you when I called him?”

  “Henry,” she warned.

  “Did he tell you why I called him?”

  “Henry, you’ve got less than one second to start explaining.”

  Henry stood, defiant. “If you want to know, call him back and ask him.” As if frightened by his own audacity, he sprint-walked to his bedroom and slipped inside. Meg heard the soft click of the lock and decided not to go after him.

  Eventually, Meg’s maternal instinct kicked in and she grew worried about the silence in Henry’s room. She knew he was in there—he’d promised her once that he’d never run away, and so far, he’d never broken a promise to her. But he was an antsy kid, not one to sit still, not one to take naps, not one to read a book for this long.

  She went to his room and tapped on the door. “Henry?” She made her voice soft, loving, and then tried the knob, which was still locked. “Open up, please.”

  She heard the covers on his bed rustle, and seconds later, he unlocked the door and opened it. Meg’s heart broke a little when she saw his pale, drained face, complete with raccoon circles under his eyes, which he only got when he had a headache. Or, possibly, when he’d cried his guts out. Meg followed him back to his unmade bed, and when he lay down, she sat next to him and put her cool palm against his warm forehead. He relaxed instantly.

  “Let’s talk,” she said. “And let’s remember we’re on the same side. Okay?”

  Henry sighed and gave the slightest of nods.

  “I thought you liked Ahmed,” she said softly.

  Henry abruptly sat up. “I do!”

  “Don’t you see how calling Jonathan and asking him to get involved in our lives can threaten what we’ve got with Ahmed?” Meg asked. “Calling him just wasn’t very smart.”

  “You said you wouldn’t marry Ahmed!”

  “Shh. Shh.” She brushed his bangs off his forehead. “First off, it’s not like Ahmed has even asked me to marry him. He hasn’t. But no matter what, I’m not going to get back with Jonathan. That’s never going to happen.”

  “I know that!” Henry said. “That’s not why I called him.”

  “Well, then, why did you? Do you want a relationship with him? Is that what this is about?” Meg shuddered, unable to help it.

  “Can we not talk about this anymore?” Henry begged. “Please.”

  “You can’t make life difficult for me and then expect me to go easy on you. You see how that’s not fair, right?” Meg asked. “Your calling Jonathan has raised a whole host of problems. How do you think Ahmed’s going to feel? He coaches your soccer team. Plays chess with you. Helps you feel better when you’re sad. Takes you to work with him. Your calling Jonathan—when you’ve never before expressed even the slightest interest to get to know him—sends the message that none of what Ahmed has done for or with you means anything to you.”

  Henry’s eyes brimmed with fresh tears. “But it does,” he whispered. Meg brushed his bangs off his forehead to soothe him.

  “I don’t mean to make you feel bad,” she said. “And I don’t want you to think I’ll keep you away from your father if you have some intense need to meet him or something. But you come to me. Okay? You don’t go behind my back, ever. You come to me for everything.”

  “But, Mom.” Henry put his hand on her knee. “Mom, Mom, Mommy. Sometimes you’re not enough.”

  Sometimes you’re not enough.

  That trumped all the hurtful things Jonathan had ever said to her. It trumped everything.

  Meg lay in bed that night and mentally catalogued the times and ways she’d been there for Henry. Year by year, from the croup he’d had as a toddler to the ear infections too numerous to mention, to helping him face his fear of the dark, to teaching him to swim, to watching Harry Potter ten thousand times. They laughed all the time! Took great summer vacations together!

  How could he say she wasn’t enough?

  It was only after she’d gotten up at about two in the morning and warmed a glass of milk and honey—something her father had done for her at bedtime when she was young—and lit a candle and curled up on the couch with a blanket and sipped the drink, thinking of pretty much nothing, that the answer came to her. You’ve been enough, Magpie, but he’s getting older and his needs are changing.

  It was her father’s voice coming to her in her hour of need. And his words made perfect sense.

  After she finished her glass of honeyed milk, Meg took her blanket and crawled into Henry’s bed to sleep next to him. “I’ll get you what you need,” she whispered. “Whether it’s me or Ahmed or Jonathan or all three of us, I’ll make sure you get what you need.”

  Remembering the peace sign he’d flashed at her during the soccer game earlier in the day, Meg made the sign back at him, and when she closed her eyes th
is time, sleep came easily.

  The next morning, Meg sat at Amy’s breakfast bar and drank a mimosa while Amy prepared a salad. Henry, Kelly and Maggie were in the backyard playing some sort of Wiffle Ball game. David had been sent to the grocery store for half-and-half to prevent Clarabelle from throwing a small fit. Their father would not be coming. Meg had spoken with him the previous day and he’d sublet a condo a few miles east of his office. He’d seemed to be in good spirits.

  “Have you talked to Mom yet today?” Meg asked Amy.

  “She called to say she’s bringing brownies for dessert,” Amy said. “She didn’t mention a word about Dad.”

  “I suppose that’s good,” Meg said. “I’d rather she not talk about him than complain about him.”

  “Whose side are we on?” Amy peered at her. “And why do you look so tired? Are you okay?”

  “We’re not taking sides.” Meg ignored Amy’s other questions, not wanting to talk about anything involving Jonathan quite yet, if ever. “We’re just helping them both move forward in the best way possible.”

  “You can’t not take a side with Mom,” Amy said. “You’re either for her or against her.”

  “Who knows?” Meg said. “Maybe she’ll surprise us for a change.”

  She did. It began with a toot of the horn as Clarabelle pulled into Amy’s driveway. Henry ran inside. “Mom! Mom, come quick! Come see Grandma’s new car!”

  “Oh, shit,” said Amy.

  Together, they went out front and found Clarabelle sitting proudly behind the wheel of a shiny blue Ford Mustang convertible, wearing a Jackie O scarf and sunglasses.

  “Nice car, Mom,” Meg said. Amy walked around the vehicle, inspecting it from all sides.

  “I’ve never had a new car before,” Clarabelle said. “Your father always talked me out of it. ‘A new car loses ten percent of its value the instant you drive it off the lot,’ or some such crap.”

  “It’s true,” Amy said.