by CELENE CAREY
He squealed in delight, not afraid because this was our little game. He’d laugh and laugh and laugh. I smiled for what felt like the first one today. Alex made everything better. After all Adam and I have been through, I don’t regret the beautiful baby boy he’d given to me. I thought back to the day I gave birth, the agony of labour, the doctors convinced that my body would give way, me screaming “help me,” and Adam not knowing what to do.
When it was over, it had all been worth it. He was perfect, hair already on his head, ten fingers and toes, six pounds, eight ounces. Baby Alexander David Bell.
***
When Adam finally came home from gym he looked exhausted, looked like he was emotionally drained. I stood in front of the refrigerator, my back turned to him after giving him a good head to toe look over. He spent most of his time at the gym instead of home and when he was here, he mostly played with Alex or slept. He looked good, that was the truth, better than Bill did actually, with a complexion a little lighter than mine, one hundred and eighty pounds, a chest from here to Westmoreland, arms that made me think guns of steel, long eye lashes, puffy lips, soft lips, and a gap in the centre of his smile. I stood facing the fridge, perfectly envisioning the man standing but a few feet away from me, not looking around because I was too afraid to face him knowing the wrong I’ve done him.
“Alex’s birthday’s coming up,” I said, finally turning. Should I have started with “How was your day?” I’d gotten so bad at this.
“Yea, I know, you know I can’t forget that, Claire.” He was sitting by the table, not doing anything, pretending he had been taking his shoes off for five minutes. Did he always do that? Was I too caught up to realise he’d been around even in the silence?
“I didn’t say you did. I’m just acknowledging it,” I replied, trying not to get frustrated as I suppressed a sigh, “What are you getting him?”
He scratched the after shadow on his chin, thinking about it. I liked his rusty look more than his clean-shaven look; he looked much manlier, not like a school boy who hadn’t reached puberty, not that anyone could mistake him for such.
“I’m thinking about getting him one of those toy cars, not a toy, but the ones you can actually get in and drive around.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little much? Do you know the cost of one of those? I’m not so sure. He’s just going to be two, maybe for his fifth birthday.”
Adults needed to understand at his age children were easily impressed. We didn’t need to go all out on expensive gifts; I wasn’t trying to raise a spoiled brat. Without arguing his point Adam said, “I guess that’s true, what did you have in mind?”
Okay, so I understood the “my wife is always right” policy that most husbands had, but sometimes I wished he’d understand that I don’t feel like I need to always have the final say. In some situations I did, in fact, have it. But this wasn’t one of those. Alexander was his son too, he by all means, had the choice to buy him whatever he wanted for his birthday. I let it go.
“I was thinking we could have a little party or small get-together or go out to E-park or something, take a few pictures, put them in his baby album so he can see them and share it with his family when he gets older; maybe when he has a son.”
He smiled. “You were always better at things like this.”
I smiled back at him, not a real smile, just the smile I use when I don’t know what to say I guess. I turned to leave.
“Claire, wait.” He was standing now, behind me.
Claire Bell
Adam Bell
“Claire, wait.”
I was tired of this, tired of living like we were two strangers, tired of watching her demise, tired of not doing anything about it. I pulled her arm gently to me. She came.
“We can do whatever you want for Alex’s birthday, that’s why you’re the mother. Its ‘mothers know best’ and not ‘fathers know best.’ I trust your judgement. And you know I get overly excited about him. This is a journey we both have to take.”
I was standing this close to my wife in our home, after knowing her pretty much all my life, and still I felt as nervous as I did on our wedding day when I faced her with her hair high on top of her head, looking like an angel cloaked in white. My palms had begun to sweat like they always did when my heart began to race. I wanted to pull her into my arms and kiss her, tell her how much I missed her, but I knew or believed that I’d only scare her away.
She smiled at me for real now. “Okay.” Her lips were pouting in the way I remembered they used to whenever she wanted me to say yes. It was a habit she had no control of. I’d already said she could do whatever she wanted.
“Okay.” I smiled back at her. I let her arm go and instantly regretted it. I felt like I was letting go of her again, the way I had before.
“Claire, wait.”
She turned around, hand akimbo, “yes, Adam?”
“When will this be over? I don’t know if it can go on anymore. I want my wife back.”
She stood there, saying nothing, twisting her fingers in her palm, looking at the floor.
“Claire, look at me, I don’t know how okay you are with this, but I am not okay. We’re not okay; our marriage is dying quickly and I don’t want to lose you.”
She looked at me then, water in her eyes. Instead of running to me, she walked away. Had I already lost her?
I sat at the table, stared at her staring at the refrigerator; when did we become strangers in the same home? When did we become strangers who slept in different beds, strangers who had only one thing in common, our son. We might as well be living in two different houses because this was no longer a home. I had changed for her, after being stuck as her friend for so long, she’d finally realised that there was nothing better than being with someone who knew you better than you knew your own self.
I thought about all the things I did wrong, as a friend, as a boyfriend, as a husband; only one thing could have caused this, but that was so long ago. She had forgiven me. But did I forgive myself? I had come home, football had me tired; she offered to give me a massage, I was too on edge from losing a match we could’ve won if some people actually believed in teamwork.
“No. We’re supposed to be going out. Second place, apparently, is a big deal to them.”
I had showered, left, gone to a drink up one of my teammates was keeping. I drank a little too much, got in a fight with the ball-hogger Andre, and had to leave my car there. Fitz-Roy offered to drive me home, forced me to let him drive me home, saying, “We don’t want anyone dying over football.”
I’d gotten home, still in the rotten mood I’d been in. Claire was waiting up for me, greeted me by the door, but I wasn’t in the mood. She probably lost her mood when she saw and smelled me, saw my busted eyebrow, and a swollen lip.
“What the fuck happened to you?”
I laughed a little too loudly, “You should see the other guy.”
“I’m not laughing with you, Adam. What did you do? Did you kill him?”
“Yeah… exactly. If I’d killed him, you would see more blood, I promise, and nobody would’ve brought me home. Hsst . . . Don’t ask stupid questions as if you’re stupid.”
“Stupid? Who the fuck are you calling stupid?”
She got loud, I got loud, and we were arguing about nothing. I had never called her stupid before, I guess that was a word that really offended her.
“Babes, you know I don’t mean that.”
“Fuck you!”
She was screaming, my head started spinning. I wasn’t trying to be in a stupid argument over what I supposed to be nothing. She began to hit me, her tiny fists annoying more than hurting me. I shoved her, heard her head hit the back of the wall, saw the tears well up in her eyes, watched as she walked away, closing the door behind her without another word. I hadn’t meant to. It was an accident- they happen, especially when one party is under the influence. She didn’t talk to me for weeks, got up and left early, and came home late when she knew I�
��d be asleep. On weekends, she went jogging for hours. The silence had eaten me alive. I apologised and apologised. Until she finally forgave me. I never forgot it. And now this?
When did we stop knowing each other? I wanted to know her and, of course, I wanted to you know, know her. That stopped a longer time ago; I’d gotten used to my hand, it did a great job. I got that energy out in the gym, but I was still attracted to my wife. The last time we had sex was when she was three months pregnant. She thought she wasn’t as attractive with the baby weight, with the belly. But I never thought she looked any better than she did barefoot and pregnant in my kitchen, as sexist as it sounds. I just thought she looked good that way, her tiny feet swollen, her face rosy. I loved her, after all these years, I still loved her and I don’t think I could ever stop. This needed to end, and soon. I went to sleep, in the guest room as per usual, Alex slept beside me.
… To those who wait.
Veronica,
It was Saturday morning; I’d been here for a week and half, my flight would leave tomorrow and I still hadn’t confronted my father. I thought about what mom said, thought about the story she shared with me, thought about my reaction, my hostility towards him. I was to blame for some of this. Communication didn’t happen in a vacuum, it was a two-way street, my anger was a barrier to communication. Was I preventing my father from coming to me? How could he be okay thinking his daughter hated him? I didn’t hate him.
I was laying in bed; I couldn’t tell the last time I had pink bed sheets. I always bought green, blue, or something black… Jonny’s favourite colours. It was early; Australians were probably the earliest people to rise in the world. I got out of bed, went down the stairs, and saw my dad in the living room fooling around with whatever those tools were. This early? My father was completely American, six o’clock was too early for him, no matter the occasion. While mom and me were probably used to it, I was sure he wasn’t. Mom was up, of course, in the kitchen with many jars and containers out; something smelled good.
“Morning,” I said, passing daddy. He gave me a “morning,” no pumpkin, no affection.
“Good morning, baby, come in here and give your mom a hand.”
I had just gotten up, I wasn’t trying to be in the kitchen fooling with all that mess. I had been laying awake for almost two hours. My heart wouldn’t rest, my mind wouldn’t rest. I needed to set my soul straight, before it walked onto the railway and into an oncoming train.
“Mom, what’s going on?” I asked, rubbing my eyes, trying to make heads or tails of what she was doing.
“Oh, sweetie, your dad is going fishing.”
Fishing? I raised an eye at her. She chuckled and used her shoulder to nudge me.
“Yes, fishing. He acts as if he’s already retired. I think you should go with him. Connect. Have some father-daughter time. You haven’t done that your entire trip here. You have two parents, not one. Be grateful.”
My trip? How about I’ve never had father-daughter time in my life? I didn’t argue, I was always in a good mood in the mornings. She was right, though. I did have two parents. I’d gone to so many places with mom. We drove to Alpine Village twice in my one week here. I watched the people, the difference with Lawndale streets compared to the streets of Kingston, the similarities stood out the most, but I was ready to go home. I didn’t say much more to mom. I didn’t help her, either.
“Where you going fishing?”
I sat on the other side of the long couch. I could see the equipment now, his fishing tools. I had a small idea of what fishing was like from the movies. That was a long time to be sitting quietly.
“Alondra Lake. You want to come?”
I was taken aback by his invitation. Maybe I really never did give him a chance.
“Sure, dad, I’d love to.”
We were packed and ready to go. Daddy looked like he had stepped out of a commercial with his red fishing hat lined with bait, his glasses, red shirt that matched his hat, water boots, khaki pants, and rod in hand. I looked so much like him; I inherited his small nose and his hair. He was of a lighter complexion and stood barely above my height. I’d gotten his height instead of my mother’s tiny frame. I just hoped I didn’t get any taller. I felt abnormal sometimes, all the women I knew were so tiny. Becky, most of the girls she dated, Sophia, they all claimed to envy me, but really I envied them; they’d have so many options with men. I wasn’t about to date a shorter guy. Short men claimed they loved my long legs. “Small axes cut down big trees,” they all said. I didn’t want to be a tree; inside I felt like a flower, although most times my face wasn’t turned to the sun.
I’d put on a shorts first, but daddy told me it wasn’t a good idea. I put on jeans that he didn’t think twice about or give a second look. Were my shorts really a bad idea? Or was he just being a dad? I was an adult, for crying out loud. I wasn’t sixteen anymore, and besides, I wasn’t going anywhere. To the car, to the lake, to the car, and then back home. What was the big deal? I didn’t let it bother me; it was a beautiful day to be out in the sun. I wasn’t too hot and definitely wasn’t cold. Armed with shades, novel in hand, I climbed into the passenger seat of his Ford and we were cruising through the summer air. Summer was almost over.
When we arrived to the lake, I was surprised by all the vans parked at the side. It seemed the whole state had realised it was a day to go fishing. I didn’t know so many people fished, men and women alike. I watched dad take the chairs out singlehandedly and wondered if he always came by himself, or with someone else. I wouldn’t have been of much help if I’d offered my assistance to him. He didn’t ask for it, either.
He got the igloo out of the back and handed it to me.
“Is it too heavy?”
I laughed, “No daddy, I’m a grown-up. I can handle an igloo.”
He smiled at me. He then turned, rested them both down, and started to bring them towards the water. I looked at him wondering how I was going to tolerate the silence. The car ride had been easy, the music on the airwaves was middle ground, not too young for him to change the station, not too old to bore me.
He smiled again, “I got it.”
He retrieved another pair of boots from the back. Maybe they were mom’s? That’s sweet. They went fishing together. He took the igloo, set it down as well, and we were almost settled in. He strung my rod, mom’s rod. And funnily enough, I didn’t feel awkward. Nothing bit. All the fish must’ve been scared of all the food magically appearing in the water. They must’ve thought something was fishy. I voiced it aloud and dad laughed and laughed and laughed. I tried to remember hearing him laugh before. After moments of comfortable silence he broke it, “How have you been?”
“I’ve been good. Better now that I’m home. I needed this trip.”
“I think we all needed you home for a change,” he said, looking out at the water and not at me. I looked at him anyway, talked to his profile. He looked so composed, steady.
“We?” I asked. My father thought it necessary to see me?
“Yes. We, little girl.”
I was taken aback. Little girl? Had daddy realised I was twenty-three? Had he realised I was a woman, living on my own since I was no longer living with Jonathan?
“Daddy, I’ve grown up.”
“You’ll always be my little girl. Always, Veronica.”
I didn’t know what to think, what to feel, it wasn’t much, but it was more than I could’ve ever wanted. I eased up from my seat and hugged him, hugged him tightly; he wrapped one arm around my shoulder and kissed me on the forehead. That’s most of affection I’d ever gotten from my father. It was real. I wanted to cry tears of happiness and release. It felt like all the anger I’d been harbouring towards him died in that very moment. He’d never done anything wrong; he just didn’t do anything at all. He was always there, always quiet. I was a mom’s girl when every princess wanted to be a daddy’s girl.
I’d felt like I hated him while growing up; he’d always say “no, she can’t go,” or giv
e me a spanking when I was naughty. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to; maybe mom just couldn’t, and most times I really had deserved them. In retrospect, with my maturity now, I realized I had been way too hard on my family. I made a promise to myself to always reach out to them, to appreciate mom’s calls. I was now at an age where she could be not just a mother, but a friend, and god knew I needed one of those. Especially now.
As I eased out of daddy’s arms, my rod fell. I soon realised it was been pulled towards the water, and fast. I’d gotten a bite! I began to scream in excitement! I jumped up and grabbed the rod, pulling it backward as I realised I was being pulled towards the water.
“Turn the handle, Veronica! Reel that baby in!”
Daddy was even more hysterical than me. I tried, it struggled.
“That must be a bad boy!” daddy was saying so many things at once I wasn’t even paying attention. He grabbed the rod from me and heaved at the line; finally, I could see the fish. It was silver, beautiful, and big as it flapped in the air. Daddy brought in it, caught it, and asked me if I wanted to hold it; of course I said “no.” I meant “hell no.” I was clumsy most time and I wasn’t trying to have this huge-ass fish get away. Daddy smiled at me, grinned.
“You must be good luck; I’ve never caught anything this big!”
He did away with it and we sat back down, putting more bait on my line and fresh bait on his.
We sat and talked about what school had been like in Australia. It was like he knew to stay away from the Jonathan subject. I was sure he knew he existed, but he didn’t ask and I was grateful. Mom must’ve told him what happened. I asked about work, he didn’t give much away, but he loved his job, was passionate about it. I knew he didn’t have any other family. His childhood must have been rough. I think the army was his way of changing his life over as soon as he was old enough to leave his foster home. It was his escape, the best life he knew, and suddenly I understood why he was so hard. The only person that had probably seen him at his lowest would have been mom.