Dishes done, I pulled some double-A batteries out of the junk drawer and put them in the baby monitor. Then I took it and the cordless phone out the back door with me. I had never left Maxie alone in the house before, and if I were to, say, have a heart attack while I was out there, I wanted to at least call my mother in my last seconds of consciousness so that she could be there at the midnight wake-up with a bottle of frozen breast milk.
I walked barefoot through the grass in the backyard. Then I unlocked the side door and stepped into the garage. Even at night, it felt clean and bright. I decided to call Gardner. I had to call 4-1-1 for his number. I was so nervous that I almost forgot the number before I could dial it.
“How can I thank you for this?” I said when he answered.
“Come out to the movies with me,” he said.
I paused. “I don’t go to the movies anymore.”
“Oh,” Gardner said.
“I don’t do fun things anymore,” I explained.
“I bet your mother would babysit,” he said.
“Not as long as there’s a cat in my house,” I said.
“So put him in the garage,” he said.
He had me there, but I still hesitated.
“Just friends,” he said.
I didn’t say anything.
“Why don’t you just say yes now,” Gardner suggested, “and then change your mind later?”
“That sounds good,” I said.
“So that’s a yes?”
“Yes.”
25
I did change my mind later. Mostly because I could not shake the feeling that Maxie would not be able to sleep if I left the house, even though my mother had put her down for naps before. Nighttime was a different thing. And she still woke up so frequently. Babies are supposed to get “organized” not too long after they’re born and figure out that they, like the rest of us, sleep at night and run around during the day. But I still feared that Maxie hadn’t figured it out yet, and that without my elaborate bedtime rituals and cajoling, she might just stay up all night every night.
Plus I hated the idea of leaving her. How could she feel safe and secure if I was out at the movies? Every hormone in my body made me feel like I had to be within ten feet of her at all times. And so I was.
But another part of me just ached to go out and do grown-up things. Every taste I got of my old self made me hungry for more. So then I changed my mind back.
I laid it all out for Claudia at an emergency weekday meeting at the zoo, and instead of focusing on my dilemma, she said, “So he never called me because he really liked you.”
“It’s possible,” I said.
“And you like him, too?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe. I’m too tired to have any feelings.”
“Why on earth did you give him my number?”
“It was kind of a desperate situation. Let’s just say I panicked.”
“What would you have done, though, if we’d started seeing each other?”
“Started therapy to learn to support your happiness.”
“Really, I was kind of a pawn,” she said.
I put my hand over my face and peeked through my fingers. “Kind of.”
“Why didn’t you just talk to me about the whole thing?”
I shrugged. “I wasn’t sure what to say.” I reached over and touched her sleeve—just a little tug. “Are you mad?”
“The thing is, I haven’t had a date since before I got pregnant.”
I nodded.
She continued. “So I was pretty excited.”
“And now you’re let down.”
“Yes,” she said. “By you. The person who now has my date.”
“But I guess he was sort of my date all along.”
“But you didn’t tell me that!” She really did seem irritated.
“I wish I could take it back, Claudia,” I said.
She accepted my apology. But she stayed irritated for the rest of the day.
“Where is my dream neighbor?” she asked later. “The only single man on my block is eighty-five and drives a Plymouth.” And, as we passed the lions, the unfairness of it all seized her again. “Who do I have to fuck to get a boyfriend?” she shouted.
She was gracious enough, though, most of the time, to let me continue to process about Gardner.
“I really thought I had given him away and made myself miserable,” I explained to her in the bat cave.
“Do you do that to yourself a lot?”
“Do what?”
“Make yourself miserable with men?”
“Oh, God,” I said. “All the time.”
“Well, then, he broke a pattern for you.”
“He did?”
“Instead of liking me and allowing you to be miserable, he’s liking you and forcing you to be happy.”
“I don’t want to be happy,” I said.
“Yes you do.”
“I’m not even going to go out with him this weekend. I’m going to fake an illness.”
“Oh no you’re not.”
I tried to get her to support me and give me permission to chicken out. “I’m on shaky ground here,” I said. “I don’t know what to do with a nice man. Nobody’s this nice. I keep thinking he’s a serial killer.” I told her that the heartaches Dean gave me were at least familiar. We’d been at it so long I was used to them. I probably could have categorized them by type and made a chart. I wasn’t ready for new heartaches, I said.
“But there’ll be new pleasures, too,” she said.
“Just more things to miss after he leaves me.”
“You’re such an optimist,” she said, putting her arm around me as we walked on to the porcupines. “How do you stay so sunny?”
On the porch the next morning, my mother was much less gentle. “There is no dilemma. You’re going. If I have to tie you to the bed of his truck.”
“You know what?” I said. “I’m heartbroken. I’m weak. I may not be ready.”
“Everybody is heartbroken,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. That’s life. Get out there and shake a tail feather.”
“Well,” I said, “I hear you’re going to be doing some feather-shaking yourself.”
She knew what I meant. She took a deep breath. “He caught me off guard with the tears.”
“The tears?!”
She nodded. “Just as I was thinking about hanging up on him, he started to sob.”
“That’s what made you say yes?”
She shrugged. “Yes.”
“Does he have any kind of a chance?”
“Well,” she said, “I once loved him so much that I climbed out my bedroom window to neck with him behind the gazebo in Granny and Grandpa’s yard. So he has that going for him.”
She was lost in thought for a minute, remembering. And, I thought, even the sassiest of us couldn’t resist getting a little bit hopeful about love.
26
On the Wednesday before we were supposed to go out, Gardner called to reconfirm.
“We’re still on?” he asked.
“Still on!” I said.
“This is your first night out since Maxie was born?”
“It is.”
“You should wear something festive, then,” he said. “We’ll celebrate adulthood.”
“Okay,” I said.
“And,” he added, just before we hung up, “I’ve thought of something better than the movies.”
When Friday finally came, I was anxious about leaving Maxie. I dreaded it from the moment she woke me up that morning.
But I began our bedtime rituals that night as usual. My heart felt anxious, and I wondered if she could sense it. All during bath time, I tried to seem like it was just any other night. But of course, it wasn’t. Because tonight, after I tiptoed out of her room, I was going to leave her alone in the house with my mother. Who was a very capable person, and who, I’m sure, could get her out if the place started to burn down, but who was not, in fact, me.
I tried not to think about the unlikely but distinctly possible scenario that Maxie would wake up and cry out for me, but get my mother instead. I tried not to imagine Maxie jumping to the conclusion that I’d left the country and her forever, that no breast milk would ever come to her again, that she was not loved or cared for. When I thought like this, my eyes filled with tears and I had to blink them back and remind myself to seem cheerful and normal.
It seems odd, looking back, that I had such a hard time leaving the baby. All I can say is that when a tiny, fragile creature depends on you all day every day for every sense of safety and comfort she has, you start to feel that every moment is vital, and that you better not screw up. Abandonment was clearly a loaded issue for me as well.
My mother had no patience for me. She’d arrived and left her things hooked over my bedroom door, hoping to safeguard them from cat fur. Now she was standing in the bathroom doorway, watching me dab my eyes.
“You are acting like a crazy person,” she said. “She’s going to be fine.”
“You don’t know that,” I said. “You don’t know for sure.”
“If she wakes up, I’ll rock her.”
“But you aren’t me.”
“I’m pretty damn close.”
I reminded my mother to wash her hands every ten or fifteen minutes. “You don’t want to get cat dander on them,” I said. “And don’t touch your face or your eyes.” I’d kept Dr. Blandon locked up in my room for a week in hopes that my mother could make it through a few hours in my house. Now he was out in the garage, and I hoped he was far enough away.
“I’ll be fine,” my mother said, holding up a baggie full of allergy remedies. “Just go.”
It was time to do it. I pulled Maxie out of the tub and toweled her off. We had this routine down by now. A touch of diaper cream, a diaper, left foot in the pj’s, then right, snap, snap, snap, and she was all suited up for bed. Then off we went into her darkened bedroom and settled into the fancy rocker I’d splurged on—or, to be more accurate, Dean’s mother had splurged on. I pulled out my boob and she was like a tiny hungry bird waiting for it. In it went, and she nursed and nursed. I hummed and hummed. Her eyes were closed.
It’s a rule that if you let yourself think about anything fun that you’re looking forward to after you’ve nursed your baby to sleep, it will take twice as long to get there. I tried to keep my mind completely blank, but I also worried a little that I might fall asleep, too. It was 7:14. I was due at Gardner’s at 7:30, and I wasn’t dressed. I’d just have to call him as soon as I got out. I hoped he hadn’t made reservations. I felt reasonably sure that Maxie would be asleep pretty soon. She’d been rubbing her eyes since five o’clock.
But when I went to put her in her crib, she woke up and cried.
I picked her back up and went back to the rocker. She nursed some more. It was 7:32. Did Gardner think I was standing him up? Surely he knew how crazy things were with a baby. He wasn’t going to give up on me that fast. I wondered where we were going. The idea of being outside after sundown was almost intoxicating. Maxie was asleep again, her mouth slack, her eyes peaceful and closed. I gave her five more minutes to get settled, then I tried again.
It was 7:40. I eased myself up out of the chair and crept across the floor, carefully avoiding the spot with the creaky floorboard. She was completely limp. I made it to the crib. I leaned over and set her in, rocking her gently to pull my hands out from under her body. She was out. I was done. It occurred to me that I didn’t even have Gardner’s phone number. I thought about sending my mother over there while I dressed.
I pulled up the railing and turned to leave, and, schuuuumpffff— the railing fell from position. It hadn’t latched! Maxie’s eyes popped open. When she saw me, she started to cry. I had no choice. I lifted her up, walked us back over to the rocker, and settled back down. I’d already tucked my boob back into my bra, so I had to wrestle with the snap and get my shirt up. She took the nipple impatiently and began the process of putting herself back to sleep. 7:47.
I finally made it out at 8:02. I raced to find my mother. I was pulling off my shirt as I swept into the living room when I saw Gardner sitting on the couch.
“Hey there,” he said.
I pressed my shirt tightly to my chest and said, “Hello. Gardner, I see you’ve met my mother.”
“Again,” he said.
“Sweetheart,” my mother said. “Why don’t you go put some clothes on?”
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said to Gardner. “The baby didn’t want to go down.”
Gardner was waving me away. “It’s all okay. Go get dressed. There’s no rush.”
I backed out of the room. What was my mother telling him? I hoped she wasn’t acting like we were going on a date. She was a matchmaker, my mother. But I’d explained that it wasn’t a date. Just one friend taking another friend out of the house. Friends did that kind of thing all the time.
Something festive. I had a red skirt that was silk and kind of swirly. Red skirt and black shirt. And under the shirt, a plain-old regular nonlactating bra. Was that the kind of outfit that friends wore out on the town with other friends? Fuck it. Who cared? I took a few minutes to wash my sticky face, brush my teeth (had I even remembered to do that yet today?), put on some deodorant and perfume, and shake my hair to fluff it. I threw on the clothes and some black high-heeled sandals. Then red lipstick to go with the skirt and a little mascara.
Just then, my engagement ring caught my eye, and I pulled it off in one decisive yank, tossed it in my jewelry box, and slammed down the lid. Truly, I’d forgotten I even had the thing on. How long had it been since I’d even noticed it on my hand? But that ring had no right to be there, and it certainly wasn’t coming with me on a nondate with Gardner. I took a deep breath, turned off the light, and left the room.
Gardner stood when I showed up. He was all decked out in flat-front khakis and a button-down shirt. “You look fancy,” I said.
My mother nudged Gardner and he started escorting me by the elbow out the door.
“Wait!” I said. “I’ve got a list of instructions to go over, and I haven’t shown you—”
My mother said, “I’ve got the list. I’ll be fine. You survived with me taking care of you, and I’m sure this little one will, too.” She gave me a push toward the door. “Go, Cinderella. Your clock is ticking.”
And then I was out on the porch. Alone. With Gardner. He took my hand and started pulling me down the sidewalk. “Let’s go,” he said. “You need a beer.”
“I can’t have a beer,” I said, pointing at my boobs.
He looked at them and said, “Maybe it’s me who needs the beer.”
We walked up the gentle slope toward his house. It was warm and a bit humid out, which was kind of a shame for October, but it was breezy, too—and that made it seem like the ocean was somewhere nearby. The dark sky was a pale autumn color, and something about the way the night air was touching my arms made me pay close attention to everything around me. My heels knocked along the sidewalk. The palm tree across the street rustled.
“It feels oddly thrilling,” I said, “to be out of the house after dark.”
His pickup truck was very clean and had leather seats. He had a well-used notepad attached to the dashboard. I relaxed into the seat as he drove. He was a good driver—measured, considerate of the passenger. Not once did I feel nauseated or anxious. He used his turn signals and deferred politely to other drivers.
“So. Where are we going?” I finally asked.
“Angelica’s Cantina.”
“That’s better than a movie?”
He nodded. “It’s better than many things.”
Angelica’s was probably bigger than it seemed, because it was packed. The ceiling was low and decorated with multicolored doilies. There was a bar near the front and some tables near the back, but mostly the place was just for dancing. On Fridays, it appeared, Angelica went all-out and hired a live band with more musicians than the sta
ge could really hold.
At the table, I rested my chin in my hands. I was tired. I had not eaten dinner, although I’d told Gardner I would eat before we left, so I was hungry. A movie had sounded good to me. I hadn’t seen a movie since before Maxie. I wasn’t sure I had the energy for a cantina.
When the waiter came, I ordered a virgin margarita, babbling and, yes, gesturing for illustration about how I was breast-feeding and couldn’t have any alcohol. He nodded and brought me the most relaxing virgin margarita I’d ever had. “I think this virgin margarita is spiked,” I said halfway through.
“I’m not sure the waiter was totally with you on the no-alcohol concept,” Gardner said.
But by then I was too relaxed to care. Something that under different circumstances would have me poring through my parenting books, scanning the index for “alcohol, accidental ingestion of,” felt like not such a big deal in the warm noise of the cantina.
The music was so loud it reverberated in my chest, and I could feel it massaging out all the mother-worry that I carried around every minute. The baby seemed like part of a distant world, and I found myself thinking, She’ll be fine. I had brought my cell phone to call and check on her, but soon, with all the noise and the cigarette smoke and the warm bodies making waves of motion in the room, I forgot all about it.
Gardner leaned in close and yelled into my ear, “Do you know how to dance to this?”
“No!” I shouted. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
“You know how to salsa dance?” I gave him a look.
He said, “What?”
“It’s just a little—” I was going to say “cheesy,” but it seemed too mean.
“Cheesy?” he offered.
I nodded.
“I took lessons in college to impress girls.”
“And are girls impressed?”
He set down his beer. “It really depends on the girl.”
He leaned in closer. “I studied with the master: Ferdinand Cervantes.” When he said “Ferdinand Cervantes,” he made his voice very deep and spoke in a Spanish accent. He was drinking a Tecate. He was cuter than I remembered.
The Bright Side of Disaster Page 17