“Then …”
I bite my lower lip, and think for a moment. I take a breath.
“Daddy!”
A sudden wail goes up from the backseat and both Rand and I and turn simultaneously. Little Rocket is thrashing around in his seat, lifting himself up, and trying to unfasten the straps.
“Rocket!” Rand snaps. “Leave that alone. What’re you …?”
He is looking back and forth between the road and the backseat, trying to figure out what’s happening with this son.
“Rand.” I say calmly. I put a hand on his knee. “Maybe we should pull over.”
But there is nowhere we can safely do that for the moment, so I turn and look at Little Rocket.
“What’s wrong, baby?” I ask him.
He looks at me as though affronted that I would call him ‘baby’, and doesn’t answer. Instead, he twists and kicks, until I see what’s bothering him. There is a large area of wetness beneath him. He’s wet himself in his sleep.
“Looks like someone had an accident,” I tell Rand, keeping my voice low. “Nothing urgent. Just maybe pull over as soon as we can?”
As soon as we can turns out to be at a Wawa, just a few miles from the I-95 on-ramp. We haven’t even left the state of Pennsylvania yet. Rand pulls in to the area near the air pumps and exhales deeply, shutting off the engine and pausing with both hands on the steering wheel.
“Do you have a change of clothes for him?” I ask quietly.
“Yeah. In the back.”
“Go get them,” I say. “I’ll run inside and see whether they have stuff so we can clean up.”
He looks relieved, and nods.
Once inside, I buy myself a cup of coffee, Little Rocket a breakfast sandwich and a small bottle of apple juice, three packets of baby wipes, and one of the disinfecting kind. When I return to the car, Rand is struggling with Little Rocket who is objecting to taking off his soaked pajamas with the door open.
“Why don’t you take care of the car seat?” I put the coffee in the cup holder up front, set aside the food I got for Little Rocket, and hand Rand the disinfecting wipes.
“He’s not going to let you …”
“I want her to do it!” Little Rocket says, and I can’t help but think he is only saying that because it contradicts his father. He points in my direction as emphasis.
So, while Rand removes the car seat, I climb into the back and shut the doors, cajoling Little Rocket into removing his wet PJs with the promise that I will not look at his wee-wee.
After a few moments during which he grunts and fumbles with the garment, he manages to get the onesie off, and is so pleased with himself once he does that he seems to forget his previous concern about me seeing him naked. I whip out about six sheets of the baby wipes and clean him up, wiping his legs and butt, and even his little-boy parts. He watches me with interest, his brows furrowed in a way that is so like his father it breaks my heart a little.
“Done,” I say, when I’m satisfied he’s clean again.
Together, we work to get a blue t-shirt over his head that has the picture of a train on the front.
“You like trains?” I ask him.
“Uh huh.”
“This is a cool one.” I point at the picture.
“My Daddy bought me it.”
I smile. “That was nice of him.” I reach for the clean underwear and help him step into them, in the awkward space of the backseat. And then we put on his little beige corduroys. Once everything is on, he gives me a smile of personal accomplishment.
“High five?” I hold up a hand, not really expecting that he’ll play along. But he does, and you would think I won a parenting of the year award, I’m so pleased.
“Did pee-pee get in my shoes?” he asks, glancing down at his discarded sneakers a little scornfully.
I look down, and pick up one of his Nikes, examining it for dampness. Then I smell it, which Little Rocket seems to think is the funniest thing ever. We laugh together, and I tell him that no, not to worry, the pee-pee did not get in his shoes.
Apparently having run out of conversation topics, he sits on the edge of the seat and rests his elbows on his knees and cups his chin in his hands.
“Daddy’s mad to me,” he says mournfully.
I resist the urge to correct his English. He is, after all, only three.
“You think so?” I say, keeping my tone casual.
“Yeah. He shouted.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean to,” I say. “He’s probably just tired. This is a long drive we’re making.”
“To my new house,” Little Rocket offers. “I don’t like the new house.”
“Have you been there?” I ask. “What was it like?”
Outside, I can see Rand using what looks like ten disinfecting wipes on the fabric of the car seat. I consider helping him, but the morning is cool, and Little Rocket and I are bonding, so I decide he can figure it all out on his own.
“I didn’t go. But I know I don’t like it. It’s not my real house. My real house is near Auntie Freya.”
“I don’t think you’ll be at the new house all the time, though,” I say. “Right? Just some of the time.”
“I still hate it.”
“Oh, but Auntie Freya will come visit. She’ll want to see it, and you’ll have to show it to her.”
“And to Uncle G and Lance and Matty, too?”
I recall Rand mentioning his nephews, so assume that’s who Little Rocket is referring to.
“I’m sure they will,” I say.
He thinks about that for a moment.
“So, when you get to the new house, maybe you can help Daddy make it look nice.”
He gives a half-shrug, still unenthusiastic.
Before I can continue to lobby my cause, Rand opens the door and motions for me to get back out. Wordlessly, he puts the car seat back in place, and then returns to the back of the Land Rover. I shut the backdoor, and follow him.
“What’s with all the attitude?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“Why’re you so annoyed? So, he peed in his sleep.”
“He doesn’t wet the bed. This is just some completely avoidable …”
“Rand. He’s three. Maybe he was dog-tired, and didn’t even know he was doing it. Or maybe he’s apprehensive about moving to a new house, I don’t know. Stop acting like he did it just to piss you off.”
At that, Rand’s face softens, just a little.
“Just at least pretend to be the adult, maybe?” I say.
He is holding a hand-towel, that I’m guessing that he will use to line the car seat. I snatch it from him and go back to help Little Rocket get situated.
After we get Little Rocket back in the seat, and are on the road again, Dani reaches over between us and hands him something in a paper wrapper that smells like a breakfast sandwich. My son, who complains when he has to eat anything that isn’t pizza, nuggets, or hot dogs, takes it without a word and begins to chow down. Then Dani cracks the seal on a bottle of juice and hands that to him as well.
“Thank you,” I hear him say.
That is all my sister’s work. Things like manners, and table etiquette all come from her. I’m not always sure what, if anything, I’m contributing to Little Rocket’s upbringing, other than food, clothing and shelter.
“No sandwich for me?” I ask, playfully, trying to make amends for snapping at Little Rocket, and for the tension that still lingers between me and Danielle.
“No,” she says, her tone abrupt.
I shake my head and smile. And then when she doesn’t respond, I clear my throat.
“Sorry,” I say finally.
“What’re you sorry for?” It sounds like a trick question.
“For being a little impatient with …”
“Don’t tell me,” she says. “Tell him.”
I feel her eyes on me, so I turn in my seat a little.
“Sorry I yelled, man,” I say. “It was just a little accide
nt. I was just surprised, that’s all.”
Little Rocket, happily chewing a much-too-large mouthful nods. “It’s okay Daddy,” he says with the air of a benevolent ruler. “I forgive you.”
I roll my eyes as I face forward again, and Dani catches me at it.
We drive in silence for a few miles more, and Little Rocket finishes his breakfast. When he does, he wordlessly hands Dani the trash from his sandwich, and the almost empty bottle of juice. And there’s a millisecond of déjà vu, and I think I remember something like this happening before. I don’t know if it’s a memory from my own childhood, when my parents were alive, or something I saw on television. But it feels like this is a moment I’ve had before.
Or maybe it’s the foreshadowing of many more moments, just like this, that I am supposed to have.
~8~
We are Less than thirty minutes outside of New York when Danielle’s phone rings. I wouldn’t even have thought anything of it that she decided not to answer. Except that when she glances at the screen, she does a double-take and then quickly stuffs it back into her bag. And after that, all I can think about is the damn phone, and then about my instinct the night before, that the event she doesn’t want to miss on Saturday is a date.
“Who was that?” I ask, over the sounds of Little Rocket’s game that he’s been playing on his iPad for the past hour. I’m trying to sound casual, but what’s really messing with my head is that I have to try. Because I am not feeling casual about it at all.
“The guy that runs at the track the same time as me sometimes,” she says.
The answer comes so quickly, and is so obviously true, that I’m speechless for a minute. I was expecting something different. A little evasion maybe? But that isn’t Dani’s style.
“Oh yeah?”
“Uh huh.”
She doesn’t offer anything else to elaborate, and the effort it takes not to ask her why that means he would be calling her is taking a literal, physical toll as I force myself not to turn and stare her down.
But the silence has turned tense and I know she knows that I’m uncomfortable, because she clears her throat once, and then a second time, like she’s planning to say something, but can’t quite make herself spit it out.
“Oh noooo!”
Both Dani and I turn and look toward the backseat.
“What’s up, man?” I ask.
“It’s dead.” Little Rocket holds up the iPad, showing us the black screen.
“You have your charger nearby?” Dani asks me. Her voice is quiet, like she’s responding to the immediate problem, but her mind is somewhere else entirely.
“In the back,” I say. “In his bag.”
“If you want to pull over at the next …”
“We’re almost at the Holland Tunnel. I’m not pulling over so he can play a videogame,” I say, sounding shorter with her than I intended.
“Okay, so keep driving and have him be bored and fussy for the next couple of hours.”
“Dani, I’m not …”
Then out of nowhere, the SUV lurches left and I have to grab the steering wheel to keep us from veering toward the median. Wrenching right again, I get us back where we should be in just the nick of time, but cannot slow down, because we’re in the fast lane.
Around us, there is a chorus of car horns, as other drivers, startled by my sudden movement out of my lane, make abrupt swerves to avoid hitting me, or having me hit them. I hear a screech of tires about three cars back, and brace myself for the sound of metal on metal, but thankfully it doesn’t come.
“Goddammit!” I say, looking down at the console.
“What is it?” Dani grabs my forearm and looks over my shoulder, back at the length of highway behind us.
I glance over my shoulder as well and see that my son’s eyes are wide in fright.
“Fuckin’ Jersey Turnpike, man!” I say. “Crap on the road all the damn time. Did you see that?”
“No. What was …”
“A piece of metal in the road,” I say, shaking my head. “Now we have a fuckin’ flat!”
“Rand. Stop.” Dani inclines her head pointedly toward the backseat.
I’m trying to pull it together, but my heart feels like it is slamming against my ribs.
“A flat?” Her hand on my arm is gripping tighter. “But it doesn’t feel like …”
“These are run-flat tires,” I explain. “They won’t deflate but I gotta get out of this lane and then …”
And then we have to stop and get it changed, because I can’t go over fifty miles per hour driving on it, and even then, not for very long. Definitely not for as long as it will take to get us all the way up to Bristol.
The console tells me that the damaged one is the tire in the rear, on the same side where Little Rocket is sitting. That only helps me make up my mind. No way in a million versions of hell will I let my son be in a car that could be a danger to him. A car, of all things. Not after our history.
“Daddy …” he whines.
“It’s okay, man. We’re okay. We just ran over something. We need to stop and fix it.”
“Where would we …”
“It’s okay,” I say again, this time looking at Dani. “We can stop when we get to the city. This’ll slow us down a little but we’re good for now.”
I maneuver the SUV to the slow lane, which at about sixty miles an hour, is still moving faster than I should with a bum tire. I let a fleet of other cars pass me. My heart is still beating like a drum, and Dani’s hand is still holding firm on my arm.
Neither of us speak again until we finally get to the Holland Tunnel and I see, like an oasis, the strip of gas stations alongside the entrance. I pull into the first one, and only then does my heart-rate begin to slow.
Next to me, I feel rather than hear Dani’s sigh of relief.
“Rocket,” she says, turning to look into the back. “Let’s go find a bathroom, baby. While your Dad takes care of the car.”
We unload our luggage in silence. The mission to get the tire repaired at the gas station was a failure. When Little Rocket and I emerged from the gas station store, Rand was leaning against the side of the SUV, a look of resignation on his face.
The gas station attendant had advised him that there was nothing they had in stock that would work better than having him keep the tire he had on the car now, especially since Rand no longer had the spare that used to be in the back. So, rather than frustrate ourselves by checking the other gas stations and being told the same thing over and over, we entered the Holland Tunnel, drove into downtown Manhattan, and found a café where Rand called roadside assistance.
After promises to get to us within the hour, he finally got a call back informing him that it might be a little longer than that. And by then it was already past nine a.m. Although we could still make it to Bristol well before dark, so long as the repair happened before four in the afternoon, Little Rocket had begun to get restless and irritable, so Rand suggested we get a hotel room. Just as a place to camp out, and relax until the car got fixed.
Too frustrated by then to shop around for options, we chose the closest one, the SoHo Grand, a pricey, fashionable hotel that had its least expensive rooms at just over three-hundred a night. I watched as Rand handed over his credit card, pursing my lips to avoid saying anything about the unnecessary cost, then looked down at Little Rocket who looked as miserable as I’m sure we all felt, and decided that the cost was probably not unnecessary after all.
So, now, here we were, in the room which offered a view of not much more than the rooftops of lower Manhattan, and was surprisingly small. And besides all that, there is only one bed. I remind myself that it shouldn’t matter since we’re not planning to spend the night. As soon as we entered, while Rand and I dealt with bags, Little Rocket jumped into the center of it, and started looking around.
“TV, Daddy,” he says now. “Where’s the TV?”
Rand turns around and locates the cabinet where the television is housed
and opens it, absentmindedly handing Little Rocket the remote control. Then he goes to stand by the window and fishes out his cellphone and making a call.
I sit on the edge of the bed, watching Little Rocket flip through channels, one ear listening to Rand’s call with the roadside assistance folks.
When he hangs up, I go to join him. Now, he’s leaning against the desk near the window, saying nothing.
“What’d they say?” I ask, almost reluctant to speak, given the scowl on his face.
“That they’ll get to us as soon as they can. That they have unusually high volume today. And that since we’re not actually stranded anywhere, we’re lower on the priority list and need to be a little patient.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “That’s frustrating. But … think of it this way, we’re here …” I indicate the hotel room. “Little Rocket is occupied, and we’re in Manhattan. All good things, right?”
“Except we’re behind schedule,” he says.
“Whose schedule?” I point out, nudging him in the side. “We can do whatever we want. No one’s waiting up there for you, are they? Like, you have the key and everything?”
“Yeah,” he says. Then he looks directly at me, his stare fixed. “But I thought maybe someone was waiting for you.”
I narrow my eyes in confusion.
“Tomorrow, right?” he says. “You need to get back home because you have a … thing?”
I look away from his gaze, and out the large plate glass window behind him. “Oh. Yeah. That. But I can always …”
“You never told me what it was,” he interrupts. “The ‘thing’ you have.”
Chewing on my lower lip, I think for a moment. I don’t want to hide anything from him. And ultimately, there is nothing to hide.
“I don’t know what it is either. At least … it’s not …”
“The guy you run with, right? That’s why he was calling.”
I nod, in affirmation.
Rand exhales a short burst of breath and shakes his head in what looks like disbelief.
“So, you’re going on a date with this dude.”
“I don’t know that you’d call it …”
Just Lunch Page 7