One Week

by Roya Carmen

  Tick, Tock, Tick, Tock.

  I’ll let you know when Daddy says hi.

  As soon as he does.

  Which is never soon enough.

  Tick, Tock, Tick, Tock.

  I raise my gaze to complete silence. Shocked silence? Maeve’s hands are splayed over her heart, so are Kayla’s and Corrie’s.

  “That was beautiful,” Maeve says.

  Corrie pouts. “You didn’t make it in the show?”

  I shake my head.

  “No worries,” she says. “You’ll make it next time, I’m sure.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you okay?” Kayla asks, concern written all over her face. “It’s obvious that you miss John.”

  I look down at my notebook. A lump in my throat threatens to break me apart. I can’t look at them, because if I do, I know I’ll lose it. “I do. It’s hard.”

  Maeve rests a hand on my shoulder. “I read somewhere that the early years are the toughest… when the kids are small. It’ll get better.”

  “You know what you need,” Corrie chimes in. “When that husband of yours gets back, he can look after the kids, and we’re taking you out on a girls’ night, and getting you drunk.”

  We all laugh, and the golf ball in my throat disappears. I’m so grateful for my friends. They always make me feel better, and I honestly don’t know what I’d do without them.

  As soon as I get home, I feed the kids leftovers for lunch. They tell me all about the game of Candy Land they played with Anna. And I promise to take them to the play center later in the afternoon. “But first,” I tell them, “Mommy needs to do some work on the computer.”

  I snap a photo of my living room, taking care to remove all the junk on the sofa; Emma’s Barbies, Theo’s books and Rubik’s Cube, and my iPad. I position the cushions just so, and smile when I think back to about ten years ago, when we first bought our house. I’d spent a year poring over decorating magazines. I’d also spent a lot of money. Ten years later, our home still looks fabulous.

  I haven’t played around with Photoshop in a while but it’s all coming back to me. I insert my favorite artwork of his, the one with the boats, and it looks amazing, much better than the actual artwork displayed on my walls; two floral paintings I did years ago.

  I’m giddy as I put it all together, and copy it back to my phone. I haven’t been this excited about anything in a long time.

  I check my phone obsessively all day, but there is no response. I know I’m acting crazy but I can't help it. What time is it where he is? I Google it and learn that he’s six hours ahead of me. It’s Sunday night for him. He’s probably out with friends, or his girlfriend. Or maybe he’s playing a game of Euchre at the seniors’ center, for all I know. I picture an old man with a cane and a hunched back. This is driving me crazy. I check him out on Google, but all I come up with are other Eli Kellys living in other parts of the world. Any images pertaining to him are of his artwork. There’s also a glass artist who goes by the name of Eli Kelly — he’s quite good.

  I’m at the play center, reading the latest Sophie Kinsella novel on my phone when a message pops up. My heart skips a beat, but settles when it realizes it’s just a text from John.

  Getting back home around nine o’clock tonight. Can’t wait to see you and the kids. Xo John

  —

  Great, looking forward to seeing you. Xo Gabbie

  I’m back to my book, engrossed in the story when Eli’s message pops up. My heart instantly goes into overdrive. And I forget all about my reading.

  Chapter Four

  I love it! It looks great in your living area. You have great taste, he writes.

  —

  Thank you. So do you.

  —

  Are you an interior designer?

  —

  No. I used to work as a Marketing Manager for a food company, branding and stuff like that. I’m a stay-at-home mom now, and I like to dabble with art a bit.

  I hate to tell people that I’m a stay-at-home mom. I’m so much more than that.

  Dabble?! You’re a fantastic artist. That’s more than dabbling, he writes.

  —

  Thank you. So are you. Are you a full-time artist?

  —

  Kind of… I’m a glass blower. That’s my main source of income. I have a partnership with a few art galleries in the city. It pays the bills, but barely, to be honest. The watercolors don’t sell as well.

  —

  Well, there’s something sexy about a starving artist, I write.

  I have no clue where that came from. I want to take it back. Why am I flirting? I don’t even know who I’m flirting with.

  True! Well, if starving equals sexy, I’m definitely sexy.

  Now, I’m picturing a gaunt, starving man. Not very sexy. I shake my head. This is ridiculous.

  Well, nice chatting. Keep up the good work, I write.

  —

  You too. :)

  The kids and I dash to the front door as soon as we hear some rustling outside. Daddy’s home!

  He ruffles Theo’s hair, and picks up Emma in his arms. They are both over the moon. I wait my turn… I always get last dibs. Finally, he leans down to me, wraps an arm around the small of my back, and kisses me. The kids make swooning and kissing sounds and we both laugh. “I missed you, Gabbie,” he says. He’s early.

  “Me too.” Yes, I did. In more ways than one.

  He’s brought treats for all of us, like he always does. Fancy chocolate bars, candy, bookmarks, pens, and books for me. He’s like Santa Claus.

  “How was the signing?” I ask as I serve him some leftover lasagna and salad.

  “Oh… the usual,” is all he says. He never elaborates too much. I figure that he doesn’t want to bore me, but just once, I’d love him to share a juicy story, some drama in the book industry. There must be some.

  “How’s Julia?” I ask, attempting to make conversation. I don’t exactly have tons of exciting news to offer on my end. I usually talk about the kids, my girlfriends, or the latest painting I’m working on.

  Julia is his publicist, assistant… I’m not sure what exactly she is, to be honest. All I know is that she’s always by his side. She’s great, and funny too. Every time I have a chance to see her, she makes me laugh.

  “She’s great,” he says. “She and Sarah are looking to start a family.”

  “Oh wow… that’s great,” I say. I’m happy. She and her partner, Sarah, are amazing women. “They’ll make the best Moms.”

  “I don’t doubt it for a minute,” he says between bites. “I’m not sure who’s having the kid, but I just hope she doesn’t leave me in the lurch. She’d be hard to replace.”

  I wince. “Yeah… I like her. I don’t want anyone else to work with you.” I picture some young little pixie, eager to please, and a little too enamored with John. He has a few groupies, but luckily, not many. A lot of his readers are men, fans of action packed crime fiction.

  He wipes the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “When are the kids going to bed?” he asks, a playful smile tracing his lips.

  I know exactly what he’s getting at. I smile wide. “They’ll be in bed by nine.”

  I slip on one of my favorite negligees, and the black hooker heels I can barely walk in. I apply a fresh coat of lipstick, and wonder if he’s missed me as much as I missed him.

  I perch on the edge of the bed, cross one leg over the other, and wait patiently. The room is dark, save for the candles I’ve lighted. My heart skips a beat when John finally swings the door open. I shoot him a playful smile, but his reaction is not the one I’d expected — he looks tired and not too enthusiastic.

  I know he’s had a long travel day, and I understand, but a small part of me feels rejected. I know he loves me, but is he still attracted to me?

  He rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead, and rakes his hair. “You look gorgeous, Gabbie,” he says, but there’s no excitement in his eyes — no arousal.
/>   He inches closer, and kisses me softly. “I thought I’d get to bed early tonight. I’m exhausted.”

  I nod. “Yeah… sure.” I put on a brave face, but I’m devastated. “I understand.”

  He shoots me a playful smile. “But tomorrow, I’ll come and find you.” He wraps an arm around my waist, and pulls me in closer. “You know I prefer it when the kids are not around anyway… I love to hear you.”

  I smile, and hold on to that promise. I wonder if I’ll still be in the mood tomorrow. I’ll probably be busy doing laundry or unloading the dishwasher, or working on a painting. I’ll have to put everything on hold so he can have his way with me, on his terms, on his schedule. I won’t be into it at first, but he’ll turn me around, and he’ll probably make me come because he usually does.

  Well, at least there’s that.

  How did you get into art? Eli asks.

  —

  I started in my first year of college. My roommate was an art major, and she snuck me into the studio, and taught me a few tricks. I’d just broken up with a boy and needed the distraction. I’ve taken a lot of art classes over the years, but never officially studied it. How about you?

  —

  Ever since I can remember. My mother was an artist. She was amazing.

  I don’t want to be nosy, but I want to know. Perhaps because I’ve lost my own mother.

  Did your mother pass away?

  —

  Yes, she died three years ago. She had breast cancer. She was only fifty-nine years old.

  —

  I’m so sorry to hear that. My mother passed away too, two years ago. Car accident. She was seventy-five.

  —

  I’m so sorry. You and I have a lot in common. Losing your mother changes you.

  —

  Yes, very much. I never had a chance to say goodbye. She was taken away so suddenly. Did you get to say goodbye?

  —

  Luckily, I did. It was the hardest day of my life. But unfortunately, I wasn’t there for her when she was sick.

  I want to know more. Why wasn’t he there? Had they had a falling out? But I don’t dare ask. It’s not my place.

  What kind of art did she do? I ask instead — it seems like safe territory.

  And I wait. And wait. I’m not sure why he’s not replying.

  Emma is frowning. “Mommy, why are you not helping us?”

  I absentmindedly search through the puzzle pieces, looking for a match, but my mind is blank. I can’t focus hard enough to help them.

  Finally, a photo pops up. Then another. And another.

  They’re photos of artwork — his mother’s. An oil portrait of a woman. A watercolor of children standing on a beach. And a sensual nude of an attractive young woman, rendered in oil.

  They’re beautiful, I write.

  —

  Thank you. Yes, she was very talented.

  —

  I guess that’s where you get it from. My mother wasn’t an artist. She was a nurse. She was a very caring person, always looking out for others before herself. Very giving.

  Like you, he writes.

  I smile.

  Now, how would you know that? You don’t even know me.

  —

  I can see from your pictures… there’s just one or two of you with your kids, but as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words. I can tell your kids are happy, and that you’re a good mom.

  Aw…

  I am a good mom.

  Thank you.

  I scroll through my phone to find a photo of my mother. My heart sinks when I land on one of my favorites, a silly one of the two of us and the kids making faces, taken by a stranger at Disney World. John was in Europe for work, and my mother had offered to take me and the kids to Florida. It was taken just a few weeks before she died. I want to cry every time I look at it. It hurts so much, but it’s also one of my favorite photos because it reminds me of how she was; quirky, silly, and fun.

  I send him the photo.

  Chapter Five

  That’s me and my mom.

  —

  Wow! You and your daughter look exactly like her.

  —

  Yes! Everyone says that. She was beautiful.

  I like talking to someone about my mom. It feels good. I was in shambles when she died. John tried to be supportive but he just couldn’t be there for me the way I needed him to be. Truth be told, he and my mother never did get along.

  Yes. Beautiful indeed, Eli replies.

  I’m a loss for words. And more than a little flattered.

  Emma is sitting next to me, working on the puzzle, and wearing one of her princess dresses and a tiara.

  Where are you from? What is your background?

  I smile. He’s trying to determine where my exotic looks come from.

  My parents are originally from Honduras, but I grew up in Brooklyn, New York. Do you know where that is?

  —

  :) Yes, I know where that is.

  —

  Are you Danish? Or Dane? How do you say it?

  —

  Lol! No… actually my ex-wife is Dane. I followed her to Copenhagen when I was young. I’m originally from Michigan. My mother was originally from Canada, and my father from the Chicago area.

  Oh interesting…

  I live in Burlington, Vermont.

  I’m not sure why I volunteer this information. What am I going to give him next? My full address? Come and murder me, cut me up, dip the pieces in Lucite, and make a sculpture out of me. He seems like a normal enough guy, but you can never be too careful these days.

  I’ve never been but I hear Vermont is beautiful. It seems like the kind of place someone can go to get away from all their problems.

  Yes, and no.

  It is pretty peaceful here, despite the fact that it’s a college town — only about 45,000 people live here. It’s small, but not too small. The weather is a little unpredictable, but the people are friendly, and the downtown is gorgeous. We live in the Hill Section area; the richest neighborhood in the city.

  What is Copenhagen like?

  —

  Lots of bicycles… :) Very touristy… Nyhavn is crazy. I live in Vesterbro, it’s a little quieter there.

  I want to know more. I want to know more about him.

  Do you have a bicycle?

  —

  :) I do. But I prefer my Vespa.

  —

  Vespa?

  —

  My scooter… sorry, I’d probably be a lot sexier if I rode a motorcycle. Sorry, I’m just not that cool.

  I laugh out loud.

  No… scooters are very sexy, I reply.

  Darn, this guy probably is eighty years old. Why am I flirting with him? Why? Why? Why?

  Well, it is a GTV 300, Portofino green. Italian. So yeah, kinda sexy.

  I grin like an idiot again.

  “What’s so funny?” Emma asks, brows knitted together, curious. Suspicious?

  Yes, I am a mom. A married mom. I’d almost forgotten. “Nothing. Just a friend who wrote something funny.”

  Well, it’s been fun chatting, I reply. I should go. I have a lot to do today. :)

  —

  Nice chatting with you too. Until next time. :)

  As soon as I end the conversation, I’m Googling his scooter. Damn, it is kind of sexy… for a scooter. It’s not surprising at all that he would have one, those things are all over Europe.

  I grab my purse from the front hall hook and throw in my phone. Enough of that for today. “How ‘bout we go to the park, kids?”

  Theo bounces over. He’s wearing a bunny costume and has been hopping around the house for the past thirty minutes. He and his sister have gotten into the costumes chest in the playroom. “Can I wear my bunny costume?”

  I smile. “No, we’re going to the park.”

  He pouts and gives me that look, the one that always breaks me — he’s perfected it. It always gets him what he wants. He gets it fr
om his father.

  “Why not?! I want to wear my princess dress,” Emma chimes in.

  I shake my head. “Oh, why the heck not,” I concede. “You can hop around the park all you want.”

  I’ve brought a book, but I don’t even break it open. I sit on the bench under the shade of a large tree, and watch the kids playing. I think about him. I can’t help myself. I still wonder what he looks like. I imagine him blond, tall and slim. Or maybe small, balding and very old. No, he can’t be that old, I conclude. His mother died just a few years ago, and she was only fifty-nine. He must be younger than me. I just don’t know. I wonder what happened with his mother… why he wasn’t there for her when she died.

  I replay our conversation in my head about a dozen times. I enjoyed chatting with him, talking about my mom. I don’t often talk about her, and it’s so odd how I did with him, a total stranger. But that’s probably exactly it. You can say anything to a stranger, a stranger you can’t see, who lives on the other side of the Atlantic. A stranger doesn’t know you. A stranger can’t judge you. I check my watch. It’s 2:30 PM. I do the math and know it’s 8:30 PM in Copenhagen. I wonder if he’s having dinner now. They eat late in Europe, I heard once. I wonder what he eats. With whom? Is he at some trendy little restaurant right now?

  It’s been a while since I’ve painted… a month or two. Inspiration has escaped me lately, too busy with the kids. But now, for some reason, the muse has returned. I feel awakened. I see the beauty in small things. I’ve just gone for a walk downtown to take some photographs, something I haven’t done in ages. I snapped countless photos; dogs with their owners, shop windows, the crowds at the bistros, the card shop. But my favorite is the one I snapped of the cat sitting cozily in front of a red door, to the left of him, a pretty window with a pot of red flowers.