Desperation emerges and power-washes nostalgia to smithereens. I want to be rescued so bad. Financial woes are elbowing to the frontlines of my brain along with a list of half-broken appliances needing strong hands and patience. I have neither.
Desperation is as fleeting as nostalgia.
Anger blooms and strangles desperation until it wilts. We have rules. He broke the rules, coming here unplanned. Kids need consistency, not more confusion. And damn him for tearing our lives apart.
As if my emotional spectrum is not maddening enough, blood rushes to my center. I miss his fingers skating down my stomach. I miss the rough brush of his jaw stubble against my neck in the morning. I miss his smell: harsh soap and a touch of woodsy aftershave.
Nate is intelligent, friendly, compassionate, and handsome. All terrible ingredients for fidelity.
His hair is sandy blond and falls into a casual sweep across his forehead. His eyes are dark and mischievous. A long time ago those eyes lured me and, on so many occasions, his playful eyes got him out of trouble.
I open the screen and try to smile. “You should have called first.”
“I know,” he says, his eyes scanning my turtleneck, “but I heard about your ER visit and wanted to make sure you were alright.”
No need to ask how he heard. He works at St Joe’s. I figured word might get to him.
“I’m fine. You should have called instead.”
As if cued, their sneakers stampede the hall behind me. Chloe screams with excitement, “Daddy!”
“Can I come in?” he says.
I give him a look—like I have a choice?—and step aside.
He walks in and catches Chloe, pulling her into a swinging hug.
“Hi, Dad,” Wyatt says and gives Nate a good hug from the side.
Nate musses Wyatt’s hair and kisses his forehead. “Hey, Wy.” Nate could be an amazing parent, the best actually, if he wasn’t always at work. GI surgeons occasionally live at the hospital.
Can’t stay home when I’m trying to save the world one colon at a time. Got to go put my fingers in someone’s belly button.
That used to be his joke. He’d tickle the kids’ bellies as he said it. The joke used to be tired but good, something to rely upon, but became unbearable when I found out he’d been putting his fingers inside several nurses as well.
After the superstar greeting is over, Wyatt disappears (TV calling), and Chloe walks up the stairs. Beyond the staircase spindles her little legs and bare feet trek arduously.
Where did her shoes and socks go? She was just wearing them.
“Daddy, I’ll hide,” she says. “You come find me.”
“Sure thing. I’ll count to twenty. Go hide.” To me, he says, “How did it happen and where did it happen and who was with the kids?”
All his questions are rich with concern, but punctuated with accusation.
If I answer honestly, I am bound to be found guilty of bad parenting. If I tell him I left the kids home alone for eleven minutes, he’ll be pissed. Which makes me furious. He wouldn’t stand a chance of taking care of them around the clock, so what gives him the right to judge?
“It’s not a big deal. Valerie was watching them.” It’s only a lie if put into context. “As for my neck, it’s a few scratches. The ER doctor—”
“Erica,” he says. He’s probably fucking her too. Hospitals are big fuckfests. Everyone working nights, already in their pajamas, close-call adrenaline rushes every few hours, limbs brushing against limbs as they squeeze past portable equipment and beds in tight rooms.
“She said I’d be fine. She gave me the first vaccine.”
“Can I see?” he says, reaching for the lip of my turtleneck. His finger grazes my skin, and I pull away. I can’t handle his touch. Even after a long night working in a nasty, bacteria-laced hospital, his lingering aftershave and testosterone smell is alluring. His proximity makes my skin tingle with need.
“I don’t want to redo my bandages. I’m fine.”
He sighs, staring at my face.
Worried my eyes will reveal how much I miss his touch, I gaze down.
Dog hair has rolled itself into balls and taken residence along grimy molding. The oak floor, scratched and faded, is speckled with black, sticky-looking patches. That can’t be gum, can it?
“Make sure you get the full series of four shots,” he says, condescending. “But let me know the minute you have side effects. Rabies vaccinations can mess with people.”
At the bottom of the stairs, he sings, “Ready or not, here I come,” and pounds his shoes slowly and loudly upon each stair for ambience.
I follow him up. “What kind of side effects?”
“Anything from dizziness and nausea to vertigo to neurological issues. Reflex and sensory changes, spinal infection...”
But some of those symptoms are normal for me.
Of course I can’t tell him. If I have health issues making me incompetent, he could take the kids from me. If I seek treatment for mental health issues, he could take the kids from me. If I move the kids next door to a suspected kidnapper, which I accidentally did, he could take the kids from me. Every thought of mine has to be filtered by my internal lawyer before I speak.
Chloe is naked in the tub. She’s already turned on the water and plugged the drain. The kid is three going on ten. She’ll be asking to use the stovetop by kindergarten. A tiny pink spoon in her hand, she stirs water in a plastic teacup.
Nate says, “Hey, pumpkin-head, I thought you were going to hide.”
“I’m taking a bath because I didn’t want to get sand in my bed. I was playing in the sand.” On the narrow ledge of the tub, she lines up plastic teacups and dinosaurs, then fills the cups to the brim with water. All those balancing cups, the floor will be soaked in minutes. I toss down a towel.
While she plays in the tub, I sit on the toilet lid and I tell him about my run-in with the bats. Leaning against the door, he listens, stone-faced and skeptical as a police officer, as if I’m trying to lie my way out of a ticket.
“I’m all done,” Chloe says, already climbing out. I wrap her in a towel. She turns back toward the tub. “Look at all the sand. My vagina made the tub all dirty,” except she pronounces vagina bagina.
It would have been funny and adorable had I not felt wobbly. Instead, my feminist, protective, angry momma kicks in.
Your vagina did nothing wrong. Nothing is your vagina’s fault. It’s not dirty. It’s healthy and exactly as it should be! It is not the source of any man’s problem. It is part of your body and will let you become a mother if you want. Love your vagina. Peace be with your vagina. Your vagina is full of rainbows and sunshine!
I say, “You had sand in your diaper and between your toes, didn’t you? And all that sand got rinsed off your skin into the tub, and now your skin feels happy.”
Chloe ignores my proper explanation and flees, naked and giggling, out of my arms. For a half-second before her feet reach carpet, I worry her wet feet will slip on the ugly vinyl the scrap of bathroom rug couldn’t cover. “Don’t run; you’ll slip,” I call, my voice rising and trembling. I follow them into her room.
Nate sings “Three Blind Mice,” Chloe’s favorite nursery rhyme. He’s marching and clapping, and she’s naked and jumping on her bed.