“You want to go sleep in the fort?” he asks. “I won’t give you a pillow or a sleeping bag.” He holds up his hand like he’s testifying. “I won’t even give you a good-night kiss.”
That brings a smile. “I have Miles,” I remind him and jiggle Miles a little.
“I’ll sit with the rugrat,” he says. “As long as it’s asleep.”
I shake my head. “He might wake up. I can’t guarantee he’ll sleep all night.”
“Son, it’s not every night you get a chance to sleep in a blanket fort.”
“A blanket condo,” I correct.
“It’s not every night you get to sleep in a blanket monstrosity,” he goes on to say. I almost see a smile on his face, but he’s not known for his smiles. He’s known for his grumbling. “Plus Jake will need somebody to help him clean that shit up in the morning.” He pokes my knee with his gnarled old-man finger. “Unless you don’t feel up to it.”
“I feel okay, actually.” And I do. I’m not feeling pukey. No dizziness or muscle aches. I just feel tired.
“Go sleep in the fort, dumbass.” His voice is soft but firm. He makes a fist in the air between us. “This is the time to grab life by the horns.”
“You’re sure?”
“Stop asking stupid questions,” he grumbles. “Put that thing to bed while I set all the lightning bugs free.” He reaches over to grab one and starts to open the first jar. He tips it so that the grateful fireflies can escape. “Well, hurry up,” he admonishes.
“Yes, sir,” I reply with a laugh. I don’t even try to bathe Miles or put him in pajamas. I do a quick diaper change, since he was only wearing a t-shirt and a diaper, and I tuck him into bed without him even waking up. I stand there and count his breaths, all ten of them.
“I used to do that with Jake, too,” Mr. Jacobson says from behind me where he’s standing in the doorway to the bedroom.
“What’s that?”
“Count Jake’s breaths. I don’t need to do it now because he snores so loudly that I can hear him all the way down the hall.” He makes a sound between a chuckle and a snort. “But a father always worries. That never changes.”
“I have more worries than I can account for,” I admit softly.
His hand lands heavy on my shoulder. He gives me a squeeze. “It’ll all work out. We walk by faith, not by sight,” he says, and his words sink deep inside me.
“Yep.” I blink hard to clear my eyes.
“Go climb in the fort with those kids of yours.” He rocks his head toward the door. “Go on. They might still be awake if you hurry up.”
“Thanks, Mr. Jacobson,” I say. “I appreciate it. My cell number is on the fridge.” I had left it there for Gabby in case of an emergency. “Call me if he wakes up.”
“Sure thing,” he says. He pulls a paperback book out of his back pocket and plops down on the rocking chair that’s in the bedroom.
I go in the bathroom and change into a pair of pajamas that Lynda bought for me a few years ago for Christmas. They are a hideous print, with Christmas party lights on the pants and the t-shirt, but I love them, mainly because Lynda gave them to me. I slide my feet into my bedroom slippers and pop into the bedroom one last time.
“Don’t ask me again if I’m sure or I’ll feel led to leave,” Mr. Jacobson grumbles in warning.
“Good night, then,” I say.
“’Night, Aaron,” he replies.
I turn to walk out, but he calls my name.
“Yes, sir?” I reply.
“You need to tell that oldest girl. Soon.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply. And I will. I just need to find the right time.
“Take my golf cart,” he says. “If you need it.”
No one drives Mr. Jacobson’s golf cart but Mr. Jacobson. “Thanks,” I mutter, even though I know I won’t use it.
I leave the house, collecting all the now-empty jars to carry up to Jake and Katie’s. I walk slowly down the path toward “the big house,” which is what we all called the Jacobsons’ house when we were younger. The crickets and the bullfrogs are my only companions. The night air is chilly but not cold, and I can’t help but stop and think about how good it feels to be alive. To be here, right this minute–it’s the best.
I knock softly at Jake and Katie’s kitchen door, and I can see Katie is startled as she turns toward me and sees me through the window. She has one hand full of empty hot cocoa packets when she opens the door. “Everything okay?” she asks, her brow furrowing.
I set the jars on her kitchen counter. “Well, I heard there was a blanket fort. Didn’t want to miss it.”
She looks beyond me. “Where’s Miles?”
“Mr. Jacobson volunteered to babysit.”
Her mouth falls open. “He did what?”
“He pretty much kicked me out of my own house, pulled a paperback book out of his back pocket, and sat down next to Miles’s crib.”
“Pop’s such an old softie,” she says fondly, as her lips tip up into a grin. “He has this hard shell, but deep inside he’s a pot of bubbling mush.”
“I’ll tell him you said so,” I tease.
“Don’t you dare!” She slaps my shoulder playfully. “The kids are in there.” She nods toward the living room. “My little ones are in their beds. And Gabby went to bed. But the others are all in there with Jake.”
“Got room for me?”
She smiles. “Go check.” She motions me forward with her hands.
I walk into the room to find the biggest, ugliest blanket fort I have ever seen built right in the middle of the living room. The blankets are strung from wall to wall with clothespins hooked to two-by-fours. My two girls are sharing an air mattress, Alex and Jake are sharing another, and Trixie is on a third air mattress, with her big dog pressed against her side. Jake must have turned on a star projector because the ceiling of the tent is filled with constellations.
“And that one is piggly-wiggly,” I hear Jake say, and giggles erupt.
“There’s no such thing as piggly-wiggly,” I say quietly as I squat down at the foot of the mattress my girls are on.
“It does kind of look like a pig, Daddy,” Kerry-Anne says.
“You guys got room for me in there?” I ask. They make a hole between them and I slide into it, and we stare up at the fort’s ceiling shoulder to shoulder. Both girls have damp hair and they smell like lavender shampoo and hot cocoa.
Jake makes up a few more constellation names as all the kids start to yawn, struggling to stay awake. Then, finally, the room is quiet.
“I’m glad you came by,” Jake says. His voice isn’t more than a rumble in the stillness of the blanket fort.
“Go sleep with your wife, Jake,” I tell him. “I heard from a reputable source that you snore like a train.”
He snorts out a laugh. “Pop has never been called a reputable source.”
“Go to bed, Jake,” I say again.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” I grab part of Kerry-Anne’s blanket and cover up with it. I yawn, the trials of the day finally catching up with me.