Chapter 3 #2
The Duvalls lived in a middle-class neighborhood in the same house they’d occupied their entire married life.
Angela had grown up in it. Her girlhood bedroom was still preserved.
For the first year after she died, he’d spent time alone in that room on each and every visit to see Andrew.
He no longer paid that maudlin homage to her.
His method of mourning had become much more proactive.
His in-laws’ car was in the driveway; they were home from Mass. Mitch opened the front door and called out, “Knock, knock.”
From the back of the house, he heard a commotion, then, “Daddy!” Andrew came chugging into the living room and launched himself into Mitch’s arms. He lifted the boy against his chest and hugged him tightly, loving the feel of his solid body, his milky smell, the wet smear of his kiss on his cheek. “Miss me?”
After giving an affirmative nod, the boy said, “I wanna play cars.”
“Absolutely. We will.”
“Not until after lunch.” Mary entered the room with a dish towel over her shoulder and a perturbed expression on her face. “We were just sitting down to eat.”
Mitch had broken the rule of not calling ahead, but he didn’t apologize, nor did he let her irritation provoke him. He sniffed the air. “Stewed chicken and dirty rice if I’m not mistaken. Is there enough for one more?”
“Always,” said his father-in-law, Hank, who greeted him with a handshake and a slap on the back.
During the meal, they stuck to neutral subjects, and snarky comments were kept to a minimum. When Hank asked how work was going, he said, “Busy. The bad guys always seem to outnumber us.” He quickly changed the subject before they could inquire after John and Beth.
Mary declined his offer to help clean up the kitchen. “Go play with Andrew’s cars. He’s about to bust.”
“Thanks, Mary.”
She gave him a rare smile. “I’m glad you came, although you could have let me know.”
Ah. A dig. But a small one.
Hank excused himself to watch a baseball game on television, allowing Mitch cherished time alone with his son. They got down on the floor of Andrew’s bedroom and played with the fleet of Matchbox cars and trucks Mitch had brought him on his last visit.
They then went out to the backyard to play on the elaborate playground set that Santa had brought him the previous Christmas. That was followed by a game of catch with a plastic ball and miniature glove.
When it came time for Mitch to leave, the tired little boy became cranky and whiny. He clung to Mitch when he hugged him goodbye. Mitch rubbed his back soothingly. “We had fun today, didn’t we, buddy?”
Andrew gave a sullen nod and pressed his face deeper into Mitch’s neck.
“If you play your cards right, I’ll bet Grandpa will watch a video with you. And then you’ll go to sleep, and before you know it, it’ll be tomorrow, and I’ll call you. Okay? Sound like a plan?”
Andrew whimpered and clutched him tighter. Mitch held him close and whispered, “Next time you come spend the night with me, we’ll sleep together in my big bed. And guess what we’re gonna have for breakfast.”
“Fwoot roops,” came the muffled reply.
Mitch smiled and nuzzled the crown of Andrew’s head. “You got it. Froot Loops are our favorite, right?”
Mary disallowed sugary cereals, but she didn’t comment as she reached for Andrew. “Time for Daddy to go.”
Speaking as an obstinate two-going-on-three-year-old, Andrew said, “No.”
“Come on now, Andrew. Say goodbye.”
Against his neck, Mitch could feel Andrew’s inhalations escalating, signaling that a squall was brewing. To head it off, he said softly, “Hey there, who’s my rock star?”
“Me.”
“Who’s your biggest fan?”
“You.”
“You bet I am.” He squeezed his eyes shut and whispered, “I love you, son.”
“Daddy,” he blubbered.
Hank appeared at Mitch’s side and eased the inevitable severance by inviting Andrew to watch a video with him.
Mitch tried to put some cheer into his tone. “See, told ya. Go with Grandpa, and I’ll call you tomorrow. Okay?” He forced a smile. “Where’s my fist bump?” He and Andrew bumped fists, then Mitch handed him over to Hank, who carried him from the room.
About to lose his shit, Mitch thanked Mary for the meal and headed for the front door. She followed. “What happened to your neck?”
He’d almost forgotten about the self-inflicted injury. “I cut myself shaving.”
The see-through, cheeky lie earned him an eye roll. “Always with the wisecrack.” Then, her forehead furrowed. “Are you taking care of yourself out there, Mitch?”
“Always.”
She looked as though she wanted to say more, but changed her mind. Setting her hand on his arm and giving it a gentle squeeze, she said, “Be careful driving back.”
He let himself into his apartment and went about his nightly routine of securing it. Feeling low and lonely, he went into the bedroom, sat down on the side of the bed, and checked his phone. John had indeed texted him the list of psychologists.
It was almost too late to call to make an appointment. It could wait till morning.
But, no. To postpone for one more day wasn’t in his best interest, and dwelling on it further only made him more anxious about this path on which he was about to embark.
He scanned the list of names and quickly punched in one of the phone numbers. He got a recorded menu and tapped in the required digit to schedule an appointment. Another recording instructed him to leave a message.
“Yeah, this is Mitch Haskell. I don’t think an explanation is necessary since John Bowie has already vetted you. Call or text me with a time for tomorrow.”
He clicked off, dropped his phone on the bed, and began undressing. But he’d only tugged off his boots before a ping notified him of an incoming text. It instructed that if he wanted to confirm an appointment with Dr. Dylan Reede for ten a.m. tomorrow, he was to reply with a capital letter C.