Chapter 43 Charli
FORTY-THREE
Charli
The Morning After the Procession In New Orleans, the streets are swept clean by morning. The flowers are gone. The crowd has scattered. What remains is the neighborhood, unchanged in its bones, quietly different in every other way.
The pancakes sizzle on the griddle as I flip them, one hand on the spatula, the other checking my watch. Five minutes to get these plated. Six before we need to be out the door. Routine math that runs in the background every morning.
"Mommy. I said I wanted egg in a hole."
"Bud, I told you I don't know how to make those. I promise I'll learn, but it's pancakes today, okay?"
"Okay. I can't find my dinosaur shirt!" His voice carries from his bedroom down the hall. His feet pound against the wood floor as he races back and forth.
"It's in your backpack already. I put it there last night." I slide the spatula under a golden-brown pancake and transfer it to a plate.
Benjy appears in the doorway, backpack dragging behind him like an oversized tail. His hair sticks up in the back, despite my attempts to wet it down earlier.
"Reeves says we might go camping by the lake, so I need my magnifying glass too." He drops his backpack and darts back toward his room. "And my bug book, so we can identify them."
I pour more batter onto the griddle. "You're only going for four days, not four weeks."
This will be the longest time he's been away from me, including the nights he spends with my parents. I'm still coming to terms with it. His excitement about doing things with Reeves literally hums through the house.
Reeves coordinated his time between ending his tour in the Middle East with Benjy's week off from school. They’ve planned a full schedule together that I don't even know about.
"But what if we find something really cool and I can't identify it?" His voice floats down the hallway.
The backpack sits abandoned by the refrigerator. I kneel down and check inside. I make sure his clothes are folded and organized, and the toothbrush is in its case. I add the magnifying glass from the drawer when he reappears with his bug book.
"Got it!" He clutches the book under his arm. "Reeves says there might be giant water bugs. Did you know they can get as big as your hand?"
"Fascinating." I slide the last pancake onto his plate and add a small pool of syrup. "Eat up. We need to leave in ten minutes."
He climbs onto his chair, fork already in hand, but doesn't stop talking. "And Reeves is going to teach me how to build a real shelter, not just a fort. And we're going fishing, and he has a special knife that folds up that he's going to show me how to use, but not touch by myself."
They FaceTime enough now that it’s part of his routine, and he looks forward to it the same way I used to look forward to Buffy the Vampire Slayer in high school.
Benjy still doesn't know he's his father, since Reeves and I decided we will tell him together in person once he's settled in his new place in New Orleans by Thanksgiving.
Benjy is going to be over the moon when he learns, so that alone makes it all worth it. He will have a father in his life that he adores.
I listen, nodding at appropriate intervals while packing his lunch. Turkey sandwich, apple slices, and cookies from yesterday go into the lunchbox.
"I'm going to miss you," I say, brushing his wild hair back from his forehead. The words come out casually, but they lodge somewhere behind my ribs.
"I'll be back soon," he says through a mouthful of pancake. "Don't worry."
"I know you will. I'm not worried." I wipe syrup from his chin with a paper towel. "Just used to having you around."
He finishes his breakfast in record time, and I wipe the rest of the syrup from his face with a paper towel. We move through the final morning dance, and then I load his things into the car.
I turn the car into Westlake's lot, joining the procession of minivans and SUVs winding toward the drop-off zone. Benjy bounces in his seat, his bug book still clutched against his chest.
"Remember, Reeves is picking you up after school." My voice stays casual, like I'm just reminding him about a dentist appointment.
"I know! He's taking me to get my sleeping bag first." Benjy tugs at his seatbelt, ready to bolt the moment we stop.
The car ahead moves forward, and I pull up to the curb where Ms. Lin waits to open the door.
"Do you have everything? Lunch? Book? Magnifying glass?"
Benjy nods quickly. "Yep. All packed."
The teacher opens his door, and cool morning air rushes in. "Good morning, Benjy!"
"Morning, Ms. Lin!" He unclicks his seatbelt and grabs his backpack.
I lean across the console. "Have a good day, Bug Hunter. And have so much fun on your adventure with Reeves."
"I will." He wraps his arms around my neck for our usual quick hug. His hair smells like the apple shampoo he insisted on buying last month.
"Love you," I say.
"Love you too!" He pulls away and hops out of the car.
I watch him walk toward the building, backpack bouncing against his small frame with each step. His stride is confident, purposeful. At the doors, he turns and waves once before disappearing inside.
I put the car in drive and merge back into the line of departing vehicles.
As I drive away, the awareness settles in. For the first time, someone else will be there when the final bell rings. Someone else will hear about his day first, and will see his face light up with stories about whatever bug he drew in science class.
I grip the steering wheel tighter. It's just four days. This is a good thing. It's about him, not me.
At work, I move through appointments with steady focus. Mrs. Lafferty brings in twin girls for their developmental assessment. The printer jams twice. My lunch sits forgotten in the break room refrigerator.
Normal day.
Three patients later, I notice the clock reads 3:15 when I get in my car to head home. My stomach tightens automatically, the same pull that hits every day at this time because I'm usually heading to school pick up.
By the time I get home, I'm too emotionally drained to do my charts. I have four days to work on them, so I go out to the deck to sit. I rarely get the opportunity to do that.
My phone vibrates against my leg. I ignore it at first. When I finally turn it over, I see Reeves's name on the screen. Beneath it, a photo of Benjy climbing into the Hummer, grinning with his backpack clutched against his chest.
Bug Hunter secured. Next stop: camping supplies.
No problems. No questions. No need for me to step in.
Have fun. Call tonight before bed?
Will do. He says he needs to tell you about the grasshopper in the science room.
I smile, placing the phone back facedown on my lap. The tension in my shoulders eases slightly. This is what we've built over the past few months. We both agreed that we want a system where Benjy has both of us, even though we're not together as a family.
The refrigerator hums. The clock above the stove ticks. I pull out bread, cheese, and tomatoes for a sandwich. One plate. One glass. No cutting crusts off or slicing things into precise triangles.
I realize that while I miss Benjy's constant chatter and excitement in the house, the quiet is nice. I lean back in the chair and let the quiet sit for a minute.
I eat at the counter, flipping through a magazine I've been meaning to read for weeks. When I finish, I wash my plate immediately instead of adding it to the day's collection in the sink.
When I finally climb into bed, the silence feels like a borrowed sweater. I don't set my alarm because it's Saturday and I'll have a whole day to do whatever I want. Or nothing at all.
I smile to myself as I drift off to sleep.
My feet sink into the wet sand with each step, waves rushing over my ankles before retreating back to the Gulf. Mom walks beside me, her pace matching mine as we follow the shoreline.
"It's so quiet," I say, watching a sandpiper dart between the waves. "Benjy would've chased that bird halfway to Louisiana by now."
Mom smiles. "Probably with his net and collection jar."
The Saturday morning beach walk is different without my son racing ahead, stopping every three feet to collect shells or inspect something in the sand, interrupting our conversation every sixty seconds. His absence changes the entire vibe, but not in a hollow way.
"You know what's funny? I thought this would be harder." I pick up a perfect sand dollar and brush it clean. I'll save it for Benjy.
"The first weekend away. I expected to be checking my phone every five minutes or making lists of things I need to tell Reeves."
"But you're not?"
I shake my head. "He's texted a few pictures of Benjy, but it's not like we're in constant contact, which I think is good for everyone. And I'm surprisingly okay with it."
The water rushes over our feet again, cool against my skin.
"We're figuring it out," I continue. "Schedules, drop-offs, what Benjy needs from each of us. We'll be able to hit the ground running with this shared custody when he moves back in November."
"And Reeves? How's that part going?"
I consider this as we walk past a cluster of seagulls. "Honestly, it's much better than I could have imagined. We work well together as co-parents. The initial awkwardness has worn off, and we keep our conversations to Benjy."
"That's so good." Mom watches my face carefully.
"It is." I keep my voice even. "Benjy deserves to have his father in his life. Reeves is trying. Really trying."
"I'm sure relinquishing some of the control over decisions for Benjy is an adjustment. Are you doing okay there?"
I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "You know, Mom. I was worried. But Reeves defers to me for the most part and pushes back some when necessary. I appreciate having someone else there to work through things."
The sun warms my shoulders as we walk further down the beach. A comfortable silence settles between us.
"Work calmed down, any?"
"Thank God, yes. I thought I might not survive that, but the Medicaid investigation is officially closed," I say after a while. "There was no wrongdoing found."
Mom squeezes my shoulder, pulling me to her as we walk. "That's wonderful news."
"Mostly I'm just tired. Three months of audits and stress for nothing." I shrug. "But it's over."
"You handled it beautifully."
"I got through it,” I say, bending to pick up a small spiral shell. I turn it once in my fingers before slipping it into my pocket beside the sand dollar.
We continue walking, the waves creating a steady rhythm beside us.
"Ready to turn back?" Mom asks.
"Not yet." I look ahead at the long stretch of shoreline. "Unless you need to get back?"
"No, I'm loving this time with you. Let's keep going."
The water continues its predictable pattern of approaching, retreating, and approaching again.
Mom smiles, and we fall back into step beside each other, the waves rolling in and out at our feet.
There's nothing to rush back for.