XXIX CJ
XXIX
CJ
It’s 5:20a.m., and Agnes and I are sitting on the floor of her bedroom in our pajamas surrounded by Magna-Tiles when Brianna calls.
“Are you freaking out?” She sounds like she’s been awake for hours.
“I’m not freaking out, because I’m not going to be nominated,” I say, playing it off. But I’m buzzing. I woke up without an alarm at 4a.m. in anticipation of the Oscar announcements and tidied for a half hour until the force of my nervous energy woke up Agnes. The producers submitted me for Gatsby , and the odds are extremely remote—but the big question of what if still lodged itself in my system.
“I don’t hear your TV.”
“They don’t start for ten minutes.”
“You’re infuriating.” That’s Brianna’s way of saying goodbye.
I look up to see Stuart in the doorway with a tote bag over his shoulder. “What are you doing here?” I ask him, surprised. He’s not set to drop off Agnes this morning.
“You think I don’t know what day it is?”
I sigh and shake my head. “Come on,” I say to Agnes as I make my way to my feet. “Let’s find out if Mommy got nominated for an Oscar.” I let Stuart answer the inevitable flurry of five-year-old questions that follow and focus instead on breathing and managing my expectations.
I queue up the nomination livestream for the three of us, allowing this morning to be a détente for Stuart and me. It’s none other than Ginny Friedrich who appears on-screen to read the nominations alongside an equally attractive male counterpart: her costar in an upcoming gender-swapped Dirty Dancing remake. I feel a lump form in my throat as my mind races to the most predictable place: Has Ginny been in touch with Jack lately? Did he reach out to her for comfort? Are there new photos of them at some posh London restaurant, her hand on his knee?
My stomach flip-flops as we crawl closer to my category. I am about to have either a career-defining moment or the mild satisfaction of telling Brianna I was right.
“CJ Ericson, The Great Gatsby .” I hear the words come out of Ginny’s mouth, and they sound like a spoof. Like the name must secretly belong to someone else, because it can’t be me . I never thought I’d be so happy to hear my name come out of my ex’s ex’s mouth.
“There she is!” Stuart crows, clapping his hand on my back. I pull Agnes in for a hug and give her a big kiss on the cheek.
“Yayyyy!” she yells, not really sure what we’re celebrating but visibly happy to see me happy and delighted that we’re allowed to be this loud this early in the morning.
Stuart pulls a bottle of Dom Perignon from his bag and presents it to me. “After celebratory waffles for us all, you will enjoy this, and I will take Agnes to school.”
We sing along to show tunes as I mix the batter. Stuart makes a batch of whipped cream because “if not now, when?” and Agnes successfully petitions for hot chocolate too. But after breakfast, when Stuart shepherds Agnes out the door and they are gone, I look around our empty house and a surge of emotion and exhaustion overtakes my body without warning. With a deep, guttural wail, I begin to cry.
An hour later, Stuart is back, and this time, he has cappuccinos. “ Congratulations to you, congratulations to you ,” he sings to the tune of “Happy Birthday.” Until he sees me.
I am sunken into the couch, tears still flowing. Every time I think I’m done, another sob gets caught in my chest and fights its way out of me.
“Oh, honey,” he says, sinking to my side and wrapping an arm around me to pull my head to his chest.
With his free hand, he grabs the box of tissues next to the couch and offers it to me. I take one and press it to my face, as much to hide it as anything. I am profoundly grateful that Stuart does not ask what’s wrong. I am unprepared to answer and even more unprepared to admit he may not have been entirely wrong in our fight.
He sits in silence, waiting patiently. I steady my breath and blow my nose, but I don’t say anything.
“Do you think, then, maybe, this is about Jack?” Stuart finally asks. I can tell he’s worried about what saying this might do to me and whether I might expel him from my house, like I did last time.
When I open my mouth to speak, my throat is sore and my voice raspy. “When I got the news, all I could think was, I have to call Jack. That no one will understand this like he will or be happier for me than he will. And when I realized I couldn’t...” I trail off. The sight of me now tells the rest of the story.
Stuart interlaces his hands on his lap. “There are some days I look at you and all I can see is your mother.”
The tears return fast, but they’re quieter this time.
“I say this with all the love and respect in the world for her, but she was an ‘all-or-nothing’ person, and she didn’t want me around if I couldn’t be there for you as a father in... a traditional sense. You’ve done such an incredible job building this career for yourself and raising Agnes. And I know how capable you are of doing anything you set your mind to. There is no one I believe in more to do the things they say they’re going to do or that I trust to handle something. But just because you can do all of this by yourself... it doesn’t mean you have to. Or that you should. Or that you’re better off for it.” Stuart pauses, but he isn’t done. “I know you’ve been cross with me, and I understand you like to do things your way and need to come around to things in your own time. But I would hate to see you give up on something that’s made you the happiest you’ve ever been because someone might not be the superhuman that you are.”
I roll my eyes, but I feel the corners of my mouth turn up as I reach for another tissue.
“Some of us,” Stuart says, his expression sharper now, “are just mere mortals. Even those who also happen to be handsome, debonair movie stars. Jack is a mortal in the very best way, I think. In a way that is good for you.”
For years, I’ve taken Stuart’s needling about doing less, letting my hair down more, as unserious—his devil-may-care persona on display. But today it sounds more like the pointed advice of a person who’s known me my entire life, a person who has been my rock since my mom died and Agnes was born.
I shift from my seat on the couch and wrap my arms around his torso, leaning my head on his chest and hugging him in. He squeezes me back and gently strokes the top of my head.
My tears have a new feeling now. “Thank you,” I say softly. “And thank you for being my dad.”