6. Jaime
jaime
. . .
E velyn sits down in front of me, and hands me her brush. “I’d like a ponytail with a braid.” She smiles a toothless smile at me through the mirror. Last week she lost her first tooth and has told the entire town about the tooth fairy coming to see her, but only after she cleaned her room. I may have gone on about how even fairies need to land in clean spaces, so they don’t step on baby dolls or Legos. While Legos can be fun, in the middle of the night when your child is crying and you need to get to them, stepping on one unleashes a string of curse words no one should ever hear.
“What kind?” I ask her. “Do you want me to braid your ponytail or do you want me to French braid your hair half way?”
She places her finger on her temple, tapping her face. This is her thinking face. I wish I could say she learned it from me, but I copy her now. “I think two braids that start here,” she points to the spot on her scalp, “and two ponies here.” She finishes by touching the back of her neck.
“You got it, princess.” Evelyn is my one constant, my reason for turning my life around. When I found out I was pregnant with her, my life was circling the drain. The moment I peed on that stupid little stick, I was torn. I wanted the little bean growing inside of me, but I also couldn’t take care of myself.
“Mommy, where did you learn to braid?”
“Mommies know everything,” I tell her. Someday, when she’s older, I’ll introduce her to the world of YouTube. I swear I could kiss every single YouTuber and their DIY videos out there. They have saved me a million times over, especially when she comes home with notes from her teacher that it’s wacky hair week and the designs should be as crazy as the child wants. My child and her imagination always exceed my abilities.
“And what about Daddies?”
My hand slips a bit when she says the D word. “Daddies know a lot too.”
“What does my daddy know?”
“Hmm, let’s see…” I pause and step back to make sure her braid is even with the first one I did before securing her hair with a rubber band. “Daddies know almost everything Mommies do.”
Evelyn sighs. “I wonder what my daddy knows.”
Me too, kiddo. Me too.
I lean down and kiss the top of her head. We make eye contact through the mirror and both of us grin, although she can’t see my smile, my eyes light up just the same. “I love you, baby girl.”
“Love you too, Mommy.” She gets down from my stool and runs out of my room. From down the hall she yells, “Do you think I could drive today? I’ve been working on my skills with Grandpa.”
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I hang my head. My dad is the worst, in the best way. When I told him I was pregnant, I thought for sure he was going to launch a State by State manhunt rather than respecting my wishes that her father be left alone. My dad stepped up and took on a fatherly roll with Evelyn, and it’s only been as of late that she talks about her father, thanks to kindergarten.
“So, can I?”
My little priss is standing in my doorway, with her backpack on and her hand on her hip. I shake my head.
“Why not? Grandpa says I’m good to go.”
“Maybe in his field, with him helping, but you’re not driving my car.”
“When?” she asks.
“When you’re sixteen and have passed Driver’s Ed class.”
Evelyn throws her hands up and stalks down the hall. I want to laugh because I love her antics. I love how dramatic and expressive she is. When she’s out of sight, I cover my mouth and try to stifle the giggles. She makes my world complete, bringing joy when I’m upset, and always knowing what to say to change my day around.
On the way to school, she sings along to the radio. I know I should censor what she hears, but I don’t. If that makes me a bad Mom, so be it. I’d rather let her listen and discuss with her what things mean than hide behind some veiled curtain. From the day she was born, I vowed to be as honest as I can with her, and when she asks where her father is, I tell her the truth… I don’t know.
During the week, I work days at the bar, working around Evelyn’s school schedule. The flexibility is nice because when the opportunity arises it affords me the time to be a room mother. I know there will be a day when she doesn’t want me there handing out snacks and helping with school parties. For now, I’m going to soak it up while maintaining that cool Mom edge.
By the time I run my banking errands, it’s shortly after ten when I pull into the parking lot. Another hour and the bar will open, serving lunch before switching over for dinner at five. That’s when I’ll pass the reins to the evening staff and head home to cook dinner. Thankfully, my mom is retired and picks Evelyn up from school and gets her started on her homework. My parents have been lifesavers when it comes to kicking ass as a single parent. If it weren’t for them, I don’t know how I’d survive.
After I unlock the door, I flick the lights on and pull the chairs off the tables. It’s a bit backwards, but so is life. The line cook has been here for two hours already, preparing food and making sure the grills are heated to the right temperature. I used to come in at nine, but it didn’t make much sense. If the night crew does their job, opening is a breeze.
The other waitress on today is Mary. She’ll take most of the dining room, leaving me to handle the bar and a couple of the tables nearby. She’s a college student working to pay her way through night school, it’s the least I can do for her. For the most part, the lunch crowd is steady. We have a lot of regulars, who don’t always venture far from their normal eating habits. A couple of years ago, we did a huge social media push to put Bailey’s Bar and Grill on the map, hoping to increase tourism business. Even got the State to add us to the signs along the highway so people knew where to find us. I think, for the most part, it’s paid off, but we can’t be sure unless we ask each new person where they’re from or how they heard of us.
“I just had a total hottie sit down at seven, but I have to pee and fix my hair. Can you get his drink order?” Mary asks. She’s a good waitress and hates to keep people waiting, especially guys. She tells me that she’s waiting for Mr. Right and swears she’ll meet him here. I don’t believe in that hokie crap, at least not anymore.
As I approach the table, the guy in a dark suit is staring down at the table. From the slump of his shoulders, he looks dejected. “Your wait…” my words fall short as a familiar pair of rich brown eyes look at me. My heart is on the floor. My stomach bobs up and down in my throat. I can’t swallow, can’t think, can’t see clearly because if I could, my mind would comprehend who’s in front of me. My mouth opens to say something, anything, but words fail.
The bar is packed. People are standing shoulder to shoulder trying to dance, while I struggle to weave in and out of them in an attempt to get to the stage. This is my last night in Nashville, my last shot at trying to find Ajay.
I finally find an opening and shoot through the gap. The stage is within view, but I can’t see who’s drumming. I pray that it isn’t him just as much as I hope it is. He swore he’d be gone weeks, not months. I want him to come home. It’s time for him to come home and be the husband he promised he would be. It takes a lot of shoving, a bit of feet stepping, but I’m at the stage. From the side it doesn’t look like Ajay. For one, he has a tattoo on his arm and the Ajay I know and love would never ink his body like this.
When the band finishes, the singer tells the crowd everyone’s name. Ajay Ballard on drums. It’s loud in here, but I’m sure that’s what he said. I don’t hesitate and step onto the platform, heading right toward him. I’m within arm’s reach when someone grabs me and tells me that I have to leave.
“Ajay,” I yell as loud as I can, but he doesn’t hear me. I scream his name as I thrash against the man who is holding me back. “Let me go, he’s my husband!”
“That’s what they all say, sweetheart.”
Finally, he looks in my direction and his face pales, but he doesn’t move to help me or tell this goon that I’m his wife. “Ajay!” I call his name again and that seems to spur him into action. He comes forward and tells the bouncer that I’m with him. He finally lets go, but by the look on Ajay’s face, he doesn’t look happy.
“What are you doing here, Whiskey?”
I feel my eyes bug out at his question. “Um, I’m sorry that I came all this way to track down my husband.”
Ajay places his hand on my waist and directs me toward a dark hallway, through a door, down another hallway and finally outside to an alley.
“What’s going on?” I ask him.
He steps away and puts his hands into his pockets. His head shakes slowly, back and forth. “Jamie…” The tone in his voice tells me all I need to know. My marriage is over.
I reach into my bag, now thankful that my father forced me to see an attorney. I refused to believe Ajay would do this to me, to us. Not with our history. Not after we… not ever. I hand the papers to him. “Sign these.”
“What are they?”
“Divorce papers.”
He looks at me and doesn’t say anything as he pulls a pen out of his back pocket. He scribbles his name on the three marked pages and hands them back to me without a single word. I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. He stares at the ground for the longest time before he pushes off the wall and kisses me on the cheek. “This is for the best, Whiskey girl. I love you,” he says as he leaves me standing in the alley. The only noise I can make out is the slamming of the door behind me.
Someone brushes against me, muttering that they’re sorry. I look for the voice to find a beautiful brunette now sitting across the table. Ajay immediately turns his attention toward her, and a small smile plays on his lips. I realize I can stand here and think about how much I hate him, or I can do my job.
“What can I get you to drink?” I ask in a sugary sweet, fake as fuck voice.
“Whiskey,” he says.
“You’re not drinking,” his babe of a girlfriend or wife says.
Ajay shakes his head. “That’s her name,” he points at me, but I scoff.
“Sorry, my name’s Jamie. I’ll send your waitress over in a minute to get your order.”
It’s been years, far too many to count, since I’ve heard him call me by my nickname, a name he gave me to tease me because my parents named me Jameson, after my dad. There were times when I longed to hear him say my name, desperate times when I would drive to Nashville on a bender hoping to find him, just to hear his voice say my name the way he used to when we were together. It took years of therapy to get over my obsession with him, and now here he is, in my bar calling me that name once again.
I tell Mary that her table wasn’t ready and head to the back to call Dhara. She picks up on the first ring and asks me what’s wrong and whether Evelyn is okay. “He’s here, D.”
“Who?”
“Who? Who, really? Ajay, that’s who! And he brought his wife or girlfriend in. Why would he do that?”
She jostles her phone and clears her throat. “Sweetie, listen. Fletcher called me this morning. Your father arrested Ajay early Sunday morning on an outstanding warrant. That’s why his band was in yesterday. Fletcher is the prosecuting attorney on this, and Harvey is trying to throw the book at Ajay.”
My mouth goes dry. “Arrested for what?”
“For some prank on Harvey’s house.”
I end the call and press my dad’s name on my phone. My call goes to voicemail. “Dad, next time you arrest my ex-husband, maybe you want to give me a heads up so I’m a little better prepared to deal with the sight of him as he’s sitting in my damn bar!” I press end again and lean my head against the wall. That’s when the tears start flowing… tears that I haven’t cried in a long-time stream down my face in frustration, longing and pure heartache.