Chapter 5
After school, I have to drive Teddy to his ice-skating lesson.
Every single day, he has a different lesson that I have to take him to. Or sports. So many sports. I’m glad he has an active life, but sometimes I feel like I’m less of a stay-at-home mom and more of an unpaid chauffeur.
I haven’t had a chance to shop for groceries yet, so I make a split-second decision to grab takeout on the way home from ice-skating from my favorite vegan restaurant.
I text Jeremy to ask him what he would like, but he doesn’t answer, so I just grab him a black bean burger. You can’t lose with a burger.
Although Teddy sometimes seems completely oblivious to what’s going on around him, he becomes acutely aware that something is different when I start driving a different route home. And entering the apartment spawns an infinite number of questions.
“Why are we here?” he asks me, which is a variation on the question he’s asked throughout the entire drive: “Where are we going?”
“I told you,” I explain for what feels like the millionth time. “We’re going to be staying here for a couple of weeks while the house is being fixed up. It’s where Grandma used to live, remember?”
Teddy likely doesn’t remember, since the year Jeremy’s mother has been gone is like an eternity at his age.
He looks around the small living space. I wouldn’t necessarily say my child is spoiled, but he seems affronted by the possibility of having to lodge here even for one evening. “It’s so small!”
“It’s an apartment.”
He scans the living room, his whole face scrunched up. It’s the same face he makes when I force him to eat vegetables. While he’s examining his new surroundings, a text message pops up on my phone from Jeremy:
On my way. Will be there soon.
Thank God. This whole situation was starting to freak me out a little bit, and I’ll feel better when Jeremy comes over with the rest of our stuff. The presence of his father will reassure Teddy too.
“Where are the stairs?” Teddy’s high-pitched voice breaks into my thoughts.
“We don’t have stairs.”
“So how do you get to the next floor?”
“This is the only floor.”
His mouth drops open like the possibility hadn’t even occurred to him. Maybe he actually is spoiled. I spent my adult life in a small apartment before Jeremy decided we should move out here.
“Where’s my stuff?” he asks.
“You packed it last night,” I remind him. “Daddy will bring it.”
“I didn’t pack last night.”
I’m not surprised he doesn’t remember. When he first started kindergarten, we had to return to his classroom several times a week because he kept forgetting his backpack upstairs. Sometimes he’ll forget he already ate and ask me what’s for dinner.
“I’m sure you remember,” I prompt him. “You and Daddy packed up your things, like clothes and toys. He’s coming over here with it right now.”
“No,” he insists. “We watched TV, and then he read to me, and then I fell asleep.”
Whatever. He doesn’t need to remember packing. As long as it actually happened.
Thankfully, the doorbell rings at that moment, so I don’t have to field any more of Teddy’s questions alone. I’m sure he’ll feel much better once he’s got all his stuff here. I know the apartment is small, but we’ll get used to it. Kids that age can get used to anything.
When I reach the door, Jeremy is standing there, holding his briefcase, still wearing his suit and tie from work. He looks exhausted, probably from staying up late packing. Although he doesn’t have any suitcases with him. Only his briefcase.
I guess the suitcases are in the car.
“Daddy!” Teddy hollers, propelling himself at his father. He always smacks into Jeremy at approximately groin level. I joke with Jeremy that this could be the culprit of our inability to make any more babies.
“Hey, Teddy.” Jeremy hoists Teddy into his arms, although there’s something subdued about him. He doesn’t put him on his shoulders or wrestle with him on the floor the way he often does. And he puts him down only a few seconds later.
“Daddy.” Teddy tilts his head to look up at him. “Mommy says we have to live here now and that you have all my stuff. Do you have it?”
I wait for Jeremy to confirm my story. Instead, he drops his briefcase on the couch and pops it open. He pulls out his old iPad, which he has been letting Teddy use to watch videos.
“Here.” He holds it out to Teddy, who grabs it. “Now I want you to go into the bedroom and watch monkey videos.”
My stomach drops when he says that.
There are no monkey videos. “Go in the bedroom and watch monkey videos” is code that we taught Teddy a while ago.
It basically means that he needs to disappear into his bedroom without question and not open the door again until one of us gives him the code to come out, which is, “Time to eat snickerdoodles.”
We introduced this code to him after I read an article about how having a secret word or phrase can save your child’s life.
We were very serious about it. We told him that if we say those words to him, he is not allowed to ask any questions.
He just has to go and do what we say. We remind him about it frequently, but we have only used it once before, when the police came to our door to tell us that Jeremy’s mother collapsed at the supermarket and that she was dead.
That was the sort of thing we didn’t want him to overhear.
So Teddy takes this very seriously. He runs off into his tiny little bedroom with the iPad and closes the door behind him, leaving Jeremy and me all alone.
“Jeremy?” I say. “What’s going on?”
“Listen…” He tugs on the dark tie hanging around his neck, loosening it slightly. “I… We need to have a talk.”
“A talk about what?” I shake my head. “About the renovation?”
His shoulders sag. “There is no renovation.”
“What?”
“Naomi,” he says. “I want a divorce.”