10. Blake
CHAPTER 10
BLAKE
I ’d pictured sometimes how I’d meet my first child, and in that picture, the child was newborn. He could just about fit in the palm of my hand, and his face was all wrinkly like an old man’s. Mine was one of two voices he knew in this world, and he smiled when he heard it and held out his arms.
Meeting Oli, I knew, would be nothing like that. He was walking already, and talking, and playing. He had his own friends, and a life without me. I might be boring to him, or scary, or weird. Or what if we just had nothing in common? If he was big into dancing or… model trains… and I sounded stupid trying to keep up?
I steadied myself getting out of my car, and took a deep breath to settle my thoughts. My CO had praised my bedside manner, not always a strength among trauma surgeons. If I could comfort a teenager who’d just found his legs were gone, I could convince a three-year-old I wasn’t some bozo. Those skills would transfer if I kept my cool.
Hey, Oli, I’d say to him. It’s so great to meet you. Then I’d ask him what foods he liked, and his favorite sports, and?—
“My daddy’s the sad man?”
I jumped as Oli popped out from the trees, the same way he’d come the first time I’d seen him. Claire flushed and shushed him.
“Hon, that’s not nice.”
I blinked. “I’m the sad man?”
Claire took Oli’s hand, a protective gesture. “He thought you were sad because you were at the park by yourself.”
Oli peered up at me. “You had no one to play with.”
I chuckled. “You know what? You’re right about that. It is kind of sad having no one to play with. I’m Captain, uh— Blake, uh— I’m your…”
“My daddy?”
I glanced at Claire and she nodded.
“That’s right, he’s your dad.”
Oli tilted his head back. “You’re really tall, but Mommy’s so short. Does that mean when I grow up, I’ll be half-tall, half-short?”
I made a huh sound, unsure what to say. Would it be bad to tell him I thought he’d be tall? He already was for his age, and big in the shoulders. He’d probably play basketball just like I had, or football maybe.
“Do you, uh, like sports?”
“Kinda,” he said. “If I get to play. Just watching is boring, though, like Gramps with his football.”
“I like to play too. We have a work league, if two teams make a league. It’s boys against girls, and we play soccer.”
Oli pulled a face. I guessed he wasn’t impressed. He scuffed his toe in the dirt, and Claire smiled.
“He’s shy.”
“I’m not shy,” said Oli. “I just have a question.”
I crouched down partway to get on his level. “Go ahead, shoot.”
Oli scuffed at the dirt some more. “It’s a two-parter, and the first part is, do I call you Captain or Blake? Mom says it’s rude to call grown-ups by their first names.”
“Oh, uh…” My eyes darted to Claire again. Would it be presumptuous to say call me Dad? Or it was okay if he called me Blake? I could tell from Claire’s stricken look she hadn’t thought this through either.
“You can call him Moose. That’s his nickname.”
My brows shot up. I hadn’t heard Moose in years.
“Moose, like the animal?” Oli let out a giggle. Claire mouthed a sorry over his head. I smiled and shrugged.
“I’m good with Moose.”
“Okay, Moose,” said Oli. “The second part of my question is, can you push me on the swings?”
Claire nodded okay, and I told him I’d love to. Oli raced ahead of us to the swing set, only slowing a little when Claire called out “Careful.”
“He’s a little daredevil,” she said. “Totally fearless. He’ll try and get you to push him over the top. Y’know, like a loop-de-loop, like in the cartoons.”
“And I’m guessing I shouldn’t do that?”
“Definitely not.”
Oli was in the swing by the time we caught up, but Claire checked his jacket and the strings of his hoodie, to make sure they weren’t caught on the chains. She reminded him to hold tight, and my chest felt funny. My throat closed up, and my eyes stung. It hit me, for Claire, this was routine. She’d settled him a hundred times on that same swing, checked on his jacket, told him hold tight. She’d cared for him every day of his life. He grinned up at her with sweet, complete trust, and kicked his legs out to start the swing.
“Moose! Come and push! Make me go high!”
I gave him a cautious push, and he yelled “higher!”
Claire dug in her bag and pulled out some hand cream, and I saw she had fruit snacks and trail mix in there, and a tiny first aid kit, and a juice box. That choked me up worse, but I wasn’t sad. What I felt was more… grateful and happy and warm, knowing my son had the kind of mom I wished I’d had. I barely remembered my real mom, and the ones after that — well, they’d been okay, mostly, but not like Claire was.
“Higher!” called Oli. “Go underdog!”
Claire shook her head. “No underdogs.”
I gave Oli another push. “What’s an underdog?”
“It’s when you run and push him, then duck underneath. And get kicked in the head, likely as not. No underdogs.”
“No, ma’am. Sorry, sport.”
Oli went aww , but he didn’t sulk. He pumped his legs to swing himself higher, and I helped him along with the odd push. After the swings, we went on the slide, and then he climbed up in the play airplane. He sat in the cockpit and made fighter plane sounds, and Claire ran with her arms out till he shot her down. He shot me down too, and I yelled boom . That got him laughing, and Claire laughed as well, and Oli slid down to us and helped us stand up. He brushed grass off of Claire’s pants.
“Can we get ice cream?”
Claire frowned for a moment, but she nodded yes. “Moose? You want ice cream?”
“All right. My treat?”
Claire’s lips went tight, and I wanted to kick myself. But then she smiled. “Okay, your treat.”
We wound up at a quaint little ice cream shop, the kind with a fifties vibe and homemade ice cream. Claire got what I knew she would, two scoops of chocolate. I got a root beer float, and Oli asked for the same. Claire raised a brow at him.
“A float? Are you sure?”
“I want what he’s having.” He pointed at me.
“I can get something else,” I said, not wanting to cause trouble. Claire waved me off.
“No, it’s good if he tries things. It’s how he learns. If he doesn’t like it, he’ll have some of mine.”
I still held my breath for Oli’s first sip. He wiggled the straw around trying to get both the flavors and ended up dripping all over the table. Then he leaned in and took a long slurp, and first his nose wrinkled, then his eyes went wide, then he laughed loudly.
“It tickles my nose!”
“Yeah, hon. It’s fizzy.” Claire wiped up the spill. “So, what’s the verdict? Floats, good or bad?”
“ Real good,” said Oli. “I mean, real- ly good.”
I nearly choked on my float. “His grammar’s better than mine.”
“That’s Mom’s influence.” Claire tried her ice cream. Her expression went soft with chocolate-induced bliss, and before I could stop myself, I’d asked a dumb question.
“Do you still keep a chocolate stash locked in your glove compartment?”
Oli laughed. “Yeah.”
Claire’s gentle smile faded, and she set down her spoon. “Oli doesn’t like chocolate unless it’s ice cream. He doesn’t like the texture. Says it sticks to his mouth.”
“I guess it does.” I sipped more of my float. I couldn’t stop glancing at us in the window, our Norman Rockwell reflections eating ice cream. We looked like any family out for a treat, Mom and Dad, Oli. His eyes were brown like Claire’s. He had my hair, though, and my build, and my nose, and the sticky-out ears I’d had at his age. Claire looked up, and our eyes met in the glass.
“How’s work going?” I said.
She turned back to Oli. “We’re settling in, aren’t we? Our new routine. Oli gets lots of outside time with Gramps, and Grandma’s been helping him with his reading. Oli, why don’t you tell Moose about your new book?”
Oli wiped his mouth on his sleeve, then he grabbed a napkin. He wiped again, though his sleeve had done fine. “It’s about two dogs,” he said. “And they’re friends. They get lost. They have to ask all the animals how to get home, but the animals don’t know, and it’s really funny.”
I smiled. “Sounds hilarious. I read a lot, too.” I wanted to ask Claire more about work, about how her life had been since I shipped out. But I could see why she kept steering me back to Oli. I’d come here to meet him, not catch up with her. She might want to some other time, but then again, she might not. I was Oli’s father, no doubt about that, but our Norman Rockwell reflection might never be real. We weren’t a family, or not in that sense.
Oli stirred his root beer. “What books do you like?”
I relaxed, on familiar ground: something in common. “I’ll read about anything, but I love a good mystery. Or books about people who, uh—” I’d been about to say grew up with big families , but the last thing I needed was Oli asking about mine. “I had a teacher when I was a bit bigger than you, gave me a copy of My Family and Other Animals . I loved all the animals, and the things they got up to.”
“Other animals,” said Oli. He bit his lip. “I asked Mom for another dog to be friends with Buster, but she said I’m his friend.”
Claire shot me a warning look, and I got the message. I flashed him a grin.
“I’ll bet you’re his best friend.”
“But can’t he have more? Adam’s my friend, but so’s Mike and Billy.”
“And they live in their own houses, and Buster’s friends are the same. They play at the park, just like you, Mike, and Billy.” Claire set down her spoon. “We should head out.”
I panicked. “No, wait.” This couldn’t be over. I fumbled for some way to make this day last. “We could go and see my place. I’ll cook you guys dinner.”
Claire stood. “I’d like that, but I’ve got work. I need to get Oli settled before I head out.”
I slumped back, defeated. They had their routine. I guessed it’d be too soon to offer to watch Oli, or take him for dinner and then drive him home. But I couldn’t just let him walk out of my life. Not without knowing I’d see him again.
“When do you think we could do this again?”
Claire paused and looked down at Oli’s bright face. She looked sad for a moment, then she smiled a tight smile.
“Maybe this weekend, if my schedule works out. Oli? You ready?”
Oli zipped up his jacket and he stood up. He reached for Claire’s hand, then glanced at me.
“Moose?”
“Yeah, sport?”
He strode up to me, solemn, and stuck out his hand. I stuck mine out too, and Oli shook it.
“Thanks for your service. Gramps said to say that.”
I laughed without meaning to, and squeezed his hand, touched. “Well, son, you’re welcome. And your grandpa is, too.”
“Could I call you Dad next time, instead of Moose?”
Claire gave a quick nod, and I smiled. “Sure, you can.”
“Good, because you don’t really look like a moose.”
“I’ll call you,” said Claire, and took Oli’s hand. I watched them go, dazed… so, that had gone well? I hadn’t done much parenting, but was I supposed to? Was it a good sign, Oli shaking my hand? His grandpa had told him to, but… could I call you Dad? That had to mean something. It sure did to me.
This weekend felt far off, farther than Christmas. I wasn’t sure I could wait. I guessed I’d just have to.