18. Claire
CHAPTER 18
CLAIRE
I asked myself the day Blake showed up at my door, where would he even fit into my life? The answer was anywhere. Everywhere. Easy.
We took Oli to Playland for the long-promised date, along with a few of his Little Bugs friends. I thought five three-year-olds might be four too many for Blake, but he didn’t bat an eye when they all climbed up on him.
“Hold on, hold on. They’ve got their own horseys!” He pointed at the carousel. “You kids want a ride?”
“You gonna ride with us?”
“Do those horseys bite?”
“Can I ride the red one?”
“No, I want the red!”
Blake crouched in the middle, the eye of the storm, two shrieking toddlers clipped to each leg. Oli had clambered halfway up his back. He eased Oli loose and tried to stand up, smiling from one eager face to another.
“There’s two red horses,” he said. “And I’m too big to ride.”
“But, do they bite? ”
Blake pretended to consider little Mike’s question. “Do they bite? Well, let’s see. Should we go and find out?”
Mike’s eyes went wide. Oli stuck out his tongue.
“They aren’t real, doodiehead. Fake horses can’t bite.”
Blake raised a brow. “Oli? What did Mom say about ‘doodiehead?’”
Oli sagged. “Don’t say it.”
“That’s right. It’s rude. What do you say to Mike?”
“Sorry,” said Oli. “You can go first in line.”
The kids all ran to line up for the carousel. Blake helped them get settled, when it was time to get on. I sat beside him to watch them go round.
“You’re a natural,” I said.
“Really? You think so?” He looked down at himself. “I have weird yellow handprints all down my leg, and I can’t figure out which one of them did it. When I checked all their hands, I swear they were clean.”
I cast my expert mom’s eye over the stains. “Mustard,” I said. “And you didn’t see it on them because now it’s on you. Be glad it was just their hands, and not snotty noses.”
“So I’m just a huge tissue now?”
I laughed. “Pretty much.”
We watched the kids go by and wave as they passed, and Blake called to Oli, “Both hands on the pole!” He was getting the hang of the whole parent thing. I’d worried at first he’d try to be Oli’s buddy, and never set limits or tell him no. Then he’d be the fun parent and I’d be the drag. Instead, I was the relaxed one who’d seen it all, Blake the anxious newbie scared Oli might break.
“Mom! Dad! Look at me!” Oli swung by again, leaning back in his saddle.
“Hold tighter,” called Blake.
I took his hand. It was nice having backup. Later, we’d team up to feed Oli his dinner, read him his story, and get him to sleep. Then, we’d steal a few minutes just for us two. Three short weeks ago, I’d have dreaded that thought, the idea of being alone with Blake. But now it felt warm and familiar and good, a safe place to crash at the end of the day.
“You okay?” said Blake. “You sure you’re not tired?”
I leaned against him. “I’m perfect. Thanks for coming today.”
Oli got the sniffles Blake’s third week home. I thought it had missed us when it went around Little Bugs, but he came home on Friday quiet and lethargic, and wouldn’t eat his sausage at lunch.
“It tastes funny,” he said.
Dad frowned. “Funny how?”
Oli yawned. “I don’t know. It tastes boring. Can I be done with lunch?”
I was about to say no, then I noticed his eyes, glazed and too bright, swimming with tears. He was teetering right on the verge of a meltdown, and one little push would be all it would take.
“Okay,” I said. “Wanna go take your nap?”
And somehow, that did it. Oli’s eyes streamed.
“I’m not tired,” he wailed. “You said we could play! You said Dad was coming, and you said we could play!”
“We can still play,” I tried, but Oli didn’t hear me. He was howling full-force into his plate, red-faced and snot-nosed, kicking my chair.
“I don’t think he slept too well last night.” Mom reached over to soothe him, but Oli pushed her away. “I heard him singing this morning, when I got up for breakfast.”
Mom got up early through long force of habit, usually around five or six in the morning. If Oli was up, she was probably right.
“Hey, Oli? Sweetheart?” I got up and knelt by him. “Dad’s coming, I promise. He’ll be here any minute.”
Oli kicked at my knee. “Tell him go away!”
“Go away? Honey?—”
“You too, go away! Go away! Go away!” Oli thrashed, but I caught him and swung him into my arms. He clung to me, wailing, and buried his face in my neck. His skin felt too hot, and I motioned to Mom.
“Could you grab the thermometer?”
Mom ran to get it, and I sat and rocked Oli. The doorbell rang, and he only screamed louder. I stroked his hair.
“Hey, does your head hurt?”
Oli nodded and wiped his nose on my shirt. “My throat tickles too. And my tongue feels all funny.”
I rubbed his back while Mom took his temperature. She showed me the readout: 99.5. Oli squinted at it.
“Am I sick?” His lip wobbled.
“You’ve got a little fever, but you’ll be fine.”
Blake hurried up behind me. “He’s got a fever?”
Oli hid his face. “Make Dad go away.”
I rocked him in my arms.
“Mommy, make him go.”
I looked up at Blake. “Could you get us some ginger ale and a whole lot of ice? And some blankets from the linen closet, at least five or six?”
Blake hesitated, then he hurried off. I carried Oli over to the couch. When he’d quieted enough I knew he could hear me, I leaned down to whisper into his ear.
“It’s not all bad, you know, when you get sick.”
He made an unimpressed grunting sound.
“I promise, it’s not. You get lots of cold drinks to cool down your throat, and you get to watch all the TV you want. And you know what? Hey, Oli? Know what?”
He sniffled. “What?”
“You get your own blanket fort to watch your shows in. We’ll build it around you while you sip your drink.”
“So Dad isn’t mad at me? For being a baby?”
I bit my lip so I wouldn’t laugh. Oli might take it wrong and melt down again. “Trust me, when he’s sick, he’s a bigger baby than you.”
Blake came back in with a huge pile of blankets, a bowl of chipped ice balanced on top. Dad brought the ginger ale and Oli’s Bluey cup. I got Oli all propped up on a cloud of pillows, his soft-worn nap blanket pulled up to his chin. He watched, glassy-eyed, as we built his fort around him, leaving a gap so he could see the TV. By the time we were done, his eyelids were drooping.
Blake stuck his head in. “How you doing in there?”
“My nose itches,” said Oli. “My eyes itch too.”
“You can close them if you want to. Your eyes, not your nose.”
Oli giggled at that, and wiggled his nose. He sipped his ginger ale, then set it aside. A few minutes later, he’d drifted to sleep.
I glanced up at Blake. “You don’t have to stay.”
“I want to be here, if that’s okay with you.”
“You’ll get sick.”
“I’ll survive.” He smiled down at Oli. “Thing is, if I did leave, I’d just keep on calling. The ringing might bug him, so I should stay, right?”
I could see Blake was worried, though he was trying not to show it. He was hovering over Oli like the scared dad he was, seeing his kid sick for the first time.
“He’ll likely just sleep,” I said. “But he’ll be glad to see you when he wakes up.”
Blake sat on the floor where he could see into the blanket fort. I sat beside him, and we watched TV. We watched Oli’s kid shows, but we mostly watched Oli, mindful of every sigh, every sniffle and twitch. After a while, Blake put his arm around me. I leaned my head on his shoulder, glad he had stayed. I’d been through a few of these vigils before, by Oli’s bed when he’d brought home some bug. It’d always been lonely and scary and awful, but now with Blake here, my fear felt less sharp.
“He’s less sweaty,” said Blake, after a while.
I couldn’t tell if he was right or not, but I nodded anyway. Oli did look peaceful, at least for now, and if he woke up feeling punky, we’d get him through.
Oli’s cold came and went in a couple of days. Blake stayed through all of it, bunking down in a guest room. I took them both out to celebrate when Oli could taste again, to Olivieri’s pasta buffet. Blake’s whole face lit up when he saw where I’d brought us.
“I don’t know if you remember, but we had our first date here.”
“It’s almost my name,” said Oli, before I could respond. “My whole name’s Olivier, and this is Olivieri’s. If you took that last ‘i’ off, this would be my restaurant.”
Blake laughed at that. “Well, you couldn’t pick better.”
“I’m getting spaghetti,” Oli announced. “And the salad with the… wrinkly things?”
“Sun-dried tomatoes.” I gave Blake a nudge. “Don’t you dare do that lecture, you know, with the spoons.”
Blake made his eyes go wide, all innocence. “Lecture? What lecture?”
“The one you gave me. You know, about the right way to eat pasta.”
Oli stopped in his tracks. “What? There’s a wrong way?”
“Yeah, throwing it on the walls.” I mussed up his hair. “Now, where do you want to sit?”
“There. By the window.” Oli pointed, and we followed his lead. We all got spaghetti, and then we got ice cream, and we took Oli to a nearby swing park. By the time we got back, he was too tired for his bath, too tired to stand up, even. Too tired for his story. Blake carried him upstairs and we put him to bed, then we sat outside on the porch swing.
“That was great,” said Blake. “A family night out.”
I couldn’t see his face too well in the dusty porch light, but he was smiling, gazing off past the trees. I wondered if he remembered any nights with his own family, any nice dinners before tragedy struck. I’d always noticed how he’d look at families out together, but it hit me more poignantly now I had my own.
“It’s been good having you here,” I said. “Normally, a night like this, I’d be dead on my feet. I mean with work and all, and Oli down sick. You really took the pressure off.”
“That’s my job, right?”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that. Blake was Oli’s dad. He was growing more into it with each day that passed, finding his footing and his place in our lives. But he had another job far, far away. A job I doubted he could leave, even if he wanted. He’d made a deal with the Army, they’d pay for his school, and he’d pay them back with seven years’ service, not counting his residency or the time he’d spent studying. Seven years — Oli would be ten by then. Riding a bicycle. Walking to school.
“They change so fast at this age,” I said.
Blake blinked at me. “What?”
“Kids Oli’s age. They grow up so fast.” I thought about Blake watching Oli grow in flashes, a whole new kid every time he came home. And how often would that be? Once a year? Twice? Less, if they shipped him off to some war zone.
“You’re frowning,” said Blake.
I shook my head. “Just wistful, I guess.” I wanted to ask when we’d see him again. If he’d be home for Christmas or Oli’s birthday. If he could transfer home, if that was something he wanted. The Army had bases here. Couldn’t he work on one? He’d thought of it once, working in rehab. Doctors with dual specialties weren’t that rare. He could be one of them… but would he want that? Would we be worth uprooting his life?
I bit back a bitter laugh. Four years ago, Blake had been scared to talk to me. Scared that conversation would end in goodbye. Now that shoe was on my foot. I was terrified.
“Claire? You okay?” Blake touched my hand.
I conjured a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.”
“You’re not getting what Oli had?” He touched my forehead. I brushed him off.
“No, no. I’m fine. Let’s just sit here and watch the last of that sunset, and listen to those crickets sing us their song.”
Maybe it was better to live in the moment, enjoy what I had while I could have it. But if there was the slightest chance Blake would step up, the slightest chance we could be a real family, wasn’t it my job to give him that push? For Oli, at least, if not for myself?
I watched the sun go down over the trees, and the pinpricks of stars scatter the sky. Next time, I promised myself. Next time, I’d ask him. But not tonight, when the moon was so perfect, and Blake’s hand in mine so warm and strong. I’d keep tonight to remember, sweet and perfect, then next time, next time.
Next time, I’d ask.