Chapter 25
25
The time when Max is old enough to stand, but he won’t, and he won’t be held by Jane. It is not a skill they’ve developed over the past year. They have done it hardly ever. Abe’s mother is so often here, making it easier. When Abe is here, Max goes to him. They have a special bond, perhaps born in spite of Jane. Also, Max is so self-sufficient. Crawling and then teetering to whatever he needs. He is strong and assertive, capable. Even now.
And so, they aren’t used to it—Jane and Max. It is as though their bodies brake hard before contact. As though a small red thing darts into the road and they slam to a mutual stop. Negative space between them. Definitive. Resolute.
Please stand up, Jane says. Please. Her back is aching. Max is heavy now. A big boy.
But Max doesn’t stand up. Instead, he writhes so Jane can’t hold on to him but cannot let go either. What does he want her to do? She fumbles, isn’t strong enough. Never was. She cannot sing to him or rock him. He would never let her though she can still—a protective mechanism—imagine doing it, and the delicious quiet that would ensue.
It is all too late.
Max’s face is hot as a storm and he is kicking—he needs comfort from someone else. There isn’t someone else—and Jane, it only takes a second, lets him fall. Maybe she has a choice. Truly, she would not know.
What happens is that Jane releases her arms from underneath him and down he goes like a sack in front of her feet. Jane feels the thud of his body in the floor, not once but twice. And then there’s a startling quiet. Shushed as a painting.
For a moment, Jane fears that she’s done something irrevocable. She can’t look down. Then the crying starts up again, this time with vengeance. Or at least that’s what Jane hears. Utter disapproval of the person that Jane is and isn’t, and for what she cannot provide.
And can she blame him? She cannot.
Max grabs at his mother’s legs as though he wants fistfuls of her flesh in his dumpling hands.
Jane looks at the ceiling. Please, she says out loud. She prays.
There is the time after Abe’s first novel sells to Spain, the Netherlands, France, Italy, and the UK in a day that Abe suggests they go for a drink. Jane and Abe alone. Just them two.
Jane will take any excuse.
But they do not have a babysitter. Abe’s mother is Max’s only caretaker—and this week, she is in the Bahamas with Abe’s father and some couple friends.
And yet, the yearning to go out for Jane, to be in the world again and in the world with Abe, is tangible, acute. A cool blue body of water on a hot summer day. Jump.
Truly, Jane is happy for Abe’s success. She is, in part, the reason for it. She has goaded him, supported him, over all these years. He would have given up, surely and otherwise. And even if it feels so wildly remote to her now—art as fulfillment, fulfillment as fulfillment—Jane longs to tell him how proud she is of him. And also, to have a drink.
Abe is going to figure it out, she thinks, as he does. He always does.
For Jane, it has been a day. A month. Many months. Lately, Abe has been busier than usual, leaving Jane, the default, at home to care for Max alone. Jane does not envy Abe exactly unless she thinks of things directly. And she does not. If she were in her right mind, perhaps she would have found direct fault. But Jane is nothing if not a woman who can follow through. And she wanted this baby, didn’t she? She wanted to be a mother, right?
There was the time that Jane and Max finger-painted together at the kitchen table. Orange and red. Jane watched Max’s intent face—lips pursed in focus, cheeks heavy in contentment—and longed to touch it. Share her pride. But she knew how unwelcome a gesture like that would be. Instead, she stayed silent. Support in non-presence even as she sat right there. She knew.
Too, there was the time when Jane locked herself in her room for nearly an hour just to catch her breath. Max wouldn’t have dinner. Wouldn’t have a bath. Wouldn’t be read to. Jane had nothing left. The thing about parenting, Jane thinks, is how often failure is on the line. All the time. Every time.
Jane kept imagining that after a while, they might fall into a rhythm: Jane and Max. Max and Jane. They might have to.
They did not.
We will put him to sleep, Abe says. And just lock the door. He’ll be fine.
A gin martini. A bourbon. Jewelry. Shoes. Jane quivers with hope.
Max goes to sleep at nine p.m. Jane and Abe lock the door.
On the bar there are peanuts and small white napkins with the letter P . Jazz is playing quietly. Jane’s first thought is that no one else here feels quite like they do. These people sip, wipe their mouths with little dab movements. They haven’t fled a fire, wouldn’t have any idea of what Jane and Abe are doing, Jane thinks. Or of what they are not.
In his room, locked in, Jane doesn’t worry that Max will get hurt. Instead, she is afraid of what will happen if she doesn’t come here, get out. It is like that so often. The doctor had said it would get better. The medicine would help. It has and it has not. On the inside, the storm rages less. But the relationship—Jane and Max—remains stormy, at best. That, the medicine, it seems, cannot repair.
Jane and Abe don’t stay longer than twenty minutes. Their eyes are attuned to sharp movements, ears to sirens, alarms. But nothing triggers. Max seems smaller and farther away by the moment. They hold hands. Jane can imagine getting in a cab, on a train, on a plane. She can imagine cocktails far, far away from here.
Congratulations, Jane says to Abe. She means it. Somehow, saying it feels as much an acknowledgment as a prayer. She says it again. She touches his face. She doesn’t think of forgiveness. Just relief.
When they come home, Max’s door is still shut, locked, but there is light around the perimeter, leeching out. For a moment, Jane fears he’s set himself on fire. He has not.
Inside, she sees that Max has turned on the light and fallen back to sleep like that, in the middle of his floor, clutching a soft monkey and a toy fire truck. Jane crouches down next to him, runs her fingers through his hair. He smells like milk and grass. She puts her face to his cheek.
What she wouldn’t give.
Max rolls away from her. Jane moves closer. He rolls away. She moves closer. She puts his arm across her back.
For a moment perhaps too short to measure, there they are, almost holding each other. Love born from presence if not affection. Born nonetheless, she thinks.
Max doesn’t wake up. He sleeps right through. Jane is too tired to stay and also too tired to sleep.
It will be tomorrow soon. After a while, Jane turns off the light. She sits for a long time alone in the kitchen and thinks or doesn’t think. She does what she can.