Chapter Twelve Somewhere Between Dreams and Reality #2
We then present some toys, and Oscar likes the squeaky ones best—in particular the blue tennis ball. We bounce it on the kitchen floor and play fetch in the family room until he wears himself out, plunks down on the carpet, and chews the squeaky ball until blue fuzz is littered everywhere.
“He’s so perfect,” Amanda says as she drops to her hands and knees and scratches his back. “I can’t believe he’s ours.”
“Me neither,” I reply, because he’s precious and I love him already with all my heart.
When Connor arrives home from hockey practice, he, too, falls hard for Oscar. He sits down on the sofa and rubs his belly.
Later, after dinner, as I’m washing dishes and Amanda is doing her homework at the kitchen table, I mention that Oscar will need to go outside and do his business before bed.
“I’ll do it,” she shouts, raising her hand, and fetches Oscar’s harness from the basket in the family room. She clips it on, hooks the leash, and then calls out to her brother in the basement. “Connor! I’m going to walk Oscar! Do you want to come?”
“Yes!” He runs up, taking two stairs at a time. They put on their coats and venture out the front door.
As their mom, I’m pleased to see them doing something together, because they’re at an age where they don’t have much in common.
I watch them from the front window as they pass under the fluorescent glow of the streetlight at the end of our driveway, and I wish Nate were here to share in this moment.
By the time Nate pulls into the driveway, it’s past midnight, and I’m lying on the family room sofa.
Oscar is asleep in Amanda’s room, stretched out beside her with his head on her pillow, snoring.
I know this because I’ve peered in more than once to check on them, and I left the door ajar in case Oscar decides he needs to exit the room for any reason.
At the sound of a car door slamming shut, Oscar wakes and jumps off Amanda’s bed. He lands with a thump and races downstairs. Nate’s key in the door sends Oscar into a frenzy. He barks ferociously at the intruder who is entering our house.
In my bathrobe and slippers, I rise quickly because I don’t want him to wake the kids, but it’s probably too late for that. “It’s okay, Oscar,” I tell him as Nate walks in, but Oscar won’t stop barking. I squat down and stroke his back to calm him.
I look up at Nate. “Welcome home. This is Oscar, who is clearly a good guard dog.”
He’s still barking, so Nate squats down and offers the back of his hand for Oscar to sniff. “Hey, buddy. It’s okay. I live here too. It’s nice to meet you.”
I feel a twinge of nostalgia at the reminder of how Nate used to connect with Scooter and Dolly, but it seems so distant now, like another life.
Oscar stops barking but continues to growl. He refuses to approach Nate or sniff his hand.
“This is so strange,” I say, still working to calm him. “He’s been incredibly sweet all day. He must be scared. This is all a big change for him.”
Amanda appears at the top of the stairs in her pajamas, rubbing her eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I reply. “Dad just came home, and Oscar’s being protective. Sorry he woke you. You can go back to bed.”
Without a word, she turns and leaves.
Nate rises, removes his coat, and hangs it on the coat-tree. “Let’s give him a minute to get used to me. I’ll get a drink. We can ignore him and act normal.”
“All right.” I lead the way to the kitchen, and Oscar follows me like a shadow, keeping close.
Nate moves to the liquor cupboard and withdraws the bottle of Bumbu rum we’ve had since Christmas.
“Really?” I ask. “On a Wednesday night?”
He gives me a look, brings out a small crystal tumbler, and opens the freezer door to scoop out some ice. “It’s been one of those days. Would you like one?”
“No, thanks.”
I stand at the kitchen island and watch him pour his drink, swirl it around until the ice cubes clink together, and then take a sip.
“I need to watch some TV,” he says.
This means sports. He tells me it calms his brain after a busy night.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, curious about what might have occurred at the restaurant.
He exhales heavily. “There was an electrical fire this afternoon. Thank God it happened before we opened, but still.”
“Oh, my gosh. Was anyone hurt?”
He waves a hand dismissively through the air. “No, it was nothing like that. It was just some sparks from the outlet in the office.” He moves toward the sofa. “But we lost power and had to get an electrician in pronto.”
“That’s horrible,” I reply. “Was he able to fix everything?”
“Yes, after tearing out part of the wall. I guess that’s what you get for buying an old building. We were able to open on time for dinner, but now we need to replace all the wiring—everything—to bring it up to code.”
Nate collapses onto the sofa and picks up the remote control.
“It definitely sounds like one of those days,” I reply and wonder about the cost of something like that, which worries me because the restaurant’s profit margin is slim at the best of times. “Can you get a few different quotes?”
“I will, but the guy today gave me a ballpark figure.” Nate sips his drink, then tips his head back against the sofa and blinks up at the ceiling for a few seconds. “It’s a lot.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“Good, because you don’t want to know.”
Slowly, I move to the chair across from him and sit down. “Can you use the restaurant’s line of credit?”
“I can,” he replies, “but we’re barely keeping our heads above water as it is. Sometimes, if we have a slow week, I’ve had to dip into that to pay my employees, so there’s not much room left for a renovation.”
I swallow with unease. “Are there any areas where you could cut back on expenses? I mean . . . some of your menu items are pretty extravagant.”
He frowns. “I’m not going to start serving beans on toast, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
I hate it when he gets like this.
“I’m not suggesting that at all. But surely there are other things . . . fixed costs you could trim. Or maybe you could get by with fewer employees. I could help out. Don’t forget I built a successful business in a previous life, and I was a waitress in high school.”
Nate sits forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “If I laid people off and started relying on my wife to greet guests at the door, tongues would wag. I don’t want to risk the restaurant’s reputation. I’ve worked too hard to get here, and we’re so close.”
“To getting a Michelin star?” I ask, feeling certain he’s been living in a fantasy world, because Canada’s east coast is not even on their radar. I know because I monitor these things.
Nevertheless, he nods and sips his drink.
“Does it really matter that much?” I ask impetuously. “You get great reviews, and you’re considered one of the best restaurants in the city. Can’t that be enough? Because there’s a lot of politics involved in getting a Michelin rating. It’s not just about the food.”
His eyes are bloodshot when they meet mine. “Trust me, I know how difficult it is, but that’s why I’m working so hard for it. I want to be the first. Then we wouldn’t have to worry about paying employees. The increase in revenue would take care of everything.”
Feeling deflated, I sit back in the chair and rub the back of my head. Oscar has lain down on top of my feet.
“If I can reach that goal,” Nate continues, “then I can think about slowing down and spending more time with you and the kids. I’d have the funds to hire the right people to maintain my vision.”
I feel as if we’ve been going around in circles. We’re back to that same old conversation we’ve had a hundred times before—when he promises to slow down when he reaches a certain goal. But the goalposts keep moving. This time, there’s a renovation to consider.
“So what are you going to do?” I ask while struggling to suppress my frustration. “Can you ask the bank to increase your credit limit?”
He finishes his drink and sets the glass on the coffee table. “I can, if I have to, but interest rates are killing me right now. It’s like one step forward, two steps back.”
My stomach starts to churn because I sense where this conversation is going.
He looks at me. “Would you consider loaning me the money? If I get that star, I’ll have no trouble paying it back.”
All the muscles in my body tense. He’s my husband, and I love him.
I’ve supported him up and down every path of this career journey, and I have no regrets about that.
I was thrilled the day he purchased the building (for which I provided the down payment, and my name is on the deed).
When he hung his sign out front, we celebrated with champagne.
And on the first night he opened his doors, I took my parents, and we all ordered the most expensive items on the menu.
But that was then, and the journey has been arduous ever since.
I’m not just referring to Nate’s obsession with the restaurant, or the fact that I lost both my parents in the first few years of business.
Then COVID-19 was especially difficult. Nate wasn’t easy to live with during Oblique’s closure.
He became irritable and closed off, and he still hasn’t returned to his old self.
“I’m not sure about that,” I reply, because in all honesty, I’m not confident that he’ll ever be able to pay it back.
Maybe if he gets the star, it’ll all work out, but I can’t help but feel it’s a pipe dream.
“That money is our nest egg for retirement,” I remind him.
“And it’s meant to cover the kids’ education. ”
“Yes, of course we want to do that,” he replies. “And we will. But that’s at least two years away.”
“Time moves quickly,” I remind him.
We stare at each other across the width of the family room, and I hate this. I can’t bear to say no to him, but I don’t want to be irresponsible with the money I’ve set aside for the future. The money that came from the sale of my company.
“Is that a firm no?” he asks, sounding disappointed, which makes me feel like a greedy old miser.
“It’s late,” I reply. “You know I can’t make important decisions past midnight, when my brain stops working. Let me think about it, okay? We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
“All right.” He gestures toward Oscar. “You should go to bed and take that little guy. He needs a good night’s sleep so that we can start fresh in the morning.”
I take a deep breath to ease the tension in my body. “Yes, you guys definitely got off on the wrong foot.” I sit forward and pat Oscar’s head. “Can I do anything for you?” I ask Nate. “Freshen up your drink? Make you a plate of nachos?”
“No, thanks. I just need to chill and watch some basketball.”
This all feels terribly superficial, as if we’re both uneasy with the conversation we’ve just had and we’re keeping our emotional cards close to our chests.
I wish it wasn’t like this, and I still don’t know how in the world we got here.
I rise from the chair. “Don’t stay up too late.”
“I won’t.”
“And I’m sorry about that fire today, but we’ll figure it out.”
He meets my gaze intensely. “We have to, because I can’t lose Oblique, Sienna. You know I can’t.”
As I stare at him, I feel an immense pressure to help him get through this ordeal—because I understand who he is. Nate needs his restaurant to succeed because he can’t give his father the satisfaction of saying “I told you so.”
But then I remind myself that Nate hasn’t spoken to that wretched man in years. Bill hasn’t even met his grandchildren. At this point, I don’t know why it matters to Nate what his father thinks. I certainly don’t care. As far as I’m concerned, Bill Palmer is persona non grata.
But I keep this to myself, which only serves to accentuate the deep emotional chasm between my husband and me.
“We’ll talk again tomorrow,” I say as I lead Oscar from the room. I walk him to Amanda’s door, where I pick him up, carry him inside to her bed, and set him down gently beside her.
“Go to sleep,” I whisper and give Oscar a kiss on the head before placing one on Amanda’s head as well.
Oscar drops his chin to his front paws and, with those big, beautiful brown eyes, watches me back out of the room.
At some point during the night, long after Nate has crawled into bed beside me and fallen into a deep slumber, I wake to a presence and the strong sense that I’m being watched.
The room is pitch black, so I reach for my phone on the bedside table and raise it to check the time.
It’s 2:48 a.m. As I set it back down, the bluish light from the screen shines on a pair of big brown eyes staring up at me.
It’s Oscar, and I wonder how long he’s been sitting there.
“Hey,” I whisper as I lower my hand to let him sniff it.
He whimpers softly, as if he doesn’t want to wake anyone, but it’s enough to let me know that he’s anxious.
“Are you lonely?” I ask. “Do you want to come up?”
I slide out of bed and carefully lift him onto the mattress. He waits for me to settle under the covers before he snuggles next to me. Soon, we’re spooning like I used to do with Scooter.
“I know you miss your person,” I whisper in his ear as I move my hand to his chest and feel his little heart beating beneath my palm. “I know what that feels like, but you’re in a safe place now. I promise we’ll love you and take good care of you. For the rest of your days.”
I fall asleep with tenderness in my heart but at the same time wishing solemnly that Nate could let go of his burning need to prove himself to someone who doesn’t deserve his consideration.
I wish Nate could focus instead on those of us who are proud of him no matter what.
Whether the restaurant succeeds or fails, we will always love him. Why can’t he appreciate that?