Chapter 2 Two Years Later #2
“I’ll pay for a sitter. Anything you need.
Look, the money for this gig is really good.
It’s a good band, and the pay is on a whole different level for me, and that means—I know I’m still a month or two behind on child support, but I could pay you back all that, too.
And this could lead to a tour. I’m doing this for all of us. ”
That’s what he has always said, every time he let me down. And I know it’s sincere, on some level. He is always right on the verge of getting the job that’s going to allow Hannah and me to live a life of luxury, if he just takes this One…Last…Gig.
“I don’t even know if I can find one of our usual sitters at this point,” I tell him. “And I don’t want her to be with a total stranger all day.”
He sighs, like I’m the one being illogical.
“Well, other people in New York must have this problem with school vacation, right? Aren’t there camps or something?
I’m sure we can figure something out. Look, I’m really sorry, okay?
I need to take this because it’s basically an audition for joining the band, but I’ll come up as soon as I can.
And I could be there for the entirety of the week after. ”
“She’ll have school then.”
“Then I’ll come for a weekend.”
“You know what’s really sad about this?” I let the words hang there for a moment, almost not wanting to say them. “I didn’t even tell her you were coming.”
I can hear the quiet on the other end of the phone. Finally, something has managed to sink in.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is low.
It is my turn to sigh. I’m done with him, and it’s breaking my heart a little. “I’ll try to find a sitter, and I’ll tell you how much it costs.”
Then I hang up the phone and look out the window. Calm. Stay calm, Laura.
Three days later, the doorbell rings.
“You can get it, Hannah!” I say as I exit the kitchen, making it clear that just this once, she is allowed to open our apartment door. Hannah glances at me and then runs to the door of our apartment and throws it wide.
“Tabby!”
Hannah throws her arms around my sister’s shoulders, and Abby lifts her up and spins her around.
“You came here from Canada?”
Abby is grinning. “Well, I heard there was some kind of New York holiday called ‘Take Hannah to Museums’ week, and I wanted to be here for it.”
I want to hug her, but it’s hard to make myself step closer.
It’s hard to go through this again—Abby swooping in to help me when my ex-husband bails.
It makes me feel like an idiot every single time, although in this case, it was completely her idea.
I called her to brainstorm what I should do, but it didn’t even occur to me to ask her.
“Hey,” I say, more coldly than I mean to, because I feel so humiliated. She’s had Nick’s number since the first time she met him; that makes one of us.
She walks over, leaving Hannah fiddling with the handle of her rolling suitcase. “What’s wrong?”
“I hate this,” I say, my voice sounding like I’m near tears.
“What? Me shamelessly assuaging my guilt for abandoning you guys?”
I shake my head, unable to get more words out.
“It’ll be fine. It’ll be great.” Abby gives me a hug and smiles. “I’m here for as long as you need me. You should go on a date or something. Make the most of this.”
My sister Abby is a financial writer, so she can work from anywhere.
This is one reason it was so easy for her to leave New York for Canada, and one reason why it hurt so much to see her go.
I love that she’s happy, but she has stopped being my daily emotional support and my most reliable babysitter, and it’s made things a lot harder.
Not impossible, exactly: I managed to get Hannah into an after-school program that runs until six every day, so my child-care costs are manageable.
It’s just shifted the entire rhythm of our lives.
“I’m not doing anything but work before the fifteenth,” I murmur quietly in her ear. “And then Nick may get here.”
“Okay. But plan something fun for next weekend,” Abby whispers. Then her eyes light up with a mischievous smile. “If Nick does show up,” she murmurs, “he can watch Hannah while you go on a date.”
Hannah approaches us and starts pulling Abby by the arm, insisting they return to the sofa to watch her show.
I know Hannah watches too much TV; it’s another one of the penalties I pay as a single mom—not striking the perfect balance between wholesome activities and brain rotting screen time or home-cooked meals and take-out dinners.
“Come on,” Hannah insists as Abby follows her to the sofa. “We’re missing the best part.”
“Okay, okay, kid. When did you get taller than me?”
“I’m not taller than you.” Hannah rolls her eyes.
They sit down and then Hannah leans one elbow right into Abby’s lap, resting her head as she gets absorbed back into her show.
“I’ll get you a ginger ale,” I say, my heart wrenching at the sight of them back together like a little team.
“Perfect,” Abby says with a grin. “I’m going to dribble it all over this kid’s hair.”
“Hey!” Hannah cries.
“Okay, fine, I won’t,” Abby groans. “Maybe just a little dribble?”
“No!” Hannah wails.
It occurs to me, not for the first time, that Abby always has more fun with my kid than I do.
It’s not that I don’t adore Hannah. There’s just a constant thrumming worry when I look at my daughter, a sense that I’m forgetting something like setting up a doctor’s appointment or filling out forms for school.
I rarely think about having fun with her; it’s too far down the list of responsibilities.
As I pour Abby’s ginger ale in the kitchen, I feel an ancient impulse to pour myself a drink.
I haven’t touched alcohol in years, but I still miss that immediate sense of relief I got from sipping something and then staring into space, waiting to feel less of whatever I was feeling right then.
I inherited substance-abuse tendencies from my mom, so I can’t go halfway on alcohol, unfortunately, which means there is none in my apartment.
I still miss it, though, even with occasional AA meetings. Even with help.
That was always part of the appeal of Nick when I was with him.
He supported my sobriety, but he also felt like his own addiction.
Being in his arms was like being on the back of a motorcycle or sipping strong whiskey: dangerous and exciting.
You could forget everything in the world except his hands around your waist, his voice in your ear suggesting some dangerous plan that you were both going to enjoy.
Being with him felt like flying. We just never found a solid place to land.