Chapter Eleven November Six
Pine Ridge, New York
There’s a lot to do when you’re a husband and dad. I see why some people are afraid of it. It’s a huge deal.
But maybe those guys don’t have women like Imogene or babies like Laurel counting on them. Every second that I haven’t been working, sleeping, or baby-ing, I’ve been filing and trying not to die in a maze of red tape.
It’s worth it, though. Imogene comes in with canned soup and crackers at lunch.
She mastered grilled cheese yesterday. I hear her sweet voice reading to Laurel.
I hear the splashing and giggling at bathtime.
Snatches of song throughout the house, mixed with silly voices and Laurel babbles.
When Laurel cries after napping in her crib, I hear Imogene thunder up the stairs like she’s on a life-or-death mission to retrieve her.
I try to keep things friendly and respectful, making sure Imogene has time to herself every day, that I’m on duty at night when I’m not working, and that I take the afternoons when I have to work at night.
Imogene seems happy. She’s met up with Libby Angelakis a few times and made friends with other ladies at the Mommy and Me class at the library.
She asked about going to a book club if I don’t need her help on Wednesday nights, and I immediately cleared my calendar so she could go, because Imogene loves books. I can tell.
I’m already wondering what books I can get her for Christmas, and if there’s a book section at Chloe’s Curiosities.
Every now and then, in the midst of the happy, busy routines where we’re moving past each other in our own orbits, Imogene glances at me, and the cosmos slows down. I find myself getting all soppy inside.
Sometimes, other things happen outside, too, and I’m mad at myself about that.
Doesn’t stop it from happening, though.
“Mail!”
“Hm?” I look up from my screen, and Imogene has the baby on one hip and a stack of letters in the other. Most are bills. One is a big envelope, like a birthday card. From my boss.
“Huh. Must be doing Christmas cards early,” I muse and open it. “How was clothes shopping?”
“I got Laurel a bunch of winter stuff for twenty dollars! And Libby dropped off some things this morning, but she wants us to give them back when Laurel is done with them in case they have another baby. I got myself a couple of things, too. Um, I— Oh!”
“Oh!” I share Immy’s exclamation of surprise when a cute card with pink giraffes slides out—and so do two gift cards.
I read aloud, “‘Dear Artie, Congrats on the bundle of joy. Here’s something for her, and something for you and your wife. I remember the days of no sleep and no energy. Don’t spend it all on coffee. ’”
“That’s so nice!” Imogene brushes her hand on my shoulder as she peers at the card.
I shouldn’t get so worked up from a little touch, so innocently meant.
But I do. “Would you like to go out to dinner tonight? We can take Laurel with us.”
“Out? To dinner?”
“Like a date. Husbands and wives are supposed to spend time together.”
“We spend all day together.”
“I know.” I’m pressuring her. “It was just a thought,” I say quickly. “Here, you take it. Why don’t you call up one of the people you mentioned from the library and go have a girls’ night? Libby, or Vanessa, or Sophie? It’s the least I can do. It’s a cash card, so you can use it anywhere.”
Imogene hesitates. “Can I dress up if we go out?” she whispers.
“Yes! Yes, absolutely. We could go to the nice Italian place by the market? Or the River House?”
“Ooh!” Imogene lets out a high-pitched, breathy noise. “Would it be like a date?”
I nod slowly. Please let this be the right thing, the answer she wants.
“We don’t have to go out to do that. We could save the money and have dinner at home. I borrowed a cookbook from the library. I’m not sure what all the things are, and I don’t know where to find them in the store, but—”
“Here’s a deal. We go out tonight to the restaurant, and tomorrow night, we cook a recipe together. We’ll go shopping in the morning before I have to support that new hoagie shop integration.”
“What else can we do on a date at home?” Imogene asks, eyes sparkling, smile a mile wide at the prospect of spending time with me—me!
“We could stream a movie. Play a game.” I could kiss you. I could teach you that not all people want to hurt you. I could kiss every part of you until you’re melting in my arms, all happy and safe. Until you say you’ll never leave.
“I... I’ve seen people play games, but I’ve never played one. I know how to do word searches and puzzles,” Imogene says.
Anger wells up in me. Not at her. But it’s the way she had so little, and she admits her limitations so fearlessly, and to me—they’re just poof of how fucking brave she is.
I’m so stupidly head over heels in love with this heroic, gorgeous woman, the woman who is willing to protect my daughter and be the mother of my child.
So stupid that I stand up suddenly, in her space, and just—can’t speak. Can’t do anything but lean forward and kiss her, way harder than I should have.
“You are so perfect. So brave, and so good at everything, and so effing smart, Imogene. You’re magical, and I don’t mean because of your bloodlines; I mean because you learn so fast, you do so much. With nothing. I’m sorry I kissed you. I didn’t mean to. I mean, I shouldn’t have, but I—”
Baby still on her hip, she leans forward and up, and kisses me, too.
Kisses me back, soft, swift, and shy, and leaves me crashing back into my chair, panting like something way more erotic happened than just a kiss.
But I guess when you’re with the right person, even a kiss can knock your socks off.
Imogene slowly slides from the room. “What time is our date?” she asks.
Since we’re bringing a baby with us, which is not the most ideal thing for romance, I have to pick a time when she’s likely to sleep peacefully through the meal, even though that means going during her nap or waking her up to resettle her when we get home. “I was thinking 7:30?”
“Perfect.”
I HAD MY FIRST KISS. Two kisses. One from him. One I gave back.
I want to call Libby, but she thinks Artie and I are already married. I decide to call Lesha once I’m out of the house and somewhere I can squeal like a giddy idiot.
When I take Laurel to the park, all bundled up and snug in her stroller, I’m floating on air, planning what to wear, and getting to talk on a cell phone like a normal person with a life and friends. And maybe a boyfriend. A husband soon.
“Hello?”
“Lesha? I-It’s Imogene.” We’ve moved from texting in the college’s messaging program to texting on the phone, but this is the first time I’ve called her.
“Imogene! Hi! Oh, my God, are you okay? Are you in trouble?”
“What? No! I’m the opposite. I’m wonderful.”
Lesha yells something that crackles out, but I don’t think it was to me. In a second, her voice is clearer. “Hi, girl. I’m on break now. I’m at work.”
“I’m at work, too.” I look around and realize (for the millionth time) that I love my job.
It’s not easy, but it’s wonderful. “I’m pushing Laurel through the park in a stroller, and tonight.
.. Tonight, Artie and I are going out to dinner.
” My first date. I was never supposed to date, or even live to see adulthood, not if my parents had their way.
Lesha’s voice is excited at first. “Girl, what!? Oh my gosh!” But it turns grave. “Wait, isn’t Artie your boss?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a big no-no, hon. He’s got all the power. He can’t be asking you out to dinner.”
“But I like him. He offered and then said I could just take the money and go out myself or with a friend, but I want to go with him. And he treats me like a princess—well, he treats me like a princess if the prince were on a tight budget. Lesha, I think I... I think I’m in love.”
“Oh, girl. You’re just on a high. You’ve finally gotten out of an oppressive situation. You think the first decent man is your Prince Charming. Don’t be fooled like that, or you’ll end up back in the same kind of situation, trapped as some housewife, under his thumb.”
“But that’s not... But that’s not what Artie and I talk about.
He helps me take classes, and he’s helping me get all of my papers, helping me file for a birth certificate since—since my stepfather has all my papers,” I fib to hide the darker explanation.
I go to the library, and shopping, and I have other friends.
They come over for coffee, and I meet up with them at the library. ”
“All in a week?”
“All in a week. I love this town. People are friendly, and they like me for who I am.”
“Aww, hon. That’s great. But don’t think a place is too great after a week. Or that a man is too great after anything short of six months. You don’t see a person’s true colors until they’re under stress, frustrated, broke, exhausted...”
“Like raising a baby he adopted because no one else wanted, even though he never had a dad, grew up in foster care, and works a job that can have him on call nights, weekends, or the wee hours of the morning? A lot of new expenses on one income. In a new town. First time in his own home, not an apartment?” I blurt out the list as the same sudden, vicious protective streak that hits me anytime I think of Laurel being mistreated hits me again.
Deeper. Lower. I don’t mean to unleash on my friend, and I quickly find myself afraid I’ve alienated her.
“I w-was just giving some examples,” I conclude with a nervous cough.
“That’s your boss? Doing all that?”