13. Present
Chapter thirteen
Present
Old habits die hard.
It comes as a surprise to exactly no one when I end up returning to Matt’s house the next day, and the day after that.
Before too long, I become a fixture there.
He’s magnetic, pulling me in just by being himself: funny with a hint of sarcasm, strong but gentle, my missing piece.
I feel it most during stolen moments, like when we hold hands in the blackness of the movie theater at the Disney remake of Snow White with Brett, or when we go to the library for story hour and his knee brushes against mine.
I try not to think about his health, but with Matt out of work and still unable to drive, it’s hard not to.
Every day I make a conscious effort not to spiral while I wait for a good morning text that lets me know he made it through another night stroke-free.
The low-level hum of anxiety surrounding Matt is oddly reminiscent of a bug zapper.
One wrong move and he's dead, it warns.
That doesn’t stop me from rearranging my daily schedule.
I still go into work at noon and leave around 7:30 p.m., but every night I head straight to Matt’s and usually get there in time to help with Brett’s bedtime, reading a chapter aloud from one of my old favorite books, like Ramona the Pest or Charlotte’s Web.
Matt sits on his bed, leaning up against the headboard, with Brett curled up on her pillow next to him and me sitting by their feet, reading, holding up the book to share illustrations with them in the lamplight.
I can’t help but notice that Matt closes his eyes, letting my voice soothe him with the predictability of old stories we both know so well.
He comments that Brett sleeps more soundly now, which makes me happy.
They still sleep in the same bed, but who could blame Brett for wanting to stay close to the one parent she has who’s still here?
After bedtime, we slip out into the kitchen and have dinner together.
Sometimes he cooks simple things like grilled cheese or chicken soup; other times, he orders food from DoorDash or Uber Eats.
Matt’s appetite is notably improving, and though it appears he’s not losing any weight, he hasn’t gained much back either.
Dinners are peaceful and full of conversation.
Seven years is a lot to catch up on. Matt shares baby pictures of Brett.
I talk about my job. Sometimes we ask each other hard questions: he wonders how my dad is doing.
I ask him to share a time when things were happier for him and Leyla.
Every day we talk on the sofa or at the kitchen table until around eleven, when I head home.
Matt ends each night the same way, with the promise of tomorrow and a gentle kiss.
It isn’t cheating. We’re not having sex or anything.
We’re just friends. Okay, yes, I get chills when I’m near him, butterflies when I think about him, and I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t on my mind every night before going to bed.
But we’re friends, like we used to be, and I’m grateful to be able to be there for him.
I’m sure Leyla wouldn’t appreciate the depth of our encounters, and I can’t help but worry that Brett might say something during their after-school Facetime sessions.
According to Matt, though, Leyla’s too busy recounting her own adventures to let Brett get a word in edgewise.
Also, I often remind myself, she left.
One slushy, cold Sunday, we stay inside, unwrapping a brand-new Chutes and Ladders game and alternate between playing that and building a castle out of old boxes, toilet paper rolls and craft paper.
While Matt naps, Brett and I curl up on the couch to watch Splash, a movie from the 1980’s about a man who falls in love with a mermaid.
We make Jiffy Pop on the stove, a first for Brett, and she squeals with excitement as the bag grows bigger and bigger until it’s stuffed to the brim with fresh, hot popcorn.
The following weekend, I have to work on Saturday night running a dance I’ve been planning for months at the center, called “A Midwinter Night’s Dream.
” Matt finds a reptile encounter at the library that he’s excited to take Brett to go see on Sunday, so we plan a day-date.
I show up at 9:30 to drive them over for the 10:00 a.m. event.
However, when I pull up in front of the house, a new car is parked in my spot: a shiny, white Lexus with a bumper sticker that reads The best moms get promoted to Grandma.
The prospect of seeing Diana Thompson sets my nerves on edge.
When I knock, my throat tightens. An older woman answers.
Her previously golden hair is now ash blonde, streaked with lines of silver and white, shoulder-length and coiffed.
She meets me at eye-level; the statuesque beauty I remember so fondly seems to have shrunk a few inches in recent years.
But her eyes still sparkle, and she recognizes me immediately.
“Taylor! Hi!” Brett exclaims, squishing past her grandmother to offer a hug. “Grandma’s coming with us to the snake show!”
“Taylor? Is it really you?” She holds her soft, aged, manicured hands out and places them on my upper arms, giving me a little squeeze. The distant kitchen light looks like a halo above her head.
I nod. “It’s me.”
“You’re simply stunning. It’s so good to see you, sweetheart. How long has it been now?”
The funeral. Of course. “Fourteen years, I think.” I count in my mind. “Fifteen in August.”
As she cocks her head to the side, Mrs. Thompson’s eyes look like they’re filling with tears. In response, my chest cavity floods like a broken engine that someone’s tried to start too many times. I take a deep breath in a moment of awkward, silent musing.
“Well,” Mrs. Thompson sighs. “Come in, dear. Let’s get you out of the cold.” She takes a careful step back, one arm outstretched, offering the same, gracious welcome that’s been burned into my brain from childhood.
The house smells of sugary cinnamon French toast and rich, salty bacon.
Remnants of Brett’s feast are left on the kitchen table.
The counter is lined with platters of food, as if someone just cooked breakfast for a small football team.
A fresh pot of coffee and a full carafe of orange juice sit side-by-side; a bowl of mixed fruit separates them from the hot food items. Brett resumes her place at the table set for one.
“Are you hungry, Taylor? Please. Sit with Brett. Let me fix you a plate.”
Where is Matt? I wonder, looking around. Bathroom, maybe? I take a seat at the table. “Hey, sweetie. Where’s Daddy?” I say to Brett, who happily shovels a forkful of French toast into her mouth.
“Sick,” Brett replies, gulping down a swig of orange juice. “He threw up in the night.” She takes a hearty bite of bacon. “I got scared, so I called Grandma and she came over.”
“Is he okay?” I ask, receiving a plate of food that will be hard to eat now that I’ve lost my appetite.
“He’s fine.” Mrs. Thompson nods inconspicuously at the recycling bin next to the door, which has close to 10 empty Coors Light bottles in it.
“He was worked up overnight and must have just tired himself out. But Brett and I slept in her room, didn’t we, love?
” She smooths out Brett’s silky, dark hair and plants a kiss on her head.
“We had our own little sleepover, me and my girl.” I notice the exhaustion in the woman’s eyes, the slight hunch she carries in her upper back as she walks back over to the kitchen counter. “Coffee, dear?” she asks me.
“I’m okay, thanks. I had a cup earlier.” My mind swirls with questions.
Did he drink until he got sick? Why? Where’s Mr. Thompson?
Should we call his doctor? Are we going to the thing at the library without him?
The sweetness of butter and maple syrup sours with the bitter taste of worry in my mouth.
“I’m going to go freshen up a touch,” Mrs. Thompson says. “You girls finish up and then, Brett, please put on your shoes. We’ve got a date with some reptiles!”
“Okay, Grandma,” Brett smiles, as Mrs. Thompson disappears into the bathroom.
“So,” I say to Brett, “you had a busy night, huh?”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “Grandma came quick, though.”
“Does that happen a lot? Daddy getting sick during the night?”
“Once or twice. Not usually.”
“Well, you have a very special grandma. Did you know that?” I wink at Brett. “Do you know, the very first time I met your grandma I was your age?”
“Really?” Brett’s eyes widen.
“Yup,” I continue. “It was at my sleepaway camp. Well, mine and your daddy’s.
He was there with your grandma and grandpa taking a tour of the camp.
I was crying and your daddy found me and asked me to play ninjas with him.
But he didn’t tell your grandma where he was going, and she came and found him over by me.
That was the first time I ever met her.”
“Why were you crying?”
Vivid details flood my memory. The never-ending crowd of parents who had come.
All those children who would be made to feel special with trips off camp to lunch or to go shopping.
The ketchup stain on my shirt from a hot dog that sat on the grill too long.
The fear that my parents didn’t love me enough to come for me.
Worse, the fear that they might never come back.
“I don’t remember,” I reply. “But your daddy made me laugh. He was hiding behind my cabin.”
“I didn’t know Daddy went to camp. Was it fun?”
“Fun?” I smile, thinking. “Yes, it was definitely fun.”
“Then you shouldn’t have been crying.”
“I was just having a bad day. But I loved camp. It was great. Your daddy didn’t go when he was that young. Only when he got a little older. Eight, I think. That time that I met him and your grandma was only his first visit.”
“What did you guys do?”
“At camp?”
Brett nods.
“Oh, all sorts of things. Worked at the farm, rode horses, went to the beach. I learned how to dance there. And I did lots of crafts. And learned how to bake and cook.” I can’t help grinning as my head swells with memories, too many to list. “And we slept there. In little wood cabins. For eight weeks!”
“What about your parents?”
“Nope. No parents. Just the kids.”
Brett’s eyes widen. “You weren’t scared?”
I lean forward. “At first, I was. But I got used to it. It was actually really great.”
“Hmm,” Brett considers. “Maybe I should go to camp.”
“I think six is a little too young,” I say. “Your grandma was right to wait until your daddy was older to send him. But, I’ll tell you what. How would you like to go there and visit some time?”
“Your camp? It’s still there?”
“Of course it is! I’d be happy to take you for a visit. I bet your daddy would like that, too.” At least I hope so. “What do you think?”
Brett takes the last bite of French toast, mopping up the syrup with it before popping it into her mouth. She gives me a thumbs up and nods.
“It’s a date,” I promise. “We’ll do it in a few weeks, when the weather gets a little warmer.”
“Cool!” Brett grins.
I clear the table, piling the dishes into the sink. Mrs. Thompson reappears, her face covered in a fresh layer of makeup. “You girls ready?” she asks cheerfully.
“Yup!” Brett scrambles over to the front door and pulls her sneakers on.
“Do you want me to cover this up?” I ask, waving at the spread on the counter.
“No, it’s okay. We should leave it out in case Matt wakes up. He might be hungry. Besides,” she goes on, “we’ll be back in a little while. It won’t go bad. Just do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Can you leave him a note? Let him know we went to the library. Just in case he gets up and is disoriented.”
“No problem.” I rummage through the junk drawer and find a pad of Post-it notes and a pen.