Chapter 4 #2
Though I forced myself to go half a dozen times, I only spoke up at the very last meeting, and that was only three sentences: My wife died two months ago.
Cancer. I’m trying to be okay for my kids.
Does the word cancer on its own count as a sentence?
Anyway. The group leader with the combover and a large neck tattoo tried to get more out of me, but it was like someone wired my jaw shut.
I could only sit there, shaking my head, until he sighed like a disappointed teacher and went on to the next person in the circle.
Afterward, I took the steps up two at a time and burst out of the building, startling a stray cat, then dry-heaved next to my car, sweating and shaking and wondering if I would ever really be okay again.
I didn’t return to the group. I also never bought sugary cereals again.
Talking with Rose about Michelle felt … good.
It felt healing, the way people always said talking about her loss should, but never did.
So far today, we’ve covered a lot of ground.
From our favorite childhood TV shows to our spouses dying.
And both topics felt easy. Maybe something about her just puts me at ease.
And maybe this—the unfamiliar itch I suddenly feel, the spark of something almost unrecognizable—is why letting Rose stay in my loft isn’t the same as any of the times I’ve opened my home before. It didn’t feel … gentlemanly.
Wolf doesn’t ask why I can’t just stay in my loft with Rose, and I’m glad. In all honesty, she and I could cohabitate for a few days. We’re adults. There are two bedrooms and separate bathrooms. It would be just fine.
But I don’t feel like it’s the best idea.
Partly because I’m not sure if Rose would feel comfortable enough telling me if she’s uncomfortable with the idea. I can already tell she doesn’t want to put me out. I suspect she’d agree even if the idea of sharing a loft with a man she hardly knows isn’t what she wants.
There’s another reason too, but this one is a little less solid in my mind. More of a hazy misgiving, an internal warning.
I’m not sure if it’s the nature of our conversation earlier or the surprising hum of awareness when I touched her arm or maybe the way she called me Theo—but I need a little breather. Some space to examine my feelings and consider the thoughts I’m having about the pretty baker.
I don’t think I can do that while sharing the same square footage.
For no discernible reason now, the house Wolf and I are standing in gives an agonizing groan. I take it as a warning siren.
“We should probably leave now before the roof collapses on us,” I say, nudging Wolf back toward the door. “I think I might need to hire an inspector.”
Possibly a bulldozer.
“Good call,” Wolf says. “Better safe than structurally unsound, as I always say. And hey, if you need a place, there’s always my bunker.”
“You’d let me stay in your bunker?”
“Of course,” he says. “It’s very spacious.”
Wolf says very spacious, but I’m still picturing some kind of spartan cement cube, like a tornado shelter with musty air and cots for sleeping.
“I’ll be sure to let you know,” I tell him. “I think I’ve got a place, but thanks for the offer.”
“Anytime,” Wolf says. “My bunker is always open.”
I grin. “Ever thought of using that as a mayoral slogan?”
Wolf strokes his mustache thoughtfully. “No, but it does have a nice ring to it.”
As it turns out, Lindy is more than happy to have me stay with her and Pat when I show up.
In fact, she starts to cry as she ushers me into the house. Though I’m not sure they’re tears of joy so much as tears of exhaustion. My suspicion is confirmed when I offer to hold Evangeline so she can have a little break and the tears intensify.
“Thank you,” Lindy says, placing a swaddled, sleeping baby in my arms. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. And ignore the crying. I’m not actually sad. It’s just stupid hormones. I hate hormones.”
I want to tell her that even if it’s not just hormones, it’s okay to cry, but this doesn’t seem like the best time.
Lindy is uncharacteristically disheveled.
Her brown hair is in a messy bun on top of her head, but a number of strands have come loose and are sticking out in different directions.
It’s giving … frazzled Medusa. The dark circles under her tear-filled eyes make me want to strong-arm her upstairs to take a nap.
“I forgot what this is like,” she says through a yawn. “The part where every moment of every day is consumed by a tiny, beautiful, amazing dictator.”
She reaches out to stroke Evangeline’s cheek. The baby makes a little grunting noise that throws me back a few decades. For a moment, Lindy and I both stare down in awe at her perfect little face.
“She’s so peaceful when she’s not crying,” Lindy says. “You’d never know this sweet face could scream like a banshee.”
I have not witnessed the screaming personally, but the last time I talked to Pat, he told me Evangeline had traded in sleeping all the time like she had for the first five weeks for bouts of inconsolable crying.
“It’ll pass,” I told him, because one thing I distinctly remember from those days is that the second you got used to something, they’d change.
“Lindy,” I whisper now. “Go shower. Or nap—do whatever you want. I’ll be right here.”
“She should be okay for a bit. I nursed her right before you got here. Pat will be back with Jo in about an hour. But if you need me—”
“I won’t. Go.”
Lindy starts for the stairs, then turns around before she’s halfway up. It looks like the tears have started anew. And now her chin is wobbling to boot. I want to give her a hug, but I’m already settled on the couch with Evangeline in my arms and her two dogs at my feet.
“You don’t know what this means to me,” Lindy says. “To have Pat so completely involved, to have you and the other Grahams around to help. With Jo, I was just so … alone.”
Her voice breaks on the last word.
Lindy raised Jo from almost infancy. Her sister, whom I’ve still never met, essentially abandoned her daughter. And Lindy, fresh out of college, took on the role of Jo’s mom while also caring for her own mother as she slipped away into dementia.
I can only imagine how hard that would have been.
“You’re doing great now and you did great back then,” I tell her.
“They always say it takes a village, and I’m so in awe of the fact that when Jo was this little, the village was only you.
And look how Jo is turning out? You are remarkable, daughter.
Now get up there and take some time for you.
Before the hourglass”—I nod down at the sleeping baby—“runs out of sand.”
She goes.
And for the next bit of time, I am uncharacteristically still, doing nothing but sitting on the couch, holding a baby.
I don’t know where the remote is, and my phone is trapped in the back pocket of my jeans.
I don’t want to risk waking Evangeline, which might cut Lindy’s break short, so I decide not to move.
If anyone needs me, they’ll have to wait.
Fortunately or unfortunately, this gives me too much time to think.
Holding Evangeline takes me back. It almost feels like another lifetime when my kids were babies.
I don’t remember having many times like this, where I was simply holding a sleeping baby in a quiet house.
Maybe because we had four in pretty rapid succession, negating the possibility of a quiet house completely.
Did I help Michelle enough? Did I offer her enough support?
I was playing football through most of our kids’ early days, so probably not.
We moved a few times when I got traded and never lived in a city near either of our parents.
I did my best to spend time with the kids when I was home, but there were long days and a lot of travel.
Sometimes, I’d drag myself home, exhausted, and want to fall into bed.
Selfish, I think now.
I only took on a more active role when Michelle got sick. I was present. I played with our kids and helped around the house before that. But only after she was too weak to get out of bed did I realize exactly how much she did every single day.
As much as I’m tempted sometimes to beat myself up over it, I can’t change a thing about those days. I certainly can’t redo them. What I have is this moment: holding my granddaughter, giving my daughter-in-law a much-needed break.
One thing I definitely don’t remember about holding a baby is how tiring it is.
Hoping Evangeline stays asleep, I have to change my hold because my left arm is cramping up.
This is ridiculous—I work out regularly, lifting weights much heavier than this sleeping baby.
And yet my arms feel exhausted from her weight.
By the time Pat and Jo burst through the front door, I’ve managed to prop a throw pillow under each of my arms for support.
Based on the lack of sound from upstairs, I think Lindy must have fallen asleep, and I’m halfway there myself.
The only thing stopping me was the fear of Evangeline falling out of my arms if I dozed off.
“Grandpa Tank!” Jo squeals, hurling her backpack across the room and startling the dogs awake.
Evangeline jerks a little in my arms, but her eyes stay closed.
“Volume level down, Jojo,” Pat hisses, reaching to pet the two dogs winding around his legs.
“Sorry!” Jo whisper-shouts back as she reaches me.
Without knocking into the baby, Jo manages to wrap her arms around my neck and give me a hug from the side. Then she smiles down at her baby sister with so much love it makes my chest ache.
“We’re trying to decide on a nickname,” Jo whispers. “Evangeline is four whole syllables.”
“It is a mighty big name,” I agree. It was a risk letting a six-year-old choose the baby’s name, and I was relieved it wasn’t something outlandish. Evangeline is beautiful—unique without being too strange—and a melodic sound.