Chapter Twenty-Four
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“Don’t you think I should, I don’t know, meet the person taking care of my son when we’re at work all day?” Roman says. There it is, “my son.”
He flips through the mail, mostly medical bills and another Melbourne postcard, this time sunbathers on St. Kilda Beach. Always addressed to Holden and signed Love, Grandma Sue* (*Until we meet and you come up with something better).
Roman sniffs the air. “Did you start smoking again?” I pretend I don’t hear him.
I knew Roman’s patience had a limit. He had a point.
I talked nonstop about Daisy, and Roman still hasn’t met her.
But why did everything in my life need to also be a part of his life?
Why couldn’t I have anything that was just mine?
Before we’d had Holden, he went for pints at the pub, I went to see a seven-hour dramatic reading of The Great Gatsby at the Public, and we’d both come home and have sex and go for breakfast at B&H Dairy in the morning.
We had our own lives and we had each other.
But now it felt like he had his own life.
I had a BabyZen Yoyo Connect collapsible stroller with a bassinet adapter.
Okay, so I hadn’t exactly told Roman about the edibles or our community in a vacant luxury tower, but I had told him that Daisy lived in a fancy building with a play center and a nice playground, and that we’ve been spending a lot of time there.
Wasn’t that enough? Why did my mom brain have to be an open cavity where the whole family dwelled?
But it wasn’t just that. I worried that if Roman ever met Daisy, if he ever learned that my shelter was actually an oligarch’s tax shelter, he would put his foot down.
He would declare that Daisy is a New Age grifter porn star who can’t be trusted around “his son.” I don’t want him to audit Daisy.
I don’t want him to find out that we day drink and microdose to Sofia Coppola movies.
I don’t want him to find out that Daisy had a three-way with the governor of Pennsylvania.
Or that her last boyfriend (patron? boss?
john?) was an international fugitive who pillaged the Malaysian Sovereign Wealth Fund.
I don’t want him to put a stop to the special thing we have going at 527 Park.
“Um. Yeah. Y’all should totally meet. It’s crazy you haven’t yet,” I say as I unpack the Lucky 456 Chinese food I picked up when I walked Holden thirty-eight blocks downtown.
It’s early September and, confronted with either collapsing the Yoyo on a bus or betting on the humanity of strangers to help me carry it down the subway stairs, we decided to walk.
And the only thing better than a long walk with Holden on a September night in New York is a long walk on a September night that includes soup dumplings.
There was a time when I’d be afraid to tell the Juju Bean moms that we eat dim sum.
Can you imagine the blowback about sodium?
MSG? But now I am bursting with pride that Holden, at six months old, relishes wonton soup.
I put on a subway voice, spooning rice into his mouth.
“The next stop on this F train is Chubs Cheeks Station. Please stand clear of the closing cuteness.” It’s the last night before I go back to work.
Roman got home by seven so we could have dinner together.
His schedule is finally easing up. He offers to take an afternoon off, say he has a doctor’s appointment or something, and meet up with Daisy and Holden in the park.
“Yeah. That could totally work,” I say. No. No. That can never work. “When were you thinking? I’ll let her know.” I take out Roman’s favorite pork buns. I walk to get him an IPA, which means I am either hiding something or want something, or both.
Roman comes up behind me, pops a dumpling. “I dunno. Maybe Friday?” I feel his breath and get a rush of fear and something resembling horniness.
“Holden has gymnastics on Fridays.”
“He can’t even stand up yet.”
I shoot Roman a look. “He’s close! Closer than some thirty-two-week-olds.
I swear, some of these babies are just blobs.
But not my snuggle bear, are you, little koala?
He’s hitting all his milestones early and it’s because I’ve been working with him on his fine motor skills every week.
His instructor actually trained in the Reggio Emilia method in Reggio, Italy. ”
“You’re not serious? The Reggio Emilia?” Roman says, teasing me.
I wonder if I can murder him with a chopstick. I put on an accommodating voice. “Can we give it a week or two? Just until I settle back into my work schedule?”
He’s half listening. “Next weekend? She could come with us to the zoo.”
No, Roman. No, Daisy will not be joining us for an all-day outing to the Bronx Zoo, followed by lasagna on Arthur Avenue.
“I told you, she works on weekends, and she gets enough of Holden during the week.” I kiss Holden, whose eyes trail me as if he is following every word.
“Not that anyone could ever get enough of you, little koala.”
Roman lets it go. “Okay,” he says. “The rugby’s on.
” He sits on the sofa and turns on a replay of a game on BBC World.
For the first time, I am grateful for rugby.
I am grateful for my husband, who is slightly softer now and who squints a little when he reads texts and whose eyes somehow look kinder with crinkles at the edges.
My husband, who is drinking an IPA on the sofa, and who will misplace his wallet in the morning.