“He always knew what to say.”

Bobbi’s eyes broke away from mine, glancing down bashfully.  She had beautiful eyes – what color were they anyways?  Blue?  Cornflower blue?  She traced the edges of the table between us with a fingertip, cheeks flushing slightly as she fell into the memory.

“He’d come home, and it would be late.  He worked such long hours, you know.  We both did.  It was before the babies came, but we still had trouble making ends meet.  We both worked so hard.  I’d be in the middle of making dinner – and I’d have all the burners going at once, trying to time it so it all finished cooking at the same time.  It was so hard getting the timing just right.”

She raised her eyes to mine again – such a startling intensity for a woman well past 80.  I wondered briefly what they must have looked like when she was in her twenties – Liz Taylor probably had nothing on Bobbi. She was looking at me, but I could tell she wasn’t seeing me. She was back in her kitchen – steam rising from pots boiling over, damp summer heat curling the hairs around her face.

“I wouldn’t hear him come in, sometimes.  He was tall, but he moved so quiet. Always did.  He’d come up behind me, and I would feel his arms slide around my waist, and I would drop the spoon.  Always the spoon,” she laughed, as her hand rose up of its own accord to tuck flyaway hair behind her ear – hair that framed her face only in memory.  “Every time, that damn spoon.”  She laughed again, her eyes crinkling at the corners.  ” ‘Why do you have to sneak in and scare me?’ I’d say. ‘I’m sick of having to rewash that spoon.’ It’d make me so mad.”

She looked anything but mad.

“You scared me,” I’d say, and I’d turn around to smack him… but he’d draw me into his arms.

‘Dance with me’, he’d say.  I’d tell him to let me go.  The spoon was on the floor.  The pots were boiling over.

‘Dance with me,’ he’d say again.

“I wouldn’t want to.  Who had time for dancing?  I’d spent all that time, trying to get dinner going, so it would all be done at the same time.  I couldn’t just let it burn, and if I turned the burners off, the pasta would be ruined.  It’s not like we had lots of food in the house.  The sauce needed to be stirred, and I still had to rinse off the spoon…. but he wouldn’t listen.  He’d reach around behind me, and he’d turn off the burners, one by one.”

She raised her eyes, glancing up with a shy passion into the the eyes of a face that was no longer there.  “And then he’d stretch his arm up to the shelf above the stove, and he’d twist the knob on the radio, slowly, and the music would get loud.  ‘Dance with me,’ he’d say again.

“And he’d pull me into his arms, and I’d protest – but not for very long.  The dinner would be ruined, but it didn’t matter.  We would dance. The pasta would get cold, and the biscuits would be dry, but he’d hold me in his arms and we’d just lose ourselves in the music.”  Her eyes snapped back to me, and she gave me a surprisingly girlish grin.  “Of course, sometimes we wouldn’t even make it back to dinner.”  The twinkle in her eyes let me know that she hadn’t been very upset about that, either.

“How long were you married?”

“Forty years.  He’s been gone for more than twenty years now.   Twenty years….”  She shook her head, eyes darkening.  “I should have danced with him more.  The dinners didn’t matter.  I should have danced with him more. For such a tall man, he moved so quiet.”

She looked away from me then, glancing around at the beige walls of the upscale retirement home.  It was clean, it smelled of vanilla air freshener and the art in the sitting room was tasteful, but something about the lonely way she’d rolled right over to me, the moment I sat down, let me know that it wasn’t enough.  I was waiting for someone to lead me back to visit my great-aunt, but after Bobbi’s eyes met mine, it didn’t seem right to just leave her.  Alone.

“Twenty years,” she repeated, as she rubbed her hands on the worn armrests of her wheelchair.  She stared wordlessly for a few moments at the fragile, wrinkled skin of her hands.  “If I’d known I would have to be without him for so long…. I shouldn’t have said no, not as often as I did. Who cared if dinner was cold?  ‘Dance with me,’ he’d say, and he’d spin me in the kitchen until the song was done, even it ruined his dinner.  He never minded. So why did I?”

And then she was gone, looking off into the distance, lost in the memory of ruined dinners and the kind of love that lasts.

.

“Oh, for goodness sakes.  I’ll take it.”

The instant I saw the pizza waiting in the heating racks I knew exactly why everyone was dubiously ignoring it.  Pizzas rarely lingered there – a full bag meant a run, and a run meant a tip, and each tip added up.

I’d just come in from a delivery so I should have been the last on the list of drivers, but nobody argued with me as I clocked the run out. I grabbed the red insulated bag from the wire heating racks and stomped out the front door, tossing the bag haphazardly on the passenger seat of my car before speeding out of the parking lot.

I was fuming.   What a bunch of jerks. Nobody ever wanted to take the TIL runs – pizza deliveries to the Transition To Independent Living section of our local college.  The TIL section was a branch of dorms filled with high-functioning mentally disabled students in the process of learning how to live independently – how to live alone in an apartment, maintain a job, cook, pay the bills…. and even how to order the occasional pizza.

The problem with runs to the TIL section of the college is they always took twice or even three times as long as a regular run.  More often than not you had to help the student count out the correct change.  They could underpay or overpay by obscene amounts, and after all the extra time and help you rarely got a tip.  I mean, you couldn’t very well pull your own tip out of the money you were counting back to them.

TIL runs weren’t my favorite runs, but they definitely didn’t deserve to just sit there with the cheese congealing.  Jerks. My coworkers were disgusting jerks.

Three minutes later I pulled the little blue Honda civic into the parking lot, tires squealing a little from the sudden stop. 

I balanced the bag on my forearm as I jogged to the correct apartment, ignoring the heat as it scalded my forearm – after nearly a year delivering pizzas I’d learned how to tune it out.  I used my free hand to knock sharply on the door, and did my best not to tap my foot impatiently as I mentally calculated the minutes and potential tips as they steadily ticked away.

The door opened up, and my eyes widened.

“PIZZAAAAAAA!” came the raucous cry, rising above the deep beat of the party music.  The tiny dorm-like apartments were designed for a single person, but this particular room had somewhere around 10 people crammed into it, leaving it looking less like a room and more like an oversized clown car.  Everyone was wearing party hats – flamboyant cardboard affairs strapped onto their heads with thin, elastic strings, perched at crazy angles above round, flushed, smiling faces.

The young man at the front of the door had a particularly festive hat  – a red and gold cardboard crown with glittering streamers and “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!” written in a particularly obnoxious font.  His face was red with excitement, and the sandy brown hair beneath the hat was sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat.

“Heeeeeeey!” He leaned forward, and before I could defend myself I found myself enveloped in a large, happy, slightly sweaty hug.  Despite the heat radiating off of him, he smelled oddly nice – maybe Axe Body spray, or some other kind familiar cologne.  “It’s my BIRTHDAY!”  His voice was a little too loud, speaking right by my ear, but the joy in it was infectious.  “MY BIRTHDAY!”

“Okay, uh… okay.”  I hugged him back awkwardly with one arm, struggling not to drop the pizza.  “Happy Birthday.”

He pulled back and turned around to the others in the room, who had fallen silent during the interaction, waiting with a strange, solid patience.  “It’s my BIRTHDAY!” he said, throwing his hands up in the air.

The room erupted in raucous, wordless cheers – the kind of happy melee they always show on TV at a college frat party, but that never seems to exist in real life.  When the noise level seemed about to die down, Birthday Boy threw his hands up in the air again.  “And the PIZZA IS HERE!”   He worked the room with all the skill of a political orator, and his friends responded happily, right on cue.

The cheers erupted again, and one girl in the back stood up and began dancing with abandon, overcome by either frenzied happiness or the deep bass of the song in the background.  What she lacked in rhythm she made up for with enthusiasm.

I laughed.  Who wouldn’t, when confronted with such deep, unapologetic joy?  “Well, happy birthday, dude, and here’s your pizza!” Reaching into the bag I pulled out the two large pizzas with a flourish. “That’ll be $23.97.”

Birthday Boy, flushed and sweating, grabbed the boxes from my hands and placed them on the table, returning to press two twenties into my hand.  I palmed the two bills in one hand as I reached into my pouch to pull out change, but Birthday Boy waved his hand magnanimously.

“No change.”

“No, no, you need change,” I explained patiently, as I dug around in my fanny pack.  “You gave me two twenty dollar bills – that’s forty dollars.  Your change is over sixteen dollars.” 

He shook his head obstinately, ignoring a bead of sweat that slid down the side of his face.  “No change.  It’s your tip.”

I ignored him as I recounted his change, making sure I’d pulled out the correct amount before I began the process of counting it back to him.  “See, a tip is the right thing to do, but that’s too much.  When you order a pizza you should only give about two dollars for a ti–”

I broke off as his hand clamped over my own, thick fingers covering mine as he curled my fingers over the change.  I met his eyes in surprise.  He had nice eyes – hazel and warm.  Kind.  Happy.

“No.  No change,” he repeated.  “It’s your tip.”

“It’s too much.  I can’t take this much.  It would be wrong. You’re not supposed to tip this much.  It’s only supposed to—“

“NO.”  His voice was firm, and he shook his head.  “You keep it.  No change.”  He looked at me smugly, taking his hand from mine, and pointed slowly at the towering crown on his head with its ridiculous display of streamers.  “It’s my birthday.  You have to do what I say.”

He broke eye contact to turn back to the room, and raised his hands.  “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!!!”  Obediently, the room broke out in cheers.

I surprised myself by laughing.  It was hot, I was tired, I’d pulled a double shift with some of my least-favorite coworkers…. and yet standing there, in that doorway, I felt happier than I had in weeks.

“Are you sure?  This really is too much.  I’d really prefer it if you didn’t give me…”

He turned back, and pointed wordlessly at his hat again, his other arm still forgotten in the air. 

“Alright, alright, I give up.  It’s too much, but thank you for the ti–”  The door shut in my face, our transaction apparently complete. 

From behind the door came the muffled sounds of continued celebration.  As I stood there in the fading evening light, with the limp pizza bag dangling from my hand, I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe they had their life more figured out than I did.

“Cameron, I’ve had a long day, too.  I work just as hard at my job as you do at yours, and I’m constantly picking up the slack with Toby and the house.  This place doesn’t run itself.”  I didn’t even have to think to come up with the words – we’d argued about this so many times that it almost felt like a script.  

Only this time I wasn’t going to play the same role.  

Time.  There was never enough time…. but sometimes, there was too much of it.  I’d spent way too much time by myself in that house, lying in the dark bedroom, spending gritty, uncomfortable hours staring at the ceiling as I waited for Cameron to come home – ignoring the sound of the shower he only took on the nights he was late.

Time.  I think it was time.

I crossed over the room and went to stand in front of him again.  “I’m serious, Cam.  Where were you?”

He looked up from his glass, moody,  a heat to his lazy movements.  It took me a moment to identify, but when I did, it surprised me.  Angry?  He was angry?  

“Do we really have to do this right now, Alexandra?  I’m serious, I am not in the mood for this.”  

I remained calm outwardly, but I could feel my fingernails biting into my palm as I clenched my fist.

“Cameron, I’m not really interested in what you’re in the mood for.  Do you know what I’m in the mood for?” I paused, making sure he was meeting my eyes.  “I’m in the mood for the truth.  Where were you?”

I was right about the anger.  He exploded up from couch suddenly, probably in response to the fact that I was standing over him, and began to pace around the room with a liquid grace.  

“So that’s how it’s going to go, is it?  I come home after a long day of work, and I show up to— what— you pouncing on me as soon as I hit the living room, not even giving me a chance to sit down?  What gives you the right?”  He picked up speed as he got going, and I stared at him, not even bothering to hide the fact that my mouth was gaping open.  What in the world?  Where was this coming from?

“Cameron, what is going on?  What are you even talking about?  I didn’t ‘pounce’ on you, I–”

He interrupted me, flinging his hands up in the air for emphasis, obviously forgetting about the drink in his hands.  I watch as it spilled over the side again, and onto the carpet.  Well, if he thought I was getting down on my hands and knees to clean it up again, he had another thing coming.  “You’re arguing words, and I’m discussing issues.  Quit picking at me over the small stuff. Jesus, Alexandra, can’t I get five minutes to myself?”  He gestured sharply again, and there was another splash onto the carpet – this from a man who never had a hair out of place, or a wrinkle on his suit.  It hit me suddenly.

“Are you….. are you drunk Cameron?”  I take it all in – the flush to his skin, the lazily hooded eyes, the sloppy behavior.  “You are, aren’t you?”  Cameron never got drunk – he’d drink, but getting drunk implied being sloppy, and that’s one thing he never was.  

That’s when it really hit me.  “Wait a second – you’ve been home less than five minutes.  You had to have been drunk before you got here. You DROVE drunk?”  

Somehow, out of everything that had happened tonight, this bothered me the worst.  It was one thing for him to slowly destroy our family from the inside out.  It was an entirely different thing for him to put the lives of strangers at risk with his stupid behavior.  Suddenly I wasn’t just angry.  

Suddenly, I was furious.  

“You drove drunk?!” I repeat.  He thought I pounced on him before?  He had another thing coming.  “What in the hell were you thinking?  Do you have any idea how lucky you are that you didn’t plow your car into some unsuspecting family?”  I approached him, raising my finger and jabbing at his chest, stopping just short of actually touching him.  Once I’m closer, I can smell it on him – he’s not just drunk.  He’s plastered.  “You’re not some idiot teenager, Cameron.  What were you thinking, driving like this?”


“I wasn’t,” he said in a surprisingly clear voice for the amount of alcohol I could smell oozing out of his pores, the words coming out tight through his gritted teeth.

“You’re damn right you weren’t thinking.  Nobody who is thinking would drive while drun–”

“No, I wasn’t driving.”  He waited a beat, then leaned forward, invading my space aggressively.  “I said I didn’t want to do this tonight, but fine.  You want to do this? You’re going to insist on it?  Fine.  Suit yourself.  I wasn’t driving,”  he repeated, still leaning forward, face only inches from my own.  “Kristen was.”  He said it deliberately, weighting the word with significance, eyes hot with anger and daring me to understand.

It felt  like ice.  It wasn’t pain, it wasn’t hurt, it was ice, ice that threaded its way deep into my heart, slicing through and enveloping everything I was in a single flash.

“Kristen?” I repeated numbly.  Kristen.  I finally had a name, and proof, and yet – and yet I couldn’t seem to wrap my brain around it.  “Who’s Kristen?”

“Who do you think she is, Alexandra?”  He leaned back out of my face, and suddenly I could breathe again, released from the potent force of his nearness.  He headed back to the couch, where he sprawled on it again, holding the drink in front of his eyes, swirling it.  

I knew darn well who Kristen is – or at least what she is, and what this implied, but I wasn’t  about to let him get off that easy.  I wasn’t going to fill in the blanks for him – he had to say the words.  I deserved that much, didn’t I?  

“I don’t know, Cam, why don’t you tell me?  Who is Kristen?”

He laughed then, and the sound of it was a little bitter.  “You know, the interesting fact isn’t really who Kristen is,” he said, still staring into his glass.  I don’t even know if he’s talking to me – it seems like he might just be talking to himself.  “The interesting thing is what she is.”  He paused again, and gave that same, bitter laugh.  It wasn’t a sound I was accustomed to hearing from him, and suddenly, I was scared.  I didn’t want him to say another word.  Stop.  Just…stop.  

But it was too late.

“I’ll tell you what she is.”  His mouth wrenched suddenly with something between a smile and a grimace.  “What is she?”  He raised his glass to me in a mock salute, eyebrow crooked up.
“She’s pregnant,” he finished, tossing back the rest of his drink into his mouth with a flourish.

Pregnant.

Who would have thought that one little word could say so much?  Imply so much?  I tried to keep my face blank, but it wasn’t my face that was the problem, it was my legs.  I felt like they were giving out on me, or like the world was suddenly shaking beneath me.  I crossed the room to stand by the bar, placing a hand lightly on it.  The feel of the smooth wood grain beneath my palm was steadying to me, and I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to find my balance.

Pregnant.

I should have been angry.  I should have been furious.  I should have been something – anything but this cold confusion.

Kristen, whoever she is, was pregnant.

It was like I’ve never heard the word before, and I turned back to face him, looking at him, shaking my head slightly.  

“Whose is it?” I heard my voice say, even though I felt like an idiot for saying the words.

“Whose is it… Jesus, Alexandra, whose do you think it is?  It’s mine.”
Of course it’s his.  I knew it was his, I knoew what this meant, and yet, I still couldn’t seem to wrap my head around this.  How could he do this?  How could he do this to me – to Toby?

“Why?” I heard myself ask, hating the tears I heard in my voice, the soft sounds of hopelessness.  When did I become this person?  What happened to the person I used to be – the strong, independent young woman who felt like she could change the world?  When did that person die?  

“What do you mean, ‘why’?  Alex, there isn’t any ‘why’.  It just…. it just happened. I’m not happy it happened this way, and I didn’t want to talk about it tonight, but you kind of forced me to.”  He was looking at me with the same expression I gave Toby when he had done something wrong… like this was somehow my fault.

I shook my head again, trying to push past the ice that had become the new core of who I was, trying to find just a single foothold, or handhold, on this new slippery disaster that had become my present.  “I don’t… I don’t understand.  I mean, I understand what you’re saying,” I said with a laugh – a laugh that now held the same bitter echo that his did a few moments ago.  “I just don’t understand…. now what?  What do we do now?”

Cameron stared at me with a cool, somewhat vague sympathy.  His eyes were as beautiful as they’d always been – hazel seemed too plain a word to describe them.  Rich, warm brown, flecked with shards of blue and green, and those lashes….. Back in our early days, I remember rolling over in our bed, watching the first rays of morning sun bathe him in golden warmth until it seemed like he was glowing.  His lashes seemed even more incredible when he was sleeping – thick, long, and giving him an air of innocence….. which was pretty incredible, considering the hours of  passionate abandon we spent in each other’s arms were anything but innocent.

Even now, looking up into those eyes, I could feel my stomach tighten and warm with the heat of the memories.

“Alexandra….there is no us.  It’s nothing that you’ve done.  It just….It’s just… well, sometimes two people just fall out of love.”

I was sure I was supposed to make some kind of response, but it was like I’d lost the ability to communicate.  I stared at him, trying to make sense of the words.  Was I dreaming?  Was this really happening?

“What Kristen and I have found… well, I need to move forward with this.   We were going to do it anyways, but her being pregnant kind of forced our hand sooner that I was planning.  I’m in love with her, and she’s in love with me. I’m sorry if that hurts you, but it’s the truth.”  He sounded reasonable, calm.  It was his lawyer voice, honed to perfection from years in the courtroom.  He sounded perfectly at ease, but I could see a tightness in his shoulders that let me know he was anticipating my explosion.

I should be exploding at him, shouldn’t I?  Shouldn’t I feel something?  Anything?  Shouldn’t I feel anger, or betrayal, or hurt, or something other than cold, icy, numbing confusion?

Nine years of marriage, thousands of home-cooked meals, hundreds of phone calls ending in “Don’t worry baby, I understand, you stay as late as you need to at work, I’ll put the baby to bed and leave something warm on the stove for you“,  two different cities, countless hours of passionate intimacy and one three year old little boy who stole my heart…. and it came down to this?  He had found something with someone named Kristen, and he didn’t love me anymore?

I stared up into his eyes, those warm, comforting eyes, refusing to blink.  It was like they were my lifeline to this earth, and if I lost contact with them, I’d fall.  Shatter.

Maybe I was already shattering.

“So, uh…”  He was starting to get uncomfortable with the silence.  Even while I was in the middle of having my entire world fall apart, I could read him.  It was only natural.  I’d spent the better part of the last decade trying to anticipate his needs, supporting him and loving him as best as I knew how.

“So, I’ll just toss a few things in a bag…” he trailed off again, waiting for me to say something.
 
I knew I shoud rspond, but out of nowhere, I was stuck on the thought that he probably had no idea where we kept the suitcases.  I wonder if he’d realized that yet?  And it wasn’t  like he could drive drunk.  Was he going to take a taxi?  Or would Kristen come back and get him?

“And a couple of things for Toby…”

Toby?  I could feel my eyebrows rising in challenge, and I felt myself center again, as if I was being achored, just by thinking about my son.  Toby, with his daddy’s eyes and mop of golden hair that would look better suited on a girl.  Toby, who drove me nuts all day long with his incessant questions.  Toby, who could tear my heart out with one quickfire hug from his skinny little arms.

Suddenly I wasn’t feeling so helpless.

“C’mon, Max.  Time to come out of your kennel.”

Tick Tick TICK!  TICKTICKTICK!  TICKETYTICKTICKTICK!  TICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICK...

“Max, no running in the house.  Settle down, you’re going to wake up the babies.  Here, go outside and go potty.”

TICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICK –

“MAX!  Get back here.  Max, COME.  Good boy.  Now go outside.”

Tick. 🙁 Tick. 🙁  Tick.  🙁 Tick.  🙁

Silence.

“Max, you actually need to pee before you can come back inside.”

Silence.

“I am completely unmoved by the big, sad, “I’m-so-abused” look you’re giving me.  GO.  Go potty, Max.  Good boy.  There, see, was that so hard?  You can come inside now.”

TICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICK!  TICKETY! TICKETY! TICKETY! TICKTICKTICKTICKTICKETY!

“Max!  No running in the house – relax, dog.  You’re going to wake up the DragonMonkey.”

TICKETYTICKETY!  TICKETYTICKETY!  TICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICK—

“LAY DOWN, MAX.  Good boy.  Geez, didn’t we just trim your nails?”

Tick.  Tickticktick.  Tickticktick.  WHUMP.  Sigh.

“Good boy.”

Tick?  😀  Tick? 😀  Tick? 😀 Ticktick :D?

“I said ‘Good boy’, not come here.  Go lay down.”

Tick 🙁  Tick 🙁  TickTick 🙁 🙁

“Okay, fine.  C’mere.”

TICK 😀 😀 !!!! Tickticktick!!!! 😀 😀 😀 🙂 🙂 🙂 TICKTICKTICKTICKTICK!

“Yes, you’re a good boy.  Good dog.  Here, let me get the eye crumblies out of the corner of your eye.  Ewww.  There.  All better?  Good boy, yes you are.  You’re a good boy.  Now lay down, right here.”

WHUMP.  Sigh.

…..

………

…………….

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.  Tick, tick, tick –

“Maaaaaax!”

Tickticktick?

“You better not be going down that hallway to drink out of the toilet.”

Ticktickticktick 🙁  WHUMP.  Sigh.

“That’s right.  You stay out out of there.  Good boy.”

……

……….

…………….

tickticktickticktickticktickticktickticktick

“Hi, Max!  Mama, Max open doowr!  Hi, Max.  Up?  Up on da bed?  Sweep wif Max?”

“Max, get out of there!  Quit sneaking down the hall and waking him up!  No, DragonMonkey, you can’t sleep with Max.  Max, GO.  And you – go back to sleep, DM.”

“Pwease?  PWEASE?  PWEASE SWEEP WIF MAX?  PWEASE?”

“No.  He’ll go pee in your room in the middle of the night.  Max sleeps in his bed.  Now go back to sleep.  Max, GO.  Go lay down”

Tick 🙁  Tick 🙁  Tick 🙁 Tick 🙁 

WHUMP.  Sigh.

………

……………..

………………………

tickticktickticktickticktickticktickticktick

“Max, come here.  I see you sneaking down the hallway.  Come lay by me so I can keep you out of mischief.  The DragonMonkey’s fine. Quit trying to check on him – you’re just waking him up.”

Tick 🙁  Tick 🙁  Tick 🙁 Tick 🙁  

Tickticktick.  Tickticktick.  Tickticktick.

Tickticktick.  Tickticktick.  Tickticktick.

Tickticktick.  Tickticktick.  Tickticktick.

Tickticktick.  Tickticktick. Tickticktick.

“Max, you’re stuck on circle mode.  Just lay down and relax, dog.  Your nails are driving me crazy.”

Tickticktick.  Tickticktick.  Tickticktick.  WHUMP.  Sigh.

“Good boy, Max.”

Tick? 😀  Tick? 😀  Ticktick? 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂

“No, I didn’t call you.  Just lay down, Max.  You’re a good boy, but just lay down.”

Tickticktick.  Tickticktick.  Tickticktick.

Tickticktick.  Tickticktick. Tickticktick.

Ticktick—

I swear the next place I live is going to have floor to ceiling carpet.