Page 57 of Foster

“Yes, I want to.” God, did I want to.

Foster left and it was a tearful goodbye on Bowie Jane’s part. I think some of that is on the heels of feeling her mother’s abandonment, so I can’t blame the kid. I just kicked up my nanny mode to super Mary Poppins care, and we went on an adventure to the Pittsburgh Zoo.

Since leaving on the road trip, Foster has FaceTimed Bowie Jane every day, sometimes twice a day, depending on his schedule and her time at home from school. With me, he texts.

Admittedly, I don’t text him because I’m always afraid I’m bothering him when he’s concentrating on his job. I also don’t want to look needy and am trying to be respectful. But I’m always relieved when I hear from him.

My phone rings, startling me from the perusal of my last text exchange with Foster. Lo and behold, his picture appears on my screen along with the icon to indicate it’s a FaceTime call. That means he wants to talk to his daughter.

I don’t answer it but instead walk across the kitchen to hand the phone to Bowie Jane who grins with delight when she sees it’s her father. She hits the Join button and starts chattering away as I move back to the spice rack and my organizational deeds. I don’t intentionally eavesdrop, but I can’t help but listen.

Foster is the type of dad who wants to know what Bowie Jane does every moment of her day. He meticulously goes through all the important things for school and asks how she’s doing with her homework. He wants to know what she ate for lunch, who she played with at recess and what was her favorite moment of the day. He’s so engaged and connected with her that I admire him all the more.

“So, you know I have a home game this Saturday,” he says to Bowie Jane.

I glance over at her to see her nod at the screen. “And Thursday, but that’s a school night so I can’t go to that one. But Saturday’s I can.”

“That’s right,” Foster replies with a laugh. “Well, Ms. Norcross, who owns the team, is hosting a kids’ party at her house Saturday night. Rather than go to the game, she’s inviting all the players’ kids to have a pajama party. Y’all will watch the game, eat all kinds of good food and probably play other games. Miss Kiera is going to chaperone along with a few of the other moms. Are you interested in going?”

“Yes!” Bowie Jane exclaims.

I love that kid. She is fiercely independent and socially outgoing, so the opportunity to play with other kids and go on an adventure is right up her alley.

“You can stay all night or I can come and pick you up after the game,” Foster says, and I hear the slight worry in his voice. He worried about her first overnight last weekend, afraid she would get scared and need him.

She never called once.

“I want to stay all night,” she says quickly.

Foster laughs. “Okay, kiddo. All night.”

They chat a bit more about her upcoming choir recital and the songs she’s practicing. He’s going to be away next week on the West Coast and won’t be able to attend but I’ll be there to support her.

Eventually, he says, “I have to get going. We’re heading over to the arena now.”

“Okay. I love you, Dad.”

“Love and miss you, baby girl.”

My heart swells not just from the words they exchanged but because of the easy affection between them. It’s so legitimately real I can feel the vibe of it surrounding me.

I walk back to the nook and take my phone from Bowie Jane. I bend over and glance at her math workbook, noting the numbers she’s scribbled in the answer blanks. They’re learning decimal placement and math was never my strong suit. It’s a good thing she’s understanding it because I’d be useless to help her.

“What else do you have for homework?” I ask.

“Spelling and I have to read for twenty minutes. Can I play your guitar when I’m done?”

I ruffle her hair. “Of course you can.”

As I head back to the spice rack, my phone chimes.

A text from Foster.

My heart skitters as I read it. Saturday night… next date. Come to the game and we’ll go out with the team or go somewhere by ourselves. Your choice.

I don’t care what we do. I’m just glad we’re doing something. Sounds good.

His next text makes me squirm. But no wine. No alcohol.

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