Page 31 of My Wife
My mother laughs. “No, you keep your gloves to yourself. It’s just now we have a rental. All they had available for the next few weeks was a Mini Cooper. Can you picture your father driving one of those?”
Ordinarily, my mom would have my full attention, but I’m tying the kid’s shoes again and looking for my trainers.
Until he showed up in the lobby, my life was orderly, straightforward, and crumb-free.
I make one more sweep of the closet—the kid rearranged it the other day while I was on the phone with my manager, trying to keep track of dates and responsibilities. When I came back, he had his hands and feet in my size fifteens, lumbering around like some kind of safari animal.
“Do you think you’ll be able to make it home for Dad’s birthday? Your brother and sister will be there.”
“Yeah. Uh, I think so. Let me check the calendar.”
“My big boy, always so busy.”
From the other room, comes a crash followed by a wail.
“Mom, I have to go. I’ll?—”
“Is everything all right? Is that someone crying?” Never misses a trick, that one. Not when Grannie Bell and Aunt Goldie were taking care of my siblings and me when they took their twentieth-anniversary cruise, and certainly not when we decided to trap Santa when we were even younger. In the first instance, we took the runabout boat onto the lake and accidentally ran aground. Mom knew something was up when everyone’s shoes were still soggy a week later. She also caught our fishing net snare on the top of the chimney before it caught fire. Must be where the kid gets his propensity to climb.
“Yes. No. It’s fine. I’ve got it.”
Do I though?
Just then, the app for the building dings, meaning there’s a guest downstairs waiting to be let up. I’m not expecting anyone and doubt it’s a fan—the doormen and welcome desk attendants are good at spotting them and turning them away.
“Mark your calendar for the birthday. Oh, and we’ll be at your next game in LA. Wouldn’t miss that. Hendrix said the locker room there smells like the water at an amusement park ride. Is that true?”
“Oddly specific, but I haven’t noticed.”
The kid’s cry continues and my phone beeps again, indicating the waiting visitor.
Needing to calm the chaos, I say, “Gotta go. We’ll talk soon.”
“Oh, all right. I’ll say goodbye. I miss you, son. I love you and your father does too.”
I don’t hear her hang up before I rush down the hall to find the kid half-buried in books and stacks of boxes askew next to the built-in shelves. Still haven’t unpacked.
“What were you doing? Never mind. Don’t answer that.” I move some of the books, making sure there aren’t any broken limbs or bruises.
The kid is still crying and my phone is still beeping. To make the noise pollution stop, I click to accept the visitor and then go to the kitchen and grab a cookie.
My mother sends them and I usually leave them for the crew at the Ice Palace. As tempting as my mother’s cookies are, I won’t keep in top form by indulging. My diet and fitness regimen are strict and right now, I should be at the gym.
“Are you all right?” I ask, holding the cookie up for the kid to take.
He slows to a sniffle.
“You can have this, but you can’t climb on the furniture or up the walls.”
Not that I have much in here, since I moved in December. Just then, someone knocks on the door.
Gritting my teeth, I say, “Don’t do that again. Do you understand?”
He hesitates and then takes the cookie while I risk leaving him alone long enough to see why someone is at my house this early.
Over my shoulder, I say, “Clean this up and then feed your crab. We have to go soon.” Or ten minutes ago. But if the crab starves to death, I’ll be hearing more crying. I’ll also be cleaning up the books later instead of taking an ice bath because the kid is not going to listen to me.
The reason that may be the case and how I’ve possibly overlooked it for nearly a month makes me cringe inside. I should make him a doctor’s appointment. I am so underequipped for this—I can’t even manage to get us out of the house on time.
