Page 30 of My Wife
My lawyer is still trying to obtain his medical records and her whereabouts, among other things.
Sitting in my parked vehicle, my fist pounds the steering wheel. My muscles seize as I remind myself to take a steadying breath. There’s no sense in breaking something, least of all my hand. Kind of need it if I’m going to provide for the kid.
I don’t know how to do this. How to be a father. How to move past denial that he is my son.
Instead, I drive.
Elizabeth, Mrs. Kirby’s Maltese, yaps when I knock lightly on the door. The older woman looks peeved. “You’re ruining her beauty sleep. You do realize she’s a candidate for the dog show this November.”
“I had no idea.” I don’t care that I sound snarky as I retrieve the kid from where he’s curled up on an upholstered chair.
He hardly rustles. Is that because he doesn’t hear the dog barking or us talking? I’m about to ask her if the kid talks while she’s watching him, but she’s soothing Elizabeth.
“I suggest you find that child a mother,” Mrs. Kirby says as I exit.
“Yeah. Thanks. Great advice.”
Nothing about this situation is sustainable. I’m going to have to find a nanny or childcare or something.
Back at the loft, after I tuck the kid in, I down a liter of water. I’d ignored my texts all day and check them now, reading several from family and friends, including some on the siblings thread, congratulating us on the win—though Hendrix tells me to tighten up my offside awareness.
I have other issues to focus on, namely that I haven’t yet told my family about the new addition to my life.
There’s no world in which I should be trusted with taking care of anyone, no less an ankle-biter, but I don’t know what else to do. It’s almost been a month and now it’s gotten to the point where I don’t have a good answer when they inevitably ask why I didn’t tell them that they’re grandparents. Mom and Dad are the last people on the planet I want to upset—or to remind that I’m the loser son, even though, on paper, I appear to be a hands-down winner.
Ingrid will punish me psychologically and Hendrix will take it out on me next time we’re on the ice. It’s a tight spot all around and I’m not used to doing anything other than powering through, steamrolling on a pair of blades if I have to.
Before I plug in my phone to charge, I notice a red dot indicating a message for me waiting on the official Knights team app. I slouch against the counter, feeling unusually tired. I don’t know why Badaszek thought I’d be cut out for captain. Then again, it’s something I’ve always wanted and have worked hard for.
The waiting message is from the coach’s secretary and daughter. I skim it, then reread it.
Cara Arsenault: Once again, on behalf of the Knights Organization, congratulations on being named Team Captain. This demonstrates your motivation, commitment, integrity, and positivity. As such, we’re delighted to inform you that we’ve hired an assistant to help you manage your personal and professional tasks. Think of it as a perk that comes with your additional responsibilities. Jessica Fuller is a consummate managerial maven, self-motivated, and mega-cheerful person.
The sarcasm isn’t lost on me. I’ve had about enough for one day. Plus, I don’t need help. My comment this morning about not needing coffee echoes in my mind.
I rub my eyes, rereading the message. At this rate, I’ll have to drink espresso just to remain upright.
Me: No.
Cara Arsenault: Too late.
Does she mean it’s too late to reply or this assistant nonsense is already in motion? Not only do I not need help, I don’t want it. Not from Cara’s well-intentioned placement of a lethally cheerful personin my life. Not from anyone.
Tomorrow, I’ll decline the offer and turn the assistant away if I have to. Right now, it’s time for me to sack out on the floor and hopefully dream about my life when I slept in a bed like an adult and my sole focus was hockey.
10
LIAM
I’mon the phone with my mother, running late, and the kid refuses to keep his shoes tied. No sooner do I have them laced up than he pulls one end and they come apart. At least we made progress with pants and socks.
Did I spawn a nudist? I don’t want to know. However, I do want to ask my mother what she did when my brother or sister gave her trouble—she’s always quick to tell me that I was perfect, but this situation is not.
Yet I’m not ready to tell my family about the kid.
Mom muses, “I don’t know whether it was the Roberts or the Robertsons, but one of them hit our car with their golf cart after they left game night. No one will own up to it.”
“Are you asking for my services?” I say in an even tone.
