Page 17 of Free to Live
“’Kay! Night, Grandma. Love you! Daddy, want Max and Ruby.” Grace gives my mother a kiss before running off toward her room. I scrub my hands down my face.
“And on that note, I’ll let myself out. Night, son.” My mother flutters her fingers at me.
“Night, Ma.” I stand at the window to make sure my mother makes it to her car safely. Once she’s inside and backing out of my driveway, I yell, “Grace, which Max and Ruby are we reading?”
“Easter,” comes her reply.
“Only if you brushed your teeth,” I call back. I hear a mad scramble for the bathroom.
Yeah, we’re not doing so poorly on our own. As I pass by the fireplace, I look at a picture of Mary, Grace, and me that my parents took after Grace was born. Mary’s looking at us with this look of awe.
“I wonder if you’d still have that look on your face if you could see us now, Mar,” I whisper before making my way down the hallway to read Max and Ruby to our little girl.
Tonight it only took five times before she was out for the count.
7
Joseph
The next morning, Grace convinces me to take her to the park after breakfast. I want to go to Collyer’s town park on the weekend about as much as I want to stab myself willingly in the eye. But if either put a smile on my daughter’s face, I’d probably gear up to do it. Just as I am right now.
The colder weather from yesterday hasn’t abated, so I make sure Grace is dressed warmly in a dark purple coat and beret and throw on my leather jacket. “Grace,” I call out before she can make a mad dash for the car. “Do you have gloves?”
The V that forms between her eyebrows is so completely me, I want to whip out my cell to snap a picture. So much of Grace reminds me of Mary—every delicate feature on her perfect little face down to her light blue eyes. But occasionally, I’ll see my mannerisms shine through. The first time my father pointed out how Grace was picking them up, I choked. The absolute last thing my little girl needs is to be a hard-headed, stubborn hothead. She’s still developing those qualities, but differently. She’ll need determination later in life. Just, God help me, please don’t let her have them when she’s a teenager.
I figure I have zero chance of that happening.
We drive to the park listening to aSesame Streetsing-along which Grace makes me participate in avidly. If there’s one sick, sadistic thingSesame Streetever did to torture parents, it’s that they worked with the artists of some pretty great music to rewrite the lyrics of their songs so kids would learn things like letters and numbers. I mean, I used to like Feist. Now, I can’t count to four without thinking of monsters crossing the floor no matter which version of the damn song is on.
And forget the Elmo Slide.
If there’s one good thing out of all my suffering, I know I have enough footage of Grace bopping along at home to this torment her for with payback the first time she threatens me wanting to go out on a date. I figure I can use this leverage until she moves out of this house or until she has her own child.
After parking the car, she’ still singing away. I round the car, unbuckling her from her car seat so we can make our way over to the outdoor cesspool of gossip and germs: the playground. I give myself a mental pep talk.You can do this.Maybe all the moms have been zapped to some X-chromosome-only event that you can’t attend. Knowing the likelihood is less than a gazillion to one on that happening, I brace myself as we approach the fenced-in toddler area.
Grace breaks away and starts running as fast as she can on her little legs, which is damn fast. “Gracie, wait up!” I holler at her back.
“Kaylieeeeee!” she’s shrieking, ignoring me altogether. My footsteps falter. Hell, if Ali Freeman is here, maybe this won’t be so horrific. At least there’s one mom who won’t be trying to hit on me. But when I scan the crowd, I don’t recognize Kalie’s mother in the bevy of women. Instead, a tall, dark-haired man who I haven’t seen in years is walking toward me. He waves in my direction before turning his attention back to his niece, who’s also wildly waving at my daughter.
“Grace! Wait a second.” Recognizing my serious tone, she pauses. “Do you see that man over there?” I point in Jason Ross’s direction. I wait for her to nod. “You listen to me, or you listen to him. That’s Kalie’s…”
“Un-cle Jason.” She stumbles a bit over the word. “She has a bunch of others. I like Phil. He’s funny and gives me flowers.”
I smooth down her coat. “What do you do with the flowers, baby?” This is the first I’m hearing about this.
Impatience leaking into her voice, she tells me, “I give them to Grandma. Just like Phil tells me to. Can I go see Kalie now?”
I chuckle knowing I’ll find out more from Jason than my impatient three-year-old. “Go ahead.” She tears off screaming. Wishing I’d stopped by The Coffee Shop on my way here for a decent cup of coffee, I head toward a man who’s so tied up in my memories of the past, I don’t know how to separate them.
The day Mary was hit by a driver in the Danbury Fair Mall parking lot, Grace was just eight weeks old. Mary had in her head she would find for us the perfect outfits for a family photo. I promised her I’d take her after work, worrying she wouldn’t have enough energy between being up all night with Grace and having to care for her since I was on shift, but she insisted she felt fine. She headed to the mall super early, sailed through the stores, and called me on her way to the car. I made her promise to head straight home for a nap. Instead, she never made it there. Jason Ross saw it all happen. An exceptionally talented trauma doctor for NYU’s emergency room, he was waiting for her parking spot. After witnessing the entire horrific event, he did everything possible to not only save my fiancée but to ensure my daughter’s safety in harsh weather conditions at such a young age. Mary was too far gone to save, but I still have Grace due to the gifts God gave the man I’m walking toward. A man I’d treated as my enemy.
A man who tried everything to save my life then but instead gave me a reason to wake up in the morning now.
I still don’t know how to handle the emotions he stirs in me or how to approach him three years later.
“Joe.” Jason holds out his hand with a smile.
“Jason.” We shake firmly. “It’s been too long.”
