Page 139 of Pick-Up
“Okay! Understood!” I hold my hands up in surrender. “Sometimes you can like someone in that way but also have them be a friend. Sometimes that’s the best-case scenario.”
Nettie lies back down and considers this. Her face is aglow, the moon to her pink reading light’s sun. “Are you friends with Ruby’s dad?”
I am not expecting this. I shift my position on her bed, buying time. On-the-fly parenting is not my strong suit.
Am I? I didn’t act like it.
“Um,” I say, scratching my neck, fidgeting. “Sort of? We work together.”
That feels like the safe answer.
She nods and I cringe, wondering how much she overheard and understood at the Harvest Festival entrance. “I think he’s handsome,” she says. But then she scrunches up her nose. “For a dad.”
Oh, boy. “Go to bed, kid!” I give her a thousand kisses, and she giggles like she did when she was five.
As I’m leaving, she calls out, “Don’t tell Bart!”
“About what?”
“Mom! My crush!”
“Oh. Scout’s honor,” I say. “Not that he would understand.”
“I think Bart has a crush on Elmo.”
We both laugh.
Later, after my parents have left and the kids are done making excuses to pop out of bed, I know my job is officially done. The evening extends in front of me like a curse and a gift. My head is cluttered with debris.
I walk over to my mom’s confiscated meds sitting on the counter, unscrew one cap and pop a capsule in my mouth. Life is complicated. Why should she have all the fun?
Celeste is at drop-off the next morning. I think I spot Ethan too, but as a retreating speck in the distance. I don’t know what I’d say if I saw him anyway. But I guess I’m checking my corners. At least that’s what I tell myself.
I haven’t seen Kaitlin at school since the weekend. Not even at the bake sale booth or selling tickets to the winter carnival. Next week is Ugly Sweater Day and I actually received two fliersandan email reminder. I am back in the loop. As Bart and Nettie enter the schoolyard, I wave to the school administrator.
“Hi, Ms. Maureen,” I say.
“Hi, Sasha. Have a good day!”
I am all excited to report about my drug-addled mother, but, in fact, it is Celeste who has the most important information to share.
Jamie has hung up his axe.
“He’s home?!” I say. “That’s great. Right? Is that great?”
She toggles her head as we wave to the crossing guard and startuphill past the charming brownstones on Sherman, toward the main commercial drag on Prospect Park West. She is headed to the F train for work. I’m headed to grab coffee and get home to my computer. I have shared the final edit with theEscapadeteam and am anxiously awaiting their responses. I see an email has come in from Stephanie, but I’m waiting to read it until I’m settled in front of my laptop with Larry at my side. Therapy cat. When he’s in the mood.
“It’s good that he’s back,” Celeste says. “Or at least a step in the right direction. We talked, and we’re going to work together to figure out how to give him more agency and space. And make my work-life balance more… balanced. I’m going to try not to take him for granted so much.”
“But at least the sabbatical is over?”
She nods. “We agreed, he needs to find a job. Something that makes him feel like he’s contributing.”
“Something manly, maybe?”
“Yes. Like a hacker. Or a blacksmith. Or a rodeo clown.”
“Hmm. How does he feel about rubber chickens?”
