—
Salix bought a dark chocolate caramel almond ice cream bar for me and a dipped cone for herself. We sat on a log in the sand, not saying much. Salix put her hand on my thigh, her palm immediately hot and pulsing. I slid my hand under hers, and then we were holding hands as if it was no big deal at all. There were whitecaps on the water, and most of the swimmers had come in. Far off, the water was dappled with tiny sailboats and enormous barges. Usually I wanted to be somewhere other than where I was at any given time. On one of those boats, for example, alone and far away from the busyness and the noise and the constant decisions. But not today. This was exactly where I wanted to be. The wind on my face, the sweet taste of ice cream on my tongue, my toes dug into the sand, sitting hip to hip and holding hands with Salix, my crush, my heart racer. There was no place I would rather be, except maybe on one of those boats, sailing away, with Salix.
Let’s pretend that the story ends there. That the day at the beach will be the last image. What a beautiful image to keep. Let’s imagine all the good things that came next, like love, and the baby, and the boys growing like weeds. Let’s imagine my mom in Haiti, where everything was perfect and Raymond was twenty years younger and I actually liked him. Welcome to the family, Raymond.
Let’s ignore the bad things. Let’s ignore that all good things go wrong.
But most of all, let’s pretend that my dad was back to normal. Let’s pretend that he realized what an asshole he was becoming. Let’s pretend that he came home every night and was happy to see his family. Let’s pretend that we always knew where he was. Let’s pretend that we weren’t worried.
Let’s pretend.
A beach. The sun. Two girls holding hands.
The end.
The boys stopped asking Claire when Dad would come home. When he did show up, it was almost always after they were in bed. He had a shower, got himself something to eat, mumbled a few words at Claire, and slept on the couch.
But mostly he just didn’t come home, and I didn’t want to know where he was staying.
“He’s probably sleeping in the truck,” Claire said.
Neither of us said where we really thought he was.
When he was home, I avoided him. I was meeting Salix. I was working on something and needed the door closed. I was taking a nap, getting changed, didn’t feel well.
Claire wouldn’t speak to him at all. If he was still there in the morning, he and the boys would play for a bit—gnomes, battle, castles, gnomes—and then he’d make up some reason to go.
“When will you be back, Daddy?” The boys hung off him all the way to the door.
“I’m not sure. But I’ll see you soon, okay?”
Claire took to pacing. “I’m getting the baby into a good position,” she said. But I knew that she was worried. About the same things I was worried about. Where was he? What was he doing? Was he even going to work? Worried about money. Worried about having the baby alone. I wasn’t supposed to be with her. He was.
When I wasn’t with Salix, I was with Claire. I gave her foot massages and made her red raspberry tea to help “tone her cervix.” I kept reading the books. No matter how terrified I was at the thought of convincing Claire to go to the hospital if the time came and Dad was nowhere to be found, and no matter how much I wished that Dad would come home and actually be a dad and actually be a husband, I wasn’t going to get stuck in the reality without knowing a little bit about what was going on.
I hadn’t told Claire, but the deal was going to be this: If Dad didn’t show up when she went into labor, we were going straight to the hospital. Even if I had to force her into the van. I would even drive her myself, if I had to. This baby was not going to be born at home if I was the only one to help besides the midwives.
Claire Glover, beloved mother and wife, died while giving birth because she insisted on having the baby at home, which is a terrible idea, and because her husband was nowhere to be found and who knows if midwives ever get to births on time, in which case—
So I was reading about vaginas and birth canals and cervixes and perineal massage and footling breech and shoulder dystocia and how a couple having sex during labor can speed things up. Not that that would be an option for Claire if her husband was a complete and utter no-show.
—
I was reading Birthing from Within one evening when Salix texted me to meet her in the park. I would never go into the park at night, and it was going to get dark soon, but I did want to see Salix. I texted her back.
Come get me?
Her reply came immediately.
I know what you’re thinking, Maeve. Come anyway. There are no boogeymen. I checked. Also, I can see your building from here. I will be your watchman. Watchgirl. Whatever.
—
As soon as I came out of the building she shouted from the playground, from the very top of the climber, a tall pyramid of thick red rope crisscrossing down and out from a central post. It reminded me of the Eiffel Tower. She was perched at the little lookout at the top.
“What are you doing?” I peered up at her.
“Come up.”
“It’s pretty high.”
“I saw Corbin scamper up to the top of this thing the other day, even with a broken arm. If your little brother can do it,” Salix said, “so can you.”
“But Owen has never climbed this thing. Not even up to the first rung.”
“One foot after the other, come on.” Salix bounced a little on her rope perch, sending the whole thing shivering. “I have a prize for you when you get up here.”
I wanted to go up more than I didn’t want to, so, with my heart pounding, I reached with both hands and grabbed a rope. It was hard and bristly in my grasp, but I held on. I put one foot on a lower rope and pulled myself up off the ground. I would just have to do that about ten more times and then I’d be at the top. From where I was, the ground was only a short jump away, but the top was probably fifteen feet off the ground.
“How about you come down?”
“If you’ve never seen the view of downtown from here, then you’re coming up.”
I wobbled on the ropes.
“It’s worth it.” Salix beckoned me. “I promise. Come on!”
So I kept climbing. I made the mistake of looking down at about the halfway mark. This was not a good idea. My hands burned from clutching the rope so hard, and my feet—in flip-flops—rolled back and forth across the rope.
“Kick them off,” Salix said. “It’s easier in bare feet.”
I slid my feet out. The flip-flops took forever to land softly on the ground.
“You’re doing great!”
When I got to the top, I saw that she’d set out a little picnic on the tiny platform: cheese and crackers and cherries, a beat-up thermos covered in stickers, two plastic wineglasses with pink-flamingo stems.