Lance . . . my son, but not my son. I didn't tell Lindsey when they came to my house, but every time he and I were working together or playing, it felt like something missing from my life had come back, and that for a while, my life felt complete. I had my son and his beautiful mother, and I had to remind myself twice that I was just daydreaming. Yeah, I was angry about having it kept from me, but when she said I could come over today and take care of Lance, I haven’t been so happy in years. Even with Pillman's warning, I'm kind of excited. Nervous, but excited.
I knock softly on the door. It’s only six thirty, and I figure that Lance is most likely asleep. Lindsey opens the door, and I'm struck again at how beautiful she is, even when she's in her ACUs. “Aaron, you came right on time. Come in.”
I step inside, and my first impression is that her house is both new but strangely familiar to me. Part of it is that she lives in enlisted housing, and as part of my platoon leader duties, I've been to the houses of the three guys in my platoon that are married and live in base housing for E-5s and below. I know where the bathroom is, where the kitchen is, and even how to adjust the ancient fucking air conditioner if we need it. I know that the tile that makes up the floor feels cold to bare feet even in the summer, and that there's a good chance Lindsey has a rug already in her living room to take care of that chill for Lance. Still, the details are different, and I look around, taking it all in.
She's done her best, I can see. The furniture is all in decent shape, considering that a three-year-old boy lives here, and Lance himself is sleeping comfortably on the couch. “There he is. Lindsey, this is . . . it's a nice home.”
Lindsey smiles, and I think she even blushes a little. “Thanks. I'd talk more, but I have to make formation. His cereal's in the cabinet, and he'll normally wake up on his own by seven thirty. If not, it's okay. I let him sleep as long as he wants on Saturdays. Secondary car seat's in the kitchen too. If you want to take him somewhere, I'm cool with that. Also, I left you a little list of things he's okay to do and a few things not to do on the fridge. It's pretty basic. I'll have my phone. They won't mind that, but I may not reply right away unless it's an emergency, so if you have a question, send me a text message. Oh, and you've got free range on the kitchen for yourself. That's totally cool with me. Just tell me what you decide to eat.”
I nod, looking down at her. “I will. And Lindsey, I really appreciate this.”
“I appreciate it too,” Lindsey replies, reaching down to grab her patrol cap cover. She's an admin clerk in one of the MP battalions. She's not authorized to wear the maroon beret, which is a shame. She'd look good in it. “Okay, I'm off.”
Lindsey leaves, and I look around the living room carefully, curious. I feel a little bit like a spy as I walk toward the back of the house, checking out Lance's bedroom. He's got a cute little bed with Buzz Lightyear sheets, and the furniture is about what you'd expect for a three-year-old, with a plastic tub in the corner that is full of his toys. I don't know most of the characters or what that purple thing with three eyes is supposed to be, but I guess that's normal. If I get a chance, I'll let Lance tell me all about them.
Across the hallway, I see what is obviously Lindsey's bed, and what strikes me right away is that she's sleeping in a twin set bed, obviously as unlucky in the bedroom department as I am. She kind of said as much last time, and I have to really work to turn away and go back to the living room. I'm here to babysit and take care of Lance, not pull a creepy voyeur bit.
Lance wakes up just like Lindsey anticipated at a little after seven thirty while I’m sitting back and re-reading Lindsey's list of rules she left me. The only hard one, I think, is going to be keeping him away from sugar after five o'clock, but I can understand. I wouldn't want to be dealing with a kid going gaga off the walls when I get home from duty either. “Good morning, Lance. How're you doing?”
Lance yawns and shakes his head, rubbing at his hair. His hair may be the same color as his mother's, but he wakes up like me, that's for sure. It took me nearly all of plebe year to get used to waking up early, and even now, I tend to treat non-duty Sundays as a day to see if I can sleep the sun down.
He mumbles something, but I’m not sure what, then plops back down. “Okay, buddy. Mind if I turn on some TV?”
Lance waves his hand, and forty-five minutes later, he opens his eyes again. He blinks and smiles, and I have to admit my heart melts a little. “Apple Jacks?”
I laugh. I can't help it. He knows exactly what he's doing. “Sorry, little man, but I read your Mommy's rules very carefully, and rule number three was no Apple Jacks, Smacks, or Cocoa Puffs for breakfast. So, from what I saw, that leaves Cheerios or Wheaties.”
“Yuck,” Lance grumbles, and I laugh.
“If you don't want that, how about we go out then? Nothing in the rules about not having waffles. Think you'd like to be taken out to breakfast?”
“Can we?” Lance says immediately, brightening. “Where?”