Two by Two

CHAPTER 14: Shock

When I was in college, my friends and I used to go out on the weekends, which typically began Thursday around three and concluded upon waking late on Sunday morning. One of the guys I hung out with most-a guy named Danny Jackson-shared the same major and we ended up in many of the same classes. Given NC State’s sizable student population, it seemed to me that the class-scheduling gods must have decided that we needed to see more of each other.

Danny was as easygoing a guy as I ever met. Born and raised in Mobile, Alabama, he had a very pretty older sister who was dating the punter for the Auburn Tigers, and he never said a bad word about his parents. He seemed to imply they were pretty cool as far as parents went and they must have passed that on to him, because I felt the same way about him. Whatever I wanted to do-grab a burger at two in the morning, or swing by a frat party or watch a ball game at the local sports bar-Danny was always up for it. Whenever we met up, we’d find ourselves picking up our conversation in the same spot we’d left it, even if it had been weeks since we’d seen each other. He drank PBR-he swore it was the best beer in the world, as evidenced by the blue ribbon-and while he would often drink enough to acquire a buzz, he had an automatic slow-down switch in his head that pretty much prevented him from ever becoming drunk. Which was quite a contrast with the rest of the college population-for them, getting smashed seemed the entire point of drinking.

One Saturday night, Danny and I were out with a few other guys at one of the more crowded college bars. With finals looming, most of us were a bit anxious, which of course we tried to downplay. Instead, we drank as we usually did-a bit past buzzed-all except Danny, whose slow-down switch had flipped to the “on” position.

He got the call a little past eleven; I have no idea how he even heard the ring over the noise in the bar. But he did, and after glancing at the screen, he got up from the table and went outside. We thought nothing about it. Why would we? Nor did we consider it amiss when he walked past our table after coming back inside and made a beeline for the bar.

I watched him wedge himself between some people, vying for the bartender’s attention. It took a few minutes before he received his drink, but when he turned, I saw that he’d ordered a cocktail-a very tall glass of something golden brown. He wandered off toward another area of the bar, as if he’d forgotten us entirely.

Of everyone there, I was probably his closest friend, so I followed him. By then, he was leaning against the wall near the restroom. As I approached, he took a huge swallow from his glass, finishing nearly a third of its contents.

“What do you have there?” I asked.

“Bourbon.”

“Wow. That’s a pretty big glass.”

“I told them to fill it,” he said.

“Did I miss the contest where Pabst got second place, not first?”

It wasn’t particularly funny and I don’t know why I said it, other than that the way he was acting was making me nervous.

“It’s what my dad drinks,” he said.

For the first time, I noticed his shell-shocked expression. Not the effect of alcohol. Something else.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He took another long drink. By then, the glass was half empty. It had to be at least four, maybe five shots. Danny was going to be drunk, maybe very drunk, in a very short while.

“No,” he said. “I’m not okay.”

“What happened? Who called?”

“My mom,” he said. “It was my mom who called.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “She just told me my dad died.”

“Your dad?”

“He was in a car accident. She found out just a few minutes ago. Someone from Highway Patrol came by the house.”

“That’s… awful,” I said, truly at a loss for words. “Is-is there anything I can do? Can I bring you to your place?”

“She’s getting me a ticket to fly home tomorrow. I don’t know what I’m going to do about finals, though. Will they let me retake them next week?”

“I don’t know, but that’s the last thing you should be thinking about right now. Is your mom okay?”

It took him a long time to answer. Instead, he seemed to be staring into the distance.

“No,” he said. He gulped at his drink, finishing it. “She’s not. I need to sit down.”

“Sure,” I said. “Let’s go.”

I led him back to the table. Despite the alcohol he’d consumed, he didn’t seem affected at all. Instead, he sat quietly, adding nothing to the conversation. He didn’t mention the death of his father to anyone else at the table, and an hour later, I drove him back to his apartment.

He went home on Sunday, just as he’d told me he would. And though we were friends, I never saw or heard from him again.

“Hold on,” Marge said. After I dropped London off at school on Tuesday morning, she’d come straight to my house, where we sat at the kitchen table. “So she just… left?”

“Last night,” I said.

“Did she at least say she was sorry?”

“I don’t remember.” I shook my head. “I can’t even… um… I mean… I…”

I couldn’t keep my thoughts straight; my roiling emotions-shock and fear, disbelief and anger-had me veering from one extreme to the next. Though I knew I’d done it, I couldn’t remember driving London to school only a few minutes earlier; the drive had been consigned to nothingness.

“Your hands are shaking,” Marge said.

“Yeah… I’m okay.” Trailing off, I took a long breath. “Shouldn’t you be at work? I can scramble up some eggs.”

Marge would tell me later that I got up from the table and went to the fridge; as soon as I pulled it open, I must have decided I needed coffee instead. I went to the coffee cabinet and then realized I should probably get cups out for Marge and me first. But I must have thought I still needed coffee so I set the cups beside the coffeemaker. She watched as I went to the fridge and pulled out the eggs before returning them to the same location. She said I then wandered to the pantry and came out with a bowl and…

“How about I make breakfast?” she suggested, rising from the table.

“Huh?”

“Have a seat.”

“Don’t you need to go to work?”

“I’ve decided that I’m taking the day off.” She reached for her cell phone. “Sit down. I’ll be back in minute. I just have to tell my boss.”

As I took my seat, I was struck anew by the realization that Vivian had left me. That she was in love with her boss. She was gone. I watched Marge open the door to the back patio.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to call my boss.”

“Why are you calling your boss?”

Marge stayed with me all day. She picked up London from school and also brought her to and from her piano lesson. Liz came by after her last appointment, and together they not only made dinner, but kept London entertained and helped her get ready for bed. It wasn’t often that her aunties came by to play, and London was over the moon from the extra attention.

Again, it would be Marge who would tell me this. Like the drive to school, I wouldn’t be able to remember it. The only thing I really remember was watching the clock and waiting for Vivian to call, something she never did.

The next morning, after sleeping less than three hours, I crawled out of bed feeling almost hungover, with all my nerves on edge. It was a monumental effort to shower and shave, something I’d neglected the day before. Nor had I eaten much-only a few bites at breakfast and dinner-but the thought of food was inconceivable.

Marge handed me a cup of coffee as soon as soon as I entered the kitchen, then started loading a plate. “Take a seat,” she said. “You need something in your stomach.”

“What are you doing here?”

“What does it look like? I came by this morning to make sure you had something to eat.”

“I didn’t hear you knock.”

“I didn’t,” she said. “After you went to bed, I borrowed your house key. I hope you don’t mind.”

“It’s fine,” I said. Raising the mug, I took a sip but the coffee tasted wrong, off somehow. Despite the tantalizing aromas, my stomach remained knotted. Nonetheless I pulled out my chair at the table and plopped down. She set a plate in front of me, piled high with eggs, bacon, and toast.

“I don’t think I can eat,” I offered.

“Too bad,” she said. “You’re going to eat, even if I have to tie you to the chair and feed you myself.”

Too worn out to argue, I forced down a few bites; strangely, every bite seemed a little easier than the last, but I still finished less than half of it.

“She left me.”

“I know,” Marge said.

“She didn’t want to try to work it out.”

“I know.”

“Why? What did I do wrong?”

Marge took a puff from her inhaler, buying time, and fully aware that casting blame or heaping criticism on Vivian would only heighten my emotional turmoil.

“I don’t think you did anything wrong. It’s just that relationships are hard, and both people have to want them to work.”

As true as the statement was, I felt no relief when she said it.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you today?” Marge asked.

“I can’t ask you to take another day off,” I said. Eating seemed to have had a mildly stabilizing effect on my emotional state. I still wasn’t great, mind you. Not even close. The emotional surges may not have been the tidal waves of yesterday, but they were still in the rogue wave category, the kind that sank the Andrea Gail in the film The Perfect Storm. I felt wildly off balance, but hoped that I could still handle the basics. Get London to school and back. Dance class. Order pizza for dinner. I knew I wouldn’t have the mental or emotional energy for anything else; even reading the paper or vacuuming were way beyond my capabilities. My goal was simply to stay upright and take care of my daughter.

Marge didn’t seem convinced. “I’m going to call and check on you today. More than once.”

“Okay,” I agreed, but I knew there was part of me that was afraid to be alone. What if I simply broke into pieces as soon as she left? Or shattered, like the rest of my world.

Vivian had left me.

She was in love with someone else.

I was a terrible husband, worthless, and I had failed.

I disappointed her one too many times, and now I was alone.

Oh, my God, I thought, as soon as Marge closed the door behind her. I’m alone.

I’m going to end up dying alone.

While London was at school, I walked. I paced from one end of the house to the other and back again; I walked the streets of my neighborhood for hours. Questions about Vivian smashed into one another like endless battering rams. Was she in Atlanta or in another city? Was she taking the day off to set up the apartment or at the office? I wondered what she was doing-I imagined her using an earpiece as she spoke on the phone in a corner office, or hurrying down the hall carrying a stack of papers, the office I envisioned shifting from sleek and modern to stuffy and formal. I wondered whether Spannerman was with her; I wondered whether she was laughing beside him or at her desk with her head in her hands. I checked my cell phone constantly, hoping to hear from her, watching for texts or missed calls. I brought the phone everywhere. I wanted to hear her voice telling me that she’d made a mistake and that she wanted to come home. I wanted her to tell me that she still loved me. I wanted her to ask me to forgive her, and in my heart, I knew that I wouldn’t hesitate. I still loved her; the thought of life without her was incomprehensible.

All the while, I continued to wonder what I had done wrong. Was it quitting my job? Was it that I’d gained a little weight? Was it that I had worked too much, prior to quitting my job? And when did things start going wrong? When did I become disposable? How could she leave us? How could she leave London? Did Vivian intend to take her to Atlanta?

The final question was the worst of all, too much to contemplate, and after finally returning to the house, I was exhausted. I knew I should nap, but as soon as I lay down, my mind began to race. Marge called three times, and I realized I had yet to tell my parents what had happened, but I still didn’t want to believe it.

I wanted this to be a dream.

In midafternoon, I picked up London while my internal storm continued to rage. She asked for ice cream, and though the request felt impossibly taxing, I somehow made it to Dairy Queen. I also, somehow, got her to dance class on time.

I went for a walk while London was at class. I’m not a strong man. I paced to the end of the strip mall. When I reached it, tears had begun to blur my vision and all at once, I was standing by myself with shoulders heaving, my face in my hands.

“When’s Mommy coming home?” London asked me. There was a box of pizza on the table and I set my slice of pizza aside. I’d finished half of it. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I haven’t talked to her,” I said. “But as soon as I find out, I’ll let you know.”

If she thought my answer odd, she didn’t show it. “Did I tell you that Bodhi and me found a baby turtle at recess?”

“A baby turtle?”

“We were playing freeze tag and I found it over by the fence and he was so cute. And then Bodhi came over and he thought it was really cute, too. We tried to feed it grass, but it wasn’t hungry, and then all the other kids came over and the teacher came over, too. And we asked if we could put it in a box and bring it into the classroom and the teacher said yes!”

“That sounds exciting.”

“It was! She got a pencil box and she put the turtle in it, and then we all walked with her while she brought it into the classroom. I think the turtle was scared because it kept trying to get out but it couldn’t because the box was too slippery on the sides. And then we wanted to name it but the teacher said that we probably shouldn’t because she was going to let it go.”

“She didn’t want to keep it?”

“She said that it probably missed its mommy.”

I felt a lump in my throat. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

“But me and Bodhi named him anyway. We decided to call him Ed.”

“Ed the turtle?”

“We also thought about calling him Marco.”

“How do you know it’s a boy turtle?”

“We just know.”

“Oh,” I said and despite the torment of the last couple of days, I found myself smiling.

It didn’t last.

While I was putting the remains of the pizza into ziplock bags, Vivian called. When I saw her photograph on the screen of my phone, my heart suddenly hammered in my chest. London was in the family room watching television and I stepped out the kitchen door, onto the back patio. I steeled myself before connecting the call.

“Hey there,” I said, trying to sound like everything was normal between us when actually, nothing was normal at all. “How are you?”

She hesitated. “I’m okay. How are you?”

“It’s been a little strange here,” I said. “But I’m holding up. Where are you now?”

She seemed to debate whether or not to answer. “I’m in Tampa,” she finally admitted. “Is London around? Or is she already in the bath?”

“No, not yet. She’s in the family room.”

“Can I talk to her?”

I steadied my breathing. “Before I put her on the phone, don’t you think we should talk?”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Russ.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“What I want you to say?” I repeated. “I want you to give us another chance, Vivian.” I ignored the deafening silence on her end. “I still feel like I don’t know what’s really going on. How can we make this work? We can go to counseling.”

Her voice was tight. “Please, Russ. Can I just talk to London? I miss her.”

Don’t you miss me? Or are you with Walter right now?

The thought came unbidden, bringing with it the image of my wife calling from a hotel suite, Walter watching television in an adjoining area, and it was all I could do to step back inside the house and call to my daughter.

“Your mom’s on the phone, London. She wants to say hi.”

I couldn’t help but eavesdrop on the conversation, even when London wandered toward the family room. I heard her tell Vivian about her day-she also told Vivian about the turtle-and say I love you; I heard her ask when Vivian was coming home. Though I didn’t hear the answer, I could tell by London’s expression that she didn’t much like the answer. Okay, Mommy, she eventually said. I miss you, too. We can talk tomorrow.

Vivian knew I generally turned my phone to airplane mode when I went to bed, and old habits dying hard, I did so again that night. In the morning, after turning it back on, I saw that Vivian had left two voicemails.

“I know you wanted to talk and we will, but only when we’re both ready. I don’t know what else I can tell you. I want you to know that I didn’t plan for this to happen, and I know how much I’ve hurt you. I wish it wasn’t this way, but I don’t want to lie to you either.

“I’m mainly calling about London. Right now, it’s insanely busy at work with the transition and Walter’s PAC and all the traveling. We still have the DC leg, and we’re flying up to New York this weekend. And since I’m traveling so much, it’s probably best if London stays with you for a while. I want to get settled in here first and get her room set up, but I haven’t had time to start either of those things. Anyway, I think it’s important that you don’t tell London what’s going on yet. She’s already stressed with school and I know she’s got to be exhausted. Besides, I think this is something we should do together. Hold on. Let me call you right back. I don’t want your voicemail to cut me off.”

The second voicemail picked up where she’d left off.

“I spoke with a counselor today about the best way to tell London, and she said we should stress that we think it’s best if we just live apart for a while, without mentioning separation or divorce. And obviously, we should both emphasize that it doesn’t have anything to do with her and that we both love her. Anyway, we can discuss it more in person, but I wanted to let you know that I’m trying to do what’s best for London. We’ll also have to talk about when it might be a good time for her to come to Atlanta.” She paused. “Okay, I think that’s it. Have a good day.”

Have a good day?

Was she kidding? Sitting on the edge of the bed, I replayed the voicemails several times. I think I was searching for something-anything-to suggest that she still cared about me in the slightest, but if it was there, I didn’t hear it. I heard a lot of what she wanted, cloaked in terms that were ostensibly all about London’s well-being, and the subterfuge infuriated me. While I was thinking about it, my cell phone rang.

“Hey there,” Marge said, her tone sympathetic. “Just calling to check in on you.”

“It’s not even seven in the morning.”

“I know, but I was thinking about you.”

“I’m… kind of angry, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Vivian left a couple of messages,” I said. I paraphrased as best I could.

“Oh, boy. That’s what you woke up to? Not exactly a cup of delicious coffee, is it? Speaking of which, I’m on your street and about to pull in your driveway. Unlock your front door.”

I left the bedroom and padded downstairs. By the time I got the door open, Marge was already getting out of the car, holding a pair of Styrofoam cups.

Watching her walk up the drive, I noted she was already dressed for work. “I can make coffee here,” I said.

“I know. But I wanted to lay my eyeballs on you. Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Maybe four or five hours.”

“I didn’t sleep much either.”

“Liz keeping you up late?”

“No,” she said. “Just worried about you. Let’s go inside. Is London up yet?”

“Not yet.”

“How about I get her ready while you enjoy your coffee?”

“I’m not incompetent.”

“I know,” she said. “Actually, you’re the opposite. You’re holding up a lot better than I would be in your shoes.”

“I doubt that.”

Surprising me, she reached out to touch my cheek, something I could never remember her doing before. “I haven’t had to talk you down from a water tower, have I?”

Thanks to the coffee and Marge’s early morning help, I felt a bit better than I had the day before when I drove London to school. She chattered away in the backseat about her dream-something about a frog that kept changing colors every time it hopped-and her innocent cheer was exactly what I needed.

Back at home, I forced myself to put on my running gear. I hadn’t run since Vivian’s announcement-the first days I’d missed since I’d started back up-and I hoped that the physical exertion would leave me feeling more like myself. On the run I was fine despite adding a couple extra miles, but by the time I’d finished my shower, I found myself thinking about Vivian again. The fury I’d felt earlier had diminished, replaced by an overwhelming sadness.

It was almost too much to bear, and knowing I couldn’t face yet another day like the two I’d just weathered, I had to do something. Anything. My desire to work was zero, but I forced myself to go to my den. As soon as I took a seat at the desk and saw a photo of Vivian, I knew that staying at home wasn’t going to work. There were too many reminders here; too many reasons for the emotional train to start steaming again.

It was time, I thought, to visit my office.

Packing up my computer, I went to the office I’d rented. The shared receptionist was startled to see me, but reported as usual that I had no messages. For the first time, I honestly didn’t care.

I unlocked my office. Nothing had changed since I’d last been here-it had been weeks-and there was a thin sheen of dust on my desk. I set my computer on it anyway and opened my email.

Dozens of messages, most of them receipts for automatic bills or spam. I deleted as much as I could and filed the bills in the appropriate folders, until I was left with the emails containing links to the footage for the commercials. With the presentation for the plastic surgeon already complete, it was Taglieri’s turn. I reviewed the notes I’d taken the weekend before; of the six takes we’d made in front of the courthouse, three were definite no-gos. Of the three that were workable, I eventually whittled that down to two. Of those, I thought he was better in the beginning in the second take, and better at the end in the first take. With a little editing-I had basic software on my computer-I’d be able to put those two sections together. There’s nothing quite like movie magic.

Even better, I liked him in the footage we’d shot, and I was sure that others would as well. He came across exactly the way I hoped-honest, competent, and likable-but more than that, he looked good on camera. Maybe it was the natural lighting, but it was a vast improvement over his previous commercials.

The footage for the second commercial was much more complicated. There were a lot of different scenes shot from varying angles-and a particularly gorgeous scene of a meadow with grazing horses-along with many different people, and that multiplied the way the commercial could eventually play out. Knowing it would take more time and energy than I’d be able to summon, I decided to simply work on the first commercial.

The software I used wasn’t commercial grade, but that was okay; I’d already spoken to the best freelance editor in town, and slowly but surely I got to work. At lunch, I had to force myself to finish a bowl of soup I’d picked up from the deli, then went back to editing until it was time to pick up London from school.

It had not been an easy day. Whenever my concentration waned-even for a second-the emotional turbulence, and questions, would return. I’d get up from my desk and pace; other times, I would stand near the window, feeling as my chest grew tight and hands began to shake in what seemed to be an airless office. I would feel-deeply feel-my own loss in a way that made me believe there was no reason to go on.

But inevitably, because distraction was my only hope of salvation, I would return to the desk and try to lose myself in the service of Taglieri.

“What you’re experiencing is normal,” Liz assured me on the back patio later that night, after I told her what I was going through. She and Marge had shown up at my house yet again after work. Marge had brought Play-Doh and was sitting on the floor with London while they sculpted various items.

“You’ve suffered a profound shock. Anyone would be upset.”

“I’m worse than upset,” I admitted. “I can barely function.”

While Liz and I had talked hundreds of times, it was the first time I ever felt that I needed to talk to her. The day had left me spent. I wanted nothing more than to run away or find a dark, quiet place to hide, but with London, I couldn’t do that. Nor did I think it would help; after all, I would carry my thoughts with me wherever I went.

“But you told me you went to work,” she said. “You got London to and from school and piano. And she’s eaten.”

“I picked up fast food on the way home.”

“That’s okay. You’ve got to learn to be gentle with yourself. You’re handling this about as well as anyone could. Especially the way you’re dealing with the emotions.”

“Did you not hear anything I told you?”

“Of course I did. And I know it feels unbearable, but believe it or not, the fact that you’re letting yourself feel the emotions instead of suppressing them is a good thing. There’s an old saying that goes like this: The only way out is through. Do you understand what that I mean by that?”

“Not really. But then again, my brain doesn’t seem to be working all that well. The next time I look at the commercial I edited together, I’ll be depressed at what a terrible job I did.”

“If it’s that bad, you’ll fix it, right?”

I nodded. I had to fix it. Because Vivian had opened her own bank account, it was up to me to cover all the bills, including, I assumed, the mortgage.

“Good. And that will be another step forward. And as to what I meant earlier-too many people think that suppressing emotions-or avoiding them-is healthy. And sometimes it can be, especially after the passage of time. But in the immediate aftermath of a traumatizing event, it’s often better to simply allow the feelings to surface and to experience them fully, while reminding yourself that the feeling will pass. Remind yourself that you’re not your emotions.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“You’re sad now, but you’re not a sad person and you won’t always be sad. You’re angry now, but you’re not an angry person, and you won’t always be angry.”

I thought about what she’d said before shaking my head. “I just want to stop the emotions from being so intense. How do I do that?”

“Keep doing what you’re doing. Exercise, work, take care of London. In the end, it’s just going to take time.”

“How much time?”

“It’s different for everyone. But every day, you’ll feel a little less vulnerable, a little stronger or resolute. If you thought about Vivian every five minutes today, maybe next week, you’ll think about her once every ten minutes.”

“I wish I could snap my fingers and be done with it.”

“You and everyone else who experiences something like this.”

Later that night, after London had FaceTimed with her mom and had gone to bed, I continued to sit with Marge and Liz. For the most part, Marge was content to listen.

“In your experience,” I asked, “do you think she’ll come back?”

“I’ve seen both situations, honestly,” Liz answered. “Sometimes, what someone thinks is love is just infatuation and after the shine wears off, they decide they’ve made a mistake. Other times, it is love and it lasts. And still other times, even if it is infatuation, the person comes to the conclusion that the love they felt for the first person is no longer there.”

“What should I do? She won’t even talk to me.”

“I don’t know that there’s anything you can do. As much as you might want to, you can’t control another person.”

I wanted a drink, I wanted to forget and simply not care, if only for a little while, but even though there was beer in the refrigerator, I held off because I feared that once I started drinking, I wouldn’t stop until the fridge was empty.

“I don’t want to control her. I just want her to want to come back.”

“I know you do,” Liz said. “It’s clear that you still love her.”

“Do you think she still loves me?”

“Yes,” Liz said. “But right now, it’s not the same kind of love.”

I turned toward Marge. “What happens if she wants London to move to Atlanta with her?”

“You fight it. Hire a lawyer and make a case that she should stay with you.”

“What if London wants to go?” I felt the pressure of tears beginning to form. “What if she would rather be with her mom?”

At this, Marge and Liz were silent.

Friday, I took London to and from school and dance, but otherwise buried myself in work like the day before. I was barely surviving. I remembered that fourteen years earlier, on a horrible day I would never forget, the Twin Towers collapsed.

Then came the weekend. Liz’s suggestions had become a mantra: work out, work, take care of London and though I wouldn’t be heading into the office, I nonetheless wanted to follow her advice.

I woke early and ran seven miles, my longest run in years. I forced myself to eat breakfast and then fed London. While she relaxed, I finished my edits on the first commercial and started working on the second one. I brought London to art class, continued to edit while she was there, and learned that London had made a vase. She carried it to the car gingerly, careful not to bang it on anything.

“We have to bring this back next week so that I can paint it,” London told me. “I want to paint yellow flowers on it. And maybe some pink mouses.”

“Mouses?”

“Or a hamster. But hamsters are harder to paint.”

I had no idea why that would be, but what do I know?

“Okay. Flowers and mouses,” I said.

“Pink mouses.”

“Even better,” I agreed. “Are you ready to head to Nana’s?”

I helped her into the car, knowing that it was time to tell my parents that Vivian had left me. Because Marge wanted to stay with me while I shared the news, Liz took it upon herself to take a walk with London. I called my father in from the garage, and he took a seat next to my mom.

I spilled it all in a single rush of words. When I finished, it was my dad who responded first. “She can’t leave.” He frowned. “She’s got a kid.”

“I should call her,” my mom interjected. “She’s probably going through a phase.”

“It’s not a phase. She told me she was in love with him. She’s got her own place now.”

“When is she coming back?” my mom asked. “If she comes next weekend, your dad and I will be out of town. We’re going to visit your uncle Joe in Winston-Salem. It’s his birthday.”

My dad’s younger brother by a couple of years, Joe was a mechanic who’d never married but had, over the years, gone through one long-term girlfriend after the next. Growing up, he was the cool uncle, and I can remember wondering why he’d never married. Now, I suspected he might have been onto something.

“I don’t have any idea when she’s coming back,” I answered.

“The work must have been too stressful,” my mom said. “She’s not thinking right.”

“How is she going to see London?” my dad asked.

“I don’t know, Dad.”

“Doesn’t she want to see London?” my dad pressed.

“I should really call her,” my mom fretted.

“You’re not going to call her, Mom,” Marge said. “This is their business. I’m sure that Vivian will be back to see London. And even though she hasn’t told Russ when that might be, I’d guess it’ll be within the next week or so. In the meantime, it’s probably not the best time to pepper Russ with a ton of questions or to start making plans. As you can imagine, it’s been a pretty rough week for him.”

“You’re right,” my mom suddenly said. “I’m sorry. It’s just such a shock, you know?”

“It’s okay, Mom,” I said. I watched my dad rise from the couch and walk to the kitchen.

“How are you holding up?” my mom asked.

I ran a hand through my hair. “I’m doing the best I can.”

“Is there anything I can do? Do you need help with London?”

“No,” I said. “I’m doing okay with that. It’s not so hard, now that she’s in school.”

“Why don’t I bring over some dinners for the week? Would that help?”

I knew she felt like she needed to do something. “That would be great,” I said. “London likes your cooking a lot more than she likes mine.”

I felt a tap of cold glass against my shoulder. My dad had a beer in each hand and was holding one out. “For you,” he said. “I’m in the garage if you want to talk.”

When I wandered out to the garage twenty minutes later, my dad motioned for me to sit on a stool while he took a seat on a toolbox. I’d brought out a second beer for both of us; there was something on my mind-something I hadn’t mentioned to either Marge or Liz-and I wanted his perspective.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I said.

“Do what?”

“Be a single father. Take care of London. Maybe it would be better if London went to live with Vivian in Atlanta.”

He cracked open the beer I’d brought him. “I take it you want me to tell you that I’m in agreement with you.”

“I don’t know what I want.”

“That’s not your real problem. Your real problem is that you’re afraid.”

“Of course I’m afraid.”

“That’s what parenting is all about. Doing the best you can while being terrified of screwing up. Kids can turn hair gray faster than anything else, if you ask me.”

“You and Mom weren’t afraid.”

“Of course we were. We just never let on, is all.”

I wondered whether that was true. “Do you think I should fight for London like Marge said? If it comes to that?”

My dad scratched at the jeans he was wearing, leaving a streak of grease. “I think you’re a damn good father, Russ. Better than I ever was, that’s for sure. And I think London needs you.”

“She needs her mom, too.”

“Maybe. But the way you’ve been taking care of her? I know it wasn’t easy, but you just got up and did it, and she’s a happy little girl. And that’s what being a dad is all about. You do what needs to be done and love your kid the best way you can. You’ve been doing that and I’m real proud of you.” He paused. “Anyway, that’s what I think.”

I tried to recall whether he’d ever said anything like that to me before but knew that he hadn’t.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“You’re not going to cry are you?”

Despite everything, I laughed. “I don’t know, Dad.”

“Why are you crying?”

I wiped at a tear I hadn’t known was there. “It doesn’t take much these days.”