Two by Two

CHAPTER 19: Finding My Own Way

It was the wedding in Chapel Hill that cemented my resolve to see Emily again. By the time the cake had been cut and the bouquet had been tossed, Emily and I had danced to more songs than I could keep track of. When the band took a break, we stepped out on the balcony for a breath of fresh air. Above us, a big orange moon hung low in the sky, and I could see Emily staring at it with the same sense of wonder I felt.

“I wonder why it’s orange,” I mused aloud. To my surprise, I heard Emily answer.

“When the moon is low in the sky, the light scatters because it has to pass through more layers of the atmosphere than when it’s overhead. By the time the light reaches our eyes, the blue, green, and purple parts of the spectrum have scattered, leaving only yellow, orange, and red visible to us.”

“How do you know that?” I marveled, turning to her.

“My dad explained it to me every time we saw one of these,” she said, nodding at the glowing orb hovering over the horizon. “I guess over time, it just stuck.”

“I’m still impressed.”

“Don’t be. If you ask me anything else about the night sky other than the location of the Big Dipper, I wouldn’t be able to help you. For instance, I know that one or two of those stars out there are probably planets, but I couldn’t tell you which ones they are.”

Scanning the sky, I pointed. “That one over there, right above the tree? That’s Venus.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s brighter than the stars.”

She squinted. “Are you sure?”

“No,” I admitted and she laughed. “But my dad told me that. He used to wake me in the middle of the night so the two of us could watch meteor showers.”

A nostalgic smile crossed her face. “My dad did that with me, too,” she said. “And whenever we went camping, he’d stay up with Jess and me for hours, and we’d watch for falling stars.”

“Jess?”

“My older sister. Do you have any siblings?”

“I have an older sister, too. Marge.” I tried to picture Emily as a girl, with her family. “I’m having a hard time imagining you camping.”

She knitted her brows. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess maybe because you strike me as more of a city girl.”

“What does that mean?’

“You know… coffee shops, poetry readings, art galleries, joining protests, voting socialist.”

She laughed. “One thing’s for sure-you don’t know me at all.”

“Well,” I said, gathering my courage, “I’d like to know you better. What do you like to do for fun?”

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

Her gaze left me feeling a bit flustered. “If your idea of fun is skydiving or shooting apples off my head with a bow and arrow, then the only reason I’m asking is for the sake of conversation.”

“But if it’s dinner and a movie…” She arched an eyebrow.

“That’s more my style.”

She brought a hand to her chin and slowly shook her head. “No… dinner and a movie is just too… clichéd,” she said finally. “How about a hike?”

“A hike?” Eyeing her stiletto heels, I had trouble picturing her outdoors, communing with nature.

“Yeah,” she said. “How about Crowders Mountain? We can follow the Rocktop Trail.”

“I’ve never been there,” I said. In fact, I’d never heard of it.

“Then it’s a date,” she said. “How about next Saturday?”

I looked at her, suddenly wondering whether I’d asked her out or if she’d asked me, or even whether it really mattered. Because I could already tell that Emily was extraordinary, and I knew without a doubt that I wanted to get to know her better.

On Sunday, when I had spare time, I worked on the third commercial and shipped it off to the editor, which took less time than I thought it would. It had to take little time, since the rest of my day was spent with London.

It may not be politically correct to say, but the fact that London was going to school made my life better, too. As much as I loved my daughter, Sunday wore me out and I was looking forward to heading to work, if only because it seemed somehow easier than entertaining a five-year-old for sixteen straight hours.

My good mood, however, ended even before I got to the office on Monday morning. I’d just dropped London off when I fielded a call from Taglieri, asking if it was possible for me to swing by his office.

Half an hour later, I was sitting across from him in his office. His jacket was off and his sleeves were rolled up; on his desk were messy piles of what I assumed to be ongoing cases.

“Thanks for making time this morning,” he said. “I connected with Vivian’s attorney on Friday. I wanted to get a sense of her and see if there was a way to make all of this proceed as smoothly as possible.”

“And?”

“Unfortunately, she was exactly as billed. After hanging up, I went to her firm’s website because I had to see what she looked like. During our call I kept picturing an ice statue instead of a real person. I mean, she was subzero.”

His description conjured up a number of future scenarios, none of them particularly good for me. “What does that mean?”

“It means it’s probably going to be harder for you than it should be, depending on how forcefully you intend to fight.”

“I don’t care about the money as much as I care about London. I want joint custody.”

“I hear you,” he said, raising his hand. “And I know that’s what you want. But I’m not even sure what that means. Vivian’s living in Atlanta and because she wants residency in Georgia, she’s not coming back here. My question to you is whether you’re willing to move to Atlanta.”

“Why do I have to move? My house is here. My family is here. My job is here.”

“That’s my point. Even if you received joint custody, how would that work? It’s not like you’d have the chance to see London very much. Which is why, I assume, Vivian is asking for sole custody, as well as physical custody. She’s willing to grant you visitation…”

“No,” I said, cutting him off. “That’s not going to happen. I’m her father. I have rights.”

“Yes, you do. But we both know that courts tend to favor women. And Vivian’s attorney is telling me that Vivian was the primary caregiver until only a few months ago.”

“I worked so she could stay at home!”

Joey raised his hands, even as his voice adopted a soothing cadence. “I know that,” he said, “and I don’t think it’s fair either. But in custody battles, fathers are at a real disadvantage. Especially in situations like these.”

“She’s the one who moved out. She left us!”

“According to Vivian’s attorney, it was because you left her with no other choice. You were no longer able to support the family and you’d drained a big chunk from the savings account. She was forced to get a job.”

“That’s not true! Vivian took the job because she wanted to. I didn’t make her do anything…”

Taglieri fixed me with a sympathetic look. “I believe you. I’m on your side, Russ. I’m just relaying some of the things Vivian’s attorney said to me. By the way, that woman may be an ice queen and a bully, but I’m not afraid to take her on. She’s never had to go toe-to-toe with the Bulldog, and I’m good at my job. I just wanted to update you in person and prepare you for what comes next. This thing is already ugly, and it’s probably going to get even uglier over the next few months.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“For now, nothing. It’s still early. As for the settlement agreement she sent, just pretend it doesn’t exist. I’ll draft a response for you to look over and I already have some ideas on that. That said, my court schedule is full for the next couple of weeks so you won’t see anything from me right away. I don’t want you to worry if you don’t hear from me. There’s always a tendency in these situations to want to get everything done as quickly as possible, but it generally doesn’t work that way. What I do want is to touch base with her and have a longer conversation, but even then, there’s no reason to rush. Right now, London is still living with you. That’s a good thing, and the longer it goes on, the better it is for you. Also keep in mind that Vivian can’t file for divorce until next March at the earliest, so we still have time to work out a settlement that’s agreeable to both parties. Until then, you might want to check if it’s possible for you and Vivian to work something out that’s acceptable to both of you. I’m not saying that she’ll go for something like that-in fact I doubt that she will-but it’s worth a try.”

“And if she doesn’t want to work something out?”

“Then just keep doing what you’re doing with London. Be a good father, spend time with your daughter, make sure London gets to school and eats and sleeps right. I can’t stress how important that is. Keep in mind that we can always bring in a psychologist to talk to London and present a report to the court…”

“No,” I said, interrupting. “I’m not going to put London in the middle of all this. She’s not going to have to choose between her mother and father.”

His eyes dropped. “You might not think it’s a good idea, but Vivian may insist on it in the hope that it will benefit her case.”

“She wouldn’t do that,” I said. “She adores London.”

“It’s precisely because she adores London,” he said, “that you shouldn’t be surprised by anything she’s willing to do in order to gain custody.”

After the meeting with Taglieri, I was more angry, and frightened, than I’d been since Vivian had walked out the door. In my office at work, I fumed. I called Marge and repeated what Taglieri had said; Marge was as livid as I was. When she referred to Vivian with a term synonymous with female dogs, I echoed the sentiment.

But talking to Marge did little to make me feel better, and in the end, I called Emily and asked if she could meet me for lunch.

Considering how furious I was, I wanted to avoid going to a restaurant. Instead, I asked her to meet me at a park near the house, where there was a scattering of picnic tables. Not knowing what she would want, I ordered two sandwiches from the deli, along with two different kinds of soup. I added some bags of chips to the order, along with two bottles of Snapple.

Emily was already seated at one of the tables when I pulled into the gravel lot. Parking beside her, I grabbed the food and strode to the table.

I must have looked upset as I approached, because she rose from her seat and gave me a quick hug. She was wearing shorts, a peasant blouse, and sandals, similar to what she’d worn when we’d walked the golf course together. “I’d ask how you were doing, but it’s pretty clear it’s a bad day, huh?”

“Definitely a rough one,” I admitted, more affected by the feeling of her body against mine than I felt comfortable acknowledging. “Thanks for meeting me here.”

“Of course.” She sat as I laid out the food on the table and took a seat across from her. Behind us, preschoolers were clambering over a small wooden structure featuring low slides, bridges and swings. Mothers either stood nearby or sat on benches, some fiddling with their phones.

“What’s going on?”

I ran through the conversation I’d had with Taglieri. She listened with a frown of concentration, inhaling sharply at the end, her eyes slitted in disbelief.

“Would she really do that? Put London in the middle of a fight between the two of you?”

“Taglieri seemed to think it wasn’t just possible. He believes it’s probable.”

“Oh, boy,” she said. “That’s terrible. No wonder you’re upset. I’d be furious.”

“That’s an understatement. Right now, I can barely stand the thought of her. Which is strange, because ever since she left, it seems like all I’ve wanted was to see her.”

“It’s really hard,” she said. “And until you go through it, you can’t know what it’s like.”

“David wasn’t like this, was he? You said that he was generous when it came to money and you got custody of Bodhi.”

“It was still terrible. When he walked out the door, he was seeing someone, and for the next month, I kept hearing from people I knew who’d seen him out and about with this woman, acting like he didn’t have a care in the world. It was totally demoralizing, evidence that ending the marriage and losing me mattered not at all to him. And while he was generous in the end, he didn’t start out that way. He talked at first about bringing Bodhi with him to Australia.”

“He couldn’t do that, could he?”

“Probably not. Bodhi’s an American citizen, but even the threat caused me a few weeks of sleepless nights. I couldn’t imagine not being able to see my son.”

It was a sentiment I could fully relate to.

After lunch, I returned home instead of going back to the office. On the mantel and walls were dozens of photographs, mostly of London. What I hadn’t noticed in all the years that I lived there was how many photos of London included Vivian-almost all professionally shot-while only a few candid ones of London and me graced our home.

Staring at them, I wondered how long Vivian had considered me so marginal to my daughter’s existence. Perhaps I was reading too much into it-while Vivian was with London, I’d been at work, so of course there were more photos-but why hadn’t she noticed and rectified the situation? Why hadn’t she tried to memorialize more moments with the three of us, so that London could see for herself that I loved her as much as Vivian did?

I wasn’t sure. What I did know was that I didn’t want to be constantly reminded of Vivian, which meant some things had to change. With newfound resolve, I walked through the house, removing the photos that included Vivian. I had no intention of throwing them away; I put a number of them in London’s room while I stacked others in a box that Vivian could take back to Atlanta with her, stowing the box in the foyer closet. Afterward, I changed into a T-shirt and shorts. Heading to the family room, I began to rearrange the furniture. Couches, chairs, lamps-I even moved a painting from the den to the living room and vice versa. By the time I was done, I couldn’t claim that it looked better-Vivian did have good decorating sense-but it definitely looked different. I did the same in the den, moving the desk to an alternate wall, shifting the bookshelf and flipping the location of two paintings. In the master bedroom, I kept the bed in the same place, but moved all the other furniture I could, and then switched out the duvet on the bed for another that I found in the linen closet, one that hadn’t been used in years.

In another closet, I found assorted household goods, and I spent a few minutes switching out vases and lamps, along with some decorative bowls. One good thing about Vivian’s shopping over the years, I suppose, was that my overstuffed closets held the equivalent of a department store.

As soon as London got home from school, she took in her surroundings with wide eyes.

“It looks like a new house, Daddy.”

“A little bit,” I admitted. “Do you like it?”

“I like it a lot!” she exclaimed. Though her endorsement made me feel good, I suspected that it never occurred to London not to like it. With the exception of dance class, London seemed to like everything.

“I’m glad,” I said. “I didn’t move anything in your room.”

“You could have moved the hamster cage if you wanted to.”

“Do you want me to?”

“They’re still kind of noisy at night. They run on that wheel as soon as it gets dark.”

“That’s because they’re nocturnal.”

She looked at me like I was crazy. “Of course they’re not turtles. They’re hamsters.”

“Nocturnal,” I said, slowly enunciating the word. “That means they like to sleep during the day.”

“You mean so that they don’t miss me while I’m at school?”

I smiled. “Exactly.”

She was quiet for a few seconds. “Hey Daddy?”

I loved the way she said those words when she was about to ask me for something, and I wondered how old she would be when it finally stopped. Or if, by then, I’d even notice.

“Yeah, sweetie?”

“Can we go for a bike ride?’

Between my workout that morning and redecorating efforts, I was already exhausted, but Hey Daddy won out, as it usually did.

For the first time, I remembered to slather sunscreen on my daughter.

It was, however, the end of September and relatively late in the afternoon, so it probably fell into the category of too little, too late.

London donned her helmet and as soon as I helped her get going-she still couldn’t do that part on her own-I hopped onto my bike and pedaled quickly to catch up to her.

While the roads near our house offered wonderfully flat, long stretches, the streets on the far side of the neighborhood had hills. Not big hills, mind you; in my youth, I probably would have considered them boring. I preferred racing down the steepest hills, the kind that made me squeeze the handlebars so tight I’d lose feelings in my fingers, but London and I were different in that regard. The thought of going faster and faster, without pedaling, made London nervous, and so far we’d avoided the hilly roads.

It was the right thing to do, especially early on, but I felt that she’d reached the point where she could handle a shallow downslope, and we rode in that direction.

Unfortunately, the mosquitoes were out in force, and I watched as London slapped at her arm. Her bike wobbled slightly as she temporarily released her grip on the handlebars, but she didn’t seem to be in danger of falling. My little girl had come a long way since that first bike ride, and I sped up, pulling beside her.

“You’re such a good rider now!” I called out.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Maybe we could bring Bodhi for a bike ride sometime.”

“He doesn’t know how yet. He’s still using the training wheels.”

As soon as she said it, I remembered Emily telling me the same thing.

“Do you think you’re ready to try some hills?”

“I don’t know,” she said, giving me a sidelong look. “They’re kind of scary.”

“They’re not too bad,” I said. “And it’s kind of fun to go even faster.”

Letting go of the handlebar again, she reached over and scratched at her opposite arm. Again the bike wobbled.

“I think I got stung by a mosquito.”

“Probably,” I said. “But mosquitoes bite, they don’t sting.”

“It’s itchy.”

“I know. When we get back home, I’ll put some hydrocortisone cream on your arm, okay?”

We eventually made our way to the hillier section of the neighborhood, pedaling up a gradual incline. The opposite side was shorter and slightly steeper, and when we reached the top, London slowed her bike to a stop and put her feet down.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“It’s kind of big,” she said, an anxious tremor in her voice.

“I think you can do it,” I said encouragingly. “How about we give it a try?”

As a kid, I barely would have considered the slope a hill. Of course, I was remembering something from a quarter century earlier, and in my mind, I had always known how to ride a bike. Perhaps I’d forgotten the uncertainties of being a beginner.

I say this now because of what happened next; I’ll also say that had there not been a specific chain of unpredictable events-one leading to the next in a domino effect-then most likely, everything would have been fine. But it wasn’t.

As soon as London got the bike moving again, she wobbled and swerved from the middle of the road to the left-hand side. It was a bigger wobble and more of a swerve than I’d seen in a while and she probably would have righted herself, were it not for the car that began to back out of the driveway twenty yards up. I doubted the driver had seen us; hedges surrounded the yard and London was small. Furthermore, the driver seemed to be in a hurry, based on his speed, even in reverse. London locked on to the sight of the car and swerved farther left; simultaneously, she slapped at another mosquito bite. Directly ahead of her loomed a mailbox mounted on a sturdy base.

Her front tire hit the shoulder where the asphalt met the dirt.

“Watch out!” I screamed, as the bike wobbled hard. London tried to get her other hand back on the handlebars but it slipped off the grip. By then, I knew what would happen, and I watched in horror as the front wheel suddenly jerked. London catapulted over the handlebars, her head and upper body smashing into the mailbox with a sickening thud.

I was off my bike and racing toward her, screaming her name even as her front tire continued to spin. I vaguely noticed the look of surprise on the driver’s face before I crouched beside London’s limp form.

She was facedown, unmoving, utterly silent. Panic flooded every nerve as I gently turned her over.

So much blood.

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God…

I don’t know whether I was saying the words or hearing them in my mind as my insides turned to jelly. Her eyes were closed; her arm had simply flopped to the ground when I’d rolled her, like she was sleeping.

But she wasn’t sleeping.

And her wrist looked as though someone had stuffed half a lemon under the skin.

In that instant, my fear was as all consuming as anything I’d ever experienced. I prayed for a sign that she was still alive, but for what seemed an eternity, there was nothing. Finally, her eyelids fluttered and I heard a sharp intake of breath. The scream that followed was ear shattering.

By then, the driver was gone, and I doubted whether he’d even seen what happened. I didn’t have my phone so I couldn’t call 911. I thought about rushing to a house-any house-to use their phone to call an ambulance, but I didn’t want to leave my daughter. Those thoughts raced through my head in the blink of an eye and she had to get to the hospital.

The hospital…

I scooped her into my arms and began to run, cradling my injured daughter in my arms.

I tore through the neighborhood, feeling neither my legs nor my arms, hurtling forward with single-minded purpose.

As soon as I reached our house, I opened the car door and laid London on the backseat. The blood continued to flow from a gaping wound on her head, soaking her top as if it had been dipped in red paint.

I raced into the house to grab my keys and wallet and rushed back to the car, slamming the front door of the house so loudly that the windows rattled. Jumping behind the wheel of the car, I turned the key, my tires squealing.

On the seat behind me, London was no longer moving and her eyes were closed again.

My senses sharpened with adrenaline, I had never been more aware of my surroundings as I edged the accelerator higher. I flew past houses and rolled through a stop sign before gunning the engine again.

Hitting the main road, I passed cars on the left and right. At a red light, I came to a stop, then rolled through, ignoring the sounds of honking horns.

London lay silent and terrifyingly inert.

I made the fifteen-minute drive in less than seven minutes and slammed to a halt directly in front of the emergency room. Again, I cradled my daughter in my arms and carried her into the half-full waiting area.

The intake nurse knew an emergency when she saw one and was already rising as she called out, “This way!” directing me through the double doors.

Rushing her into an examination room, I laid my daughter on the table as a nurse hustled in, followed a moment later by a doctor.

I struggled to explain what had happened while the doctor lifted her eyelids and shone a light at her pupils. His movements were efficient as he barked commands to the nurses.

“I think she was unconscious,” I said, feeling helpless, to which the doctor responded tersely with some medical jargon that I couldn’t hope to comprehend. The blood was wiped from London’s face and her wrist briefly examined.

“Is she going to be okay?” I finally asked.

“She needs a CAT scan,” he replied, “but I’ve got to staunch the bleeding first.” Time seemed to slow down as I watched the nurse clean London’s face more thoroughly with an antiseptic pad, revealing a half-inch gash directly above her eyebrow. “We can stitch this, but I’d recommend that we get a plastic surgeon in here to do it so we can minimize the scarring. I’ll see who’s available unless you prefer to call a surgeon you know.”

My new client.

I mentioned the doctor’s name and the ER doctor nodded. “He’s very good,” he said before turning to one of the nurses. “See if he can make it here. If not, find out who’s on call.”

As two more nurses entered with a gurney, London stirred and began to whimper. In an instant, I was at her side, murmuring to her, but her gaze seemed unfocused and she didn’t seem to know where she was. Everything was happening so fast…

As the doctor started to question her gently, all I could think was that I’d convinced her to ride down the hill.

What kind of father was I?

What kind of father would urge his child into such a risky situation?

I was sure that the doctor was asking himself the same questions when he looked at me. I watched as gauze pads and bandages were plastered on my daughter’s head.

“We’re going to need to take her now,” he said, and without waiting for my response, London was wheeled from the room.

I filled out the insurance paperwork and used the hospital phone to call Marge. She agreed to swing by my house and grab my phone before coming to the hospital; she also said she would call Liz and my parents.

In the waiting room, I sat with hands together and head bowed, praying for the first time in years, praying that my little girl would recover and hating myself for what I’d done.

My dad was the first to arrive; he’d been working a job just a few blocks away, and he strode into the waiting room, his face tight with worry. When I filled him in, he didn’t offer or expect a hug; instead, he took a seat in the chair beside me. Or rather, he nearly collapsed into it. I watched as he closed his eyes and when he finally opened them, he couldn’t meet my eyes.

I realized then that he was as terrified as I was.

Liz arrived next, then my mom, and finally Marge, who looked paler than usual. Unlike my dad, they all wanted and needed to be held after I shared what I knew. My mom cried. Liz clasped her hands together, as if praying. Marge wheezed and coughed and took a puff of her inhaler.

My dad finally spoke.

“She’ll be all right,” he said.

But I knew he said it because he wanted to believe it, not because he actually thought it was true.

My client, the plastic surgeon, arrived soon thereafter and I rose from my seat.

“Thank you for coming,” I said. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

“You’re welcome. I have kids, too, so I understand. Let me head back and see what I can do.”

He disappeared through the double doors.

We waited.

Then waited some more, an agonizing limbo.

In time, the doctors finally appeared.

I tried and failed to read their expressions as they motioned for us to follow them back. Leading us into one of the patient rooms, they closed the door behind us.

“I’m pretty certain she’s going to be all right,” the ER doctor said without preamble. “The CAT scan showed no signs of any subdural hematomas or other brain injuries. London is fully conscious now and was able to answer questions. She knew where she was and what had happened to her. Those are all good signs.”

It felt as though my entire body released a breath I hadn’t known it was holding. “That said, she was unconscious for a while, so we’re going to keep her overnight for observation. It’s just a precaution. In rare cases, swelling can occur later, but I’m not expecting to see that. We just want to make sure. And, of course, she’ll have to take it very easy for the next few days. She can probably go back to school on Wednesday, but no physical activity for at least a week.”

“How about the gash on her head?”

My client answered. “It was a clean gash. I stitched it on the inside and the outside. There’s going to a light scar that may last for a few years, but it should fade over time.”

I nodded. “And her arm?”

“It was her wrist,” the ER doc answered. “The X-ray didn’t show a break, but there’s so much swelling we can’t be sure. There are a number of small bones in the wrist so there’s no way to tell right now whether anything is broken. Right now, we’re thinking that it’s just a nasty sprain, but you’ll have to bring her in for another X-ray in a week or two to be sure. The splint is fine until then.”

Unconscious. Scarred. A wrist that may be sprained or worse. The information left me feeling depleted.

“May I see her?”

“Of course,” he said. “She’s getting a splint put on her wrist right now and will be moved to a private room, but that shouldn’t take long. All in all, considering what happened, she was lucky. It’s a good thing she was wearing a helmet. It could have been a lot worse.”

Thank God Vivian had insisted that I make London wear a helmet, I thought.

Vivian.

I’d completely forgotten to call her.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” I asked.

London looked better than when I brought her into the emergency room, but she certainly wasn’t the little girl who’d hopped on her bike earlier that afternoon. A large white bandage obscured her forehead and her wrist looked tiny in its bulky splint. Pale and fragile, she appeared as though she were being swallowed by her bed.

My mom and dad, along with Liz and Marge, had crowded into the room, and after the hugs and kisses and tales of worry, I’d taken a seat on the bed beside London. I reached for her good hand and felt her squeeze it.

“My head hurts,” she said. “And my wrist hurts, too.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry, baby girl.”

“I don’t like sunscreen,” she protested, her voice weak. “It made my handlebars slippery.”

I flashed on the image of her scratching at the bites on her arms. “I didn’t think about that,” I said. “We probably don’t need too much sunscreen anyway now that the summer is done.”

“Is my bike okay?”

I realized I’d left both bikes where they lay. I wondered if someone had removed mine from the road, suspecting that someone had. Maybe even the driver. I was also pretty sure that the bikes would be there until I returned to pick them up; it was that kind of neighborhood.

“I’m sure it is, but if it isn’t, we can fix it. Or get a new one.”

“Is Mommy coming?”

I really, really need to make that call, I thought.

“I’ll find out, okay? I’m sure she’ll want to talk to you.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

I kissed the top of her head. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

The rest of my family crowded around the bed while I stepped into the hallway. I made for the elevators, seeking privacy. What I hadn’t wanted was anyone in my family-London especially-listening in on a conversation that I was dreading. When I checked my phone, I noticed that Vivian had already called twice, no doubt wanting to speak with London. I connected the call, and felt my stomach begin to clench.

“London?” she asked, picking up.

“No, it’s me, Russ,” I said. “I wanted to let you know right off the bat that London is fine. I’ll put her on the phone in a few minutes, but you should know that she’s okay first.”

“Why? What happened?” Vivian’s fear came through like an electric current.

“We were bike riding and she crashed. She sprained her wrist and cut her forehead, and I had to bring her to the hospital…”

“The hospital?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Let me finish, okay?” I drew a breath and launched into a description of what had happened. Surprising me, she didn’t interrupt, nor did she raise her voice. But her breathing was ragged and erratic, and when I was done, I could tell she’d begun to cry.

“And you’re sure she’s okay? You’re not just saying that?”

“I promise. Like I said, I’ll get you on the phone with her in just a minute. I stepped out of the room to call you.”

“Why didn’t you call me earlier?”

“I should have and I’m sorry. I was in such a panic that I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“No, I get it. I… um…” She hesitated. “Hold on a second, okay?”

It was more than a second; I was on hold for almost a minute before she finally came back on the line. “I’m heading to the airport now. I want to be with her tonight.”

I was about to tell her that there was no need for her to come, but if our positions were reversed, I know I would have moved mountains to reach London.

“Can I talk to her now?”

“Of course,” I said. I walked back down the hallway and entered London’s room. Handing over the phone, I watched London press the phone close to her ear, but I could still make out what Vivian was saying.

She never mentioned me; her focus was entirely on London. Toward the end, I heard Vivian ask to speak to me again. This time, I didn’t feel the need to leave the room.

“Hey there,” I said.

“She sounds good,” Vivian said with palpable relief. “Thanks for putting her on. I’m in the car now and should be there in less than a couple of hours.”

Thanks to Spannerman’s private jet, no doubt. Which was no doubt the reason she’d put me on hold earlier. So she could ask him.

“I’ll be here. Let me know when you land.”

“Will do.”

Vivian texted when she touched down. For a moment I wondered whether my family should stick around, but then I chided myself. London was in the hospital, and they would stay until visiting hours were over. Because that’s what family was supposed to do. End of subject.

However, I suspected that my family harbored a natural curiosity regarding Vivian. My parents hadn’t seen her for over a month-since the day London started school-and it had been even longer for Marge and Liz. I’m sure they were wondering whether the new Vivian differed from the one they’d known for years. And how, of course, we would all treat each other.

A nurse came in to check London’s vitals; the doctor followed and asked London questions again. Though my daughter’s voice was weak, she answered them correctly. He told us that he would continue to monitor her condition regularly for the next few hours. When he left, I found a channel on the TV that was showing Scooby-Doo. Though London was watching, she looked as though she might soon fall asleep.

Vivian arrived a few minutes later. In faded jeans that were torn at the knees, black sandals and a thin black sweater, she was her usual chic self, though she looked harried.

“Hey everyone,” she said, sounding out of breath and distracted. “I got here as fast as I could.”

“Mommy!”

She rushed to London, covering her with kisses. “Oh, sweetie… you were in an accident, huh?”

“I have a cut on my forehead.”

Vivian took a seat beside London, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “I know. Your dad told me. I’m glad you were wearing a helmet.”

“Me, too,” she said.

Vivian planted another kiss on the top of her head. “Let me say hi to everyone, okay? And then I want to sit with you for a while.”

“Okay, Mommy.”

Rising from the bed, she approached my parents. Right away, she embraced them, as well as Marge and Liz. I realized later that I’d only ever seen her touch Marge and Liz a few times in my life. To my amazement, she wrapped me in a brief hug as well.

“Thank you all so much for coming,” she said. “I know it made London feel better to have you all here.”

“Of course,” my mom answered.

“She’s a tough little girl,” my dad pronounced.

“Visiting hours are almost over,” Marge said. “So Liz and I are going to take off. We’ll let the three of you visit for a while.”

“Us, too,” my dad nodded. “We’ll leave you alone.”

I watched as they gathered their things and then followed them into the hallway. Like Vivian, I hugged them all and thanked them for coming. In their eyes, I could see the questions they wanted to ask but didn’t. Even if they had asked, I doubt that I would have had any answers.

Returning to the room, I saw that Vivian was perched beside London on the bed. London was telling her about the car that backed out and how the sunscreen had made her handlebars slippery.

“It must have been scary.”

“It was very scary. But I don’t remember after that.”

“You were very brave.”

“Yeah, I am.” I had to smile at her matter-of-factness. Then: “I’m glad you’re here, Mommy.”

“I am too. I had to come because I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.”

Vivian lay down next to London on the bed and slipped her arm around her, both of them watching Scooby-Doo. I took a seat in the chair and watched them, relieved, somehow, that Vivian had come. Not simply for London’s sake, but because a part of me still wanted to believe in Vivian’s goodness, despite all she’d done to me.

Observing the two of them, I did believe in that goodness-and I also noted Vivian’s forlorn expression, recognizing how hard it was for her to be separated from London. I sensed her anguish at being so far away when the accident had happened, despite how quickly she’d been able to get here.

I could see London’s eyelids drooping, and rising from the chair, I crossed the room and turned out the light. Vivian offered me the slightest of smiles, and I was struck by the melancholy thought that the last time that the three of us had been alone together in a hospital room, London was not yet a day old. On that day, I would have sworn on my life that the three of us would always be united in the love we felt for each other. We were a family then, the three of us together. But it was different now and I sat in the darkness wondering if Vivian felt the loss as deeply as I did.

Midmorning the next day, London was discharged from the hospital. I’d already called the school and the piano teacher, explaining her absence and canceling her lessons for the week. I also let London’s teacher know that she shouldn’t be active at recess once she returned to school. Thankfully, the nurses had given me some disinfectant wipes to clean the backseat of the car, because I hadn’t wanted London to see the bloody mess.

As I signed the discharge papers, I glanced over at Vivian, noticing how tired she looked. Neither of us had slept much; throughout the night, the nurses and doctor had come into the room to check on London, waking all three of us in the process. London, I assumed, would sleep for most of the day.

“I was wondering,” Vivian said, sounding uncharacteristically tentative, “if I could come back to the house for a while. So I can spend some more time with London. Would you mind?”

“Not at all,” I said. “I’m sure London would like that.”

“I’m probably going to need a nap and a shower, too.”

“That sounds fine,” I said. “When do you have to go back?”

“I’m flying out tonight. Walter and I have to be in DC tomorrow. More lobbying.”

“Always busy,” I remarked.

“Too busy, sometimes.”

I analyzed her comment on the drive home, wondering at the hint of weariness in her tone. Was she just tired, or was the jet-set lifestyle beginning to feel less exciting than it once had?

It was a mistake to try to read meaning into every word, tone, and nuance, I told myself. What had Emily said to me? If it comes, let it come. If it stays, let it stay. If it goes, let it go.

When we reached the house, I carried London inside. She’d already begun to doze off, and I brought her straight up to her bedroom. Vivian followed us up and after I got London tucked in bed, I watched as Vivian went to the guest room. Though I’m sure she noticed that I’d rearranged the furniture, she said nothing to me about it.

My car was too small to load my bike in the trunk, but I squeezed London’s bike into the back. Someone had leaned the bikes against the mailbox. I drove London’s bike home, put on my running gear, and ran back to the same mailbox. It was while grabbing mine that I saw the blood that had dried on the asphalt and my stomach did a flip-flop. I rode my bike home, went for a run, and took a cooling shower. Both London and Vivian were still sleeping, so I went back to the bedroom for a nap. I drew the shades and slept like the dead.

When I awoke, I found Vivian and London watching a movie in the family room. Though wearing the same clothes she’d arrived in, Vivian had showered, the tips of her hair still wet, and London was curled up next to her on the sofa. On the coffee table were the remains of London’s snack-turkey and pear slices-most of which she had eaten.

“How are you feeling, London?’

“Good,” she said, without looking up.

“How did you sleep?” Vivian asked.

I was struck by how ordinary she sounded.

“Well. I needed it.” I motioned to the plate. “I know London just had a snack, but what are you thinking for dinner? Do you want me to make something?”

“I think it might be easier if we just order something, don’t you? Unless you’re really in the mood to cook.”

I wasn’t. “Chinese?”

She squeezed London closer to her. “Do you want Chinese food for dinner?”

“Okay,” London said, still absorbed in the movie. The bandage on her head, along with the splint on her arm, made me wince.

Though I wanted to visit with London-part of me wondered whether she was angry with me for what had happened-I didn’t want to do anything that might upset the détente that seemed to currently exist between Vivian and me. Instead, I went to the kitchen and ate a banana, then wandered to the computer in the den, trying to lose myself in work but feeling distinctly unfocused. In time, I called the Chinese restaurant and went to pick up the food.

We ate on the back porch, just like old times. Afterward, London took a bath and dressed in her pajamas. As bedtime approached, Vivian and I slipped into our familiar roles-she read first, followed by me. But when I finally came back downstairs, Vivian had already shouldered her handbag and was waiting near the door.

“I need to get going,” she said. Did I detect a hint of resignation in her voice? I reminded myself again that it was pointless to read anything into it.

“I figured.”

She adjusted the strap of her handbag, as if stalling would help her find the words she needed. “I noticed that you rearranged the house and took a lot of the photos down. The ones that included me, I mean. I was going to say something earlier, but I didn’t think it was the right time.”

For whatever reason, I didn’t want to admit that I’d done so in a fit of anger. But I didn’t feel I was wrong, either; I knew I would do the same thing again.

“Like you, I’m just trying to move forward,” I stated. “But I put some of the family photos in her room. Because we’ll always be her parents.”

“Thank you,” she said. “That was thoughtful of you.”

“I put the other photos in a box if you want to bring them with you. There are some fantastic ones of you and London.”

“That would be great.”

I went to the closet and retrieved the box; as I held it beneath my arm, her eyes flashed to the photos. I felt acutely, perhaps more than ever, that our era as a couple had really and truly come to an end, and I had the sense she was thinking the same thing.

“Let me get my keys and I’ll put this in the trunk,” I said.

“I can carry it,” she said, reaching for the box. “You don’t need to drive me. There’s a car waiting out front.”

I handed it over. “A car?”

“It’s not like we can leave London here alone, right?”

Right, I thought, wondering how I’d overlooked something so elementary. Being around Vivian-a Vivian who reminded me of the woman I had married, the very same Vivian with whom I had no future-seemed to have thrown me.

“All right, then,” I said. I put a hand in my pocket. “About this weekend,” I started, “and me having to stay at Marge’s or my parents’…”

“You don’t have to,” she said, cutting me off. “I realized today that there’s no reason for you to do that. It’s not fair to you. I’ll just stay in the guest room if that’s okay.”

“It’s fine,” I said.

“But you know I still want to spend as much time with London as I can. Just the two of us. I know that may not seem fair, but right now, I really don’t want to confuse her.”

“Of course,” I said. “That makes sense.”

She shifted the box beneath her arm and I wondered whether to offer a hug or a kiss on the cheek. As if anticipating my action, she turned toward the door.

“I’ll see you in a few days,” she said. “And I’ll call London tomorrow.”

“Sounds good,” I said, opening the door for her. Behind her, idling on the street, was a limousine. Vivian started toward it and I watched as the driver quickly exited the car to help her carry the box. He opened the door and put the box on the seat. Vivian waited for him to move aside, then got into the car. I couldn’t help thinking that it all seemed as natural as breathing for her-as though she’d always had a car and driver, had always been the lover of a billionaire.

I couldn’t see her through the darkened glass of the car and I wondered whether she was watching me, but in the end, I simply turned away. Stepping into the house, I closed the door behind me, feeling strangely sad.

For a moment I hesitated. Then I reached for my phone.

Emily answered on the second ring.

We were on the phone for nearly two hours. Though I did most of the talking, working through my sense of loss, she managed to make me smile and laugh more than once. And every time I wondered aloud if I was a good person, she assured me that I was blameless. I needed to hear that, somehow, and when I finally turned in for the night, I closed my eyes wondering how I’d been lucky enough to rediscover Emily, who was exactly the kind of friend I needed most.