waiting for me there.
Chelsea sits in a back booth; Michael’s across from her. He’s wearing a light summer suit over the top of a striking blue Johnston & Murphy shirt. The suit drapes his muscled frame nicely. Obviously, he’s been keeping up with his weekly boxing habit. You can take the boy out of the neighborhood, but not the neighborhood out of the boy.
When Michael spots me weaving my way through the crowded dining room, he puts away his BlackBerry and slides to standing.
“Victoria,” Michael says.
“Michael,” I answer.
Same exchange, every week. We never deviate.
“I’ll be back at six-thirty.” He says this more to Chelsea than to me, bending down, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
Then he’s gone and I’m alone with my daughter.
Chelsea’s six. She has Michael’s dark hair, my fine features. She holds herself tight, tall for her age, mature for her years. Living with an older brother like Evan can do that to a girl.
“Have you ordered?” I ask, sliding into Michael’s seat, placing my purse beside me on the red vinyl.
She shakes her head.
“What looks good?” I sound forced. It’s like this every week. I have one evening to try to prove to my daughter I love her. She has six evenings that tell her otherwise.
Chelsea closes her menu, doesn’t say anything. A balloon pops across the room, and she flinches. By the terms of our divorce decree, Michael’s supposed to provide counseling for Chelsea, but I don’t know if he’s doing it. After all the experts we saw for Evan, he’s soured on that sort of thing.
But Chelsea isn’t Evan. She’s a lovely little girl who spent her first five years never knowing if her brother would hug her with affection or attack her in a psychotic rage. She learned by age two when to run and lock herself in the nearest bathroom. By three, she could dial 911. And she was there, eleven months ago, when Evan found the crowbar in the garage and went after every window in the house.
Michael and Chelsea left the next day. It’s been me and Evan ever since.
“How’s school?” I ask.
She shrugs. I have to honor the mood, so I reach across the table for the cup filled with crayons. I flip over my place mat and start drawing a picture. After a moment, Chelsea does the same. We color a bit in silence, and I tell myself it’s enough.
The waitress comes. I order a garden salad. Chelsea goes with chicken fingers.
We color some more.
“I get to be the flower girl,” Chelsea says abruptly.
I pause, force myself to find yellow, add to my gardenscape. Wedding? The divorce was only finalized six months ago. I knew Michael was seeing someone, but this … It seems undignified somehow. A gross display in the middle of a funeral.
“You get to be a flower girl?” I ask.
“In Daddy and Melinda’s wedding. It will be during Christmas. I get to wear green velvet.”
“You’ll … you’ll look beautiful.”
“Daddy says Melinda will be my new Mommy.” Chelsea’s not coloring anymore. She’s staring at me.
“She’ll become your stepmom. You’ll have a stepmom and a mom after the wedding.”
“Do stepmoms like to eat at Friendly’s?”
I can’t do it. I put down the crayon, stare hard at the tabletop. “I love you, Chelsea.”
She picks up her crayon and returns to coloring. “I’m mad,” she says, almost conversationally. “I don’t want a new mom. Sarah has one, and she says stepmoms are no fun. And I don’t like green velvet. It’s hot. The dress is ugly.”
I say nothing.
“I want to rip the dress,” she continues. “I want to get scissors and cut it up. Cut, cut, cut. Or maybe I could drip paint all over it. Drip, drip, drip. Then I wouldn’t have to wear it.” She looks up again. “Mommy, am I turning into Evan?”
My heart twists. I take her hand. There are so many things I’d like to say to her. That she’s special, unique, beautiful. That I have loved her since the moment she was born. That none of this is her
Chelsea sits in a back booth; Michael’s across from her. He’s wearing a light summer suit over the top of a striking blue Johnston & Murphy shirt. The suit drapes his muscled frame nicely. Obviously, he’s been keeping up with his weekly boxing habit. You can take the boy out of the neighborhood, but not the neighborhood out of the boy.
When Michael spots me weaving my way through the crowded dining room, he puts away his BlackBerry and slides to standing.
“Victoria,” Michael says.
“Michael,” I answer.
Same exchange, every week. We never deviate.
“I’ll be back at six-thirty.” He says this more to Chelsea than to me, bending down, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
Then he’s gone and I’m alone with my daughter.
Chelsea’s six. She has Michael’s dark hair, my fine features. She holds herself tight, tall for her age, mature for her years. Living with an older brother like Evan can do that to a girl.
“Have you ordered?” I ask, sliding into Michael’s seat, placing my purse beside me on the red vinyl.
She shakes her head.
“What looks good?” I sound forced. It’s like this every week. I have one evening to try to prove to my daughter I love her. She has six evenings that tell her otherwise.
Chelsea closes her menu, doesn’t say anything. A balloon pops across the room, and she flinches. By the terms of our divorce decree, Michael’s supposed to provide counseling for Chelsea, but I don’t know if he’s doing it. After all the experts we saw for Evan, he’s soured on that sort of thing.
But Chelsea isn’t Evan. She’s a lovely little girl who spent her first five years never knowing if her brother would hug her with affection or attack her in a psychotic rage. She learned by age two when to run and lock herself in the nearest bathroom. By three, she could dial 911. And she was there, eleven months ago, when Evan found the crowbar in the garage and went after every window in the house.
Michael and Chelsea left the next day. It’s been me and Evan ever since.
“How’s school?” I ask.
She shrugs. I have to honor the mood, so I reach across the table for the cup filled with crayons. I flip over my place mat and start drawing a picture. After a moment, Chelsea does the same. We color a bit in silence, and I tell myself it’s enough.
The waitress comes. I order a garden salad. Chelsea goes with chicken fingers.
We color some more.
“I get to be the flower girl,” Chelsea says abruptly.
I pause, force myself to find yellow, add to my gardenscape. Wedding? The divorce was only finalized six months ago. I knew Michael was seeing someone, but this … It seems undignified somehow. A gross display in the middle of a funeral.
“You get to be a flower girl?” I ask.
“In Daddy and Melinda’s wedding. It will be during Christmas. I get to wear green velvet.”
“You’ll … you’ll look beautiful.”
“Daddy says Melinda will be my new Mommy.” Chelsea’s not coloring anymore. She’s staring at me.
“She’ll become your stepmom. You’ll have a stepmom and a mom after the wedding.”
“Do stepmoms like to eat at Friendly’s?”
I can’t do it. I put down the crayon, stare hard at the tabletop. “I love you, Chelsea.”
She picks up her crayon and returns to coloring. “I’m mad,” she says, almost conversationally. “I don’t want a new mom. Sarah has one, and she says stepmoms are no fun. And I don’t like green velvet. It’s hot. The dress is ugly.”
I say nothing.
“I want to rip the dress,” she continues. “I want to get scissors and cut it up. Cut, cut, cut. Or maybe I could drip paint all over it. Drip, drip, drip. Then I wouldn’t have to wear it.” She looks up again. “Mommy, am I turning into Evan?”
My heart twists. I take her hand. There are so many things I’d like to say to her. That she’s special, unique, beautiful. That I have loved her since the moment she was born. That none of this is her
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