Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [100]
Chloe can stand unassisted, although she has yet to take her first steps. She has a favorite book, prefers squash to sweet potatoes, and, ever since she was an infant, has slept on her back with her arms raised over her head in a position of complete surrender. But she will remember none of these things when she is older. One day, in the not too distant future, she will ask me what she was like as a baby and, like all kids, will delight in my reminiscences, either real or embellished. Will I remember this, I ask myself, struggling to hold onto the moment, or will it vanish like the turquoise paint, swirling in gentle eddies down the drain of the porcelain sink?
One day, too, she will ask me about Jake. And I’ll have to decide what to tell her. It’s been a blessing, perhaps, that Jake and I divorced when we did. She never had a chance to know him, and that will make the loss easier for her to bear. But one day she may want to know why there is no daddy in her life, and it will fall to me to tell her some palatable version of the truth. And there’s always the possibility that, even knowing whatever masticated version of the truth I’ve given her, she might one day want to know him anyway. I try not to think of the other baby, Jake’s other child, who I imagine is close to being born now, and hope that there will be some way to protect Chloe from the knowledge that her father has chosen to love another child instead of her.
We hang the prints to dry on the clothesline over the laundry sink, and I hold her hands as we walk together up the basement steps.
My father is on his back under the kitchen sink, a wrench poised in his hand, a tea towel over his stomach, the top of which is scrunched under his neck.
“The sponges were damp,” he tells me, when I ask him what he is doing. “Fiona went to get a new sponge from the bucket in the back of the sink this morning, and they were damp. There must be a leak somewhere.”
Fiona emerges from the utility room carrying a bucket, a plunger, and a rag.
“Can you see it? Can you see where it’s leaking? Shall I turn on the water?” Fiona says, bending low to offer my father the rag.
“No and no!” my father cries. “I’ll get wet.”
Fiona throws her hands into the air and turns to look at me. “Men. Helpless. Can’t live with them. Can’t shoot ’em. Well, don’t worry about it. I’ll ask Ben to stop by and take a look.” She bends down and gives my father a playful squeeze on the knee. “Come on, Grandpa, let’s get moving.”
My father, who has recently become as domesticated as a neutered tabby cat, replaces the wrench with unconcealed relief as Fiona bustles around the kitchen, filling a bottle with juice and checking the diaper bag for diapers and wipes that I have already packed. To give me some time to get a few things done for the party, he and Fiona have volunteered to take Chloe to the zoo today. He helps her into her coat and slings the diaper bag over his shoulder, as Fiona holds out her arms for Chloe.
Once the invitations are dry, I write little notes on the back of each one and tuck them into the envelopes. I plan to deliver them this afternoon on my way to the market. I leave Ben’s invitation on the counter next to the sink, because Fiona called him before they left for the zoo. Ruth and Carlos aren’t at home, which doesn’t surprise me because it’s Saturday morning, their therapy morning. Carlos and Ruth are seeing an “attachment therapist,” someone who is supposed to be helping them build their relationship. I leave their invitation in the mail slot, thinking I’ll call Ruth when I get home. We hadn’t had a chance to fully debrief about the mah-jongg game Thursday; it ran long, and Carlos had a dermatologist appointment they were rushing off to, or maybe it was the allergist. Carlos has quite a medical team, and sometimes