Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [127]
Richard doesn’t answer, but nods, fumbling with his headphones.
“What if you have to go to the bathroom?” I ask, worrying about the sixteen-ounce bottle of water I’ve just tucked into Richard’s bag.
“I won’t,” he says, trying to untangle the cord to the headset.
“You don’t have to wear those. No one else is here.”
“I know. I like them,” Richard says, putting them on.
“But you might not hear the buzzer if your therapist comes early.”
Richard looks up at me and smiles sweetly, holding his hand to his ear and pretending not to have heard me. “I’ll be fine. Go. Please,” Richard says too loudly, having found and inserted his DVD.
In the month since Chloe’s last Gymboree class, her sense of balance has become more refined. To my surprise and her delight, she is now able to climb the five steps of the slide holding on to me with only one hand. When she positions herself at the top of the slide, I hover near her, my arm outstretched, careful not to touch her, but she soon grows impatient with my hovering and reaches over to push my arm away.
“No,” she says, frowning at me.
“A clear and assertive ‘no.’ Quite unlike her mother, I see.” I looked around the gym at the beginning of class and didn’t see Neil and Eli, so I’m surprised when I turn around to find them standing right behind me.
“Hi,” I say, surprised. “I didn’t see you.”
“We’re starting on potty training. We’ve spent most of the class in the little boys’ room,” Neil says, placing a hand on the small of his back and stretching. “Man, those potties are low.”
I smile at him, feeling suddenly awkward.
“I’ve left you several messages,” Neil says. “And I haven’t heard from you, well, unless you count the thank you note. I guess I should take the hint.”
Since I deleted Neil’s message a couple of weeks ago, he’s called me three more times, calls which, largely because of Richard, I’ve been too busy to return. “I’m sorry. A friend of mine had—”
“I know,” Neil says. “Your friend, Ruth, mentioned it. I’m sorry about Richard. We met at Chloe’s party, remember?”
I nod.
Ruth hadn’t mentioned that Neil was asking about me, hardly surprising given the circumstances. Although Ruth and I had made up, we seem to have agreed tacitly not to mention Neil, and I haven’t been to Gymboree since the accident. In the scope of things, the life and death matters of the last few weeks have overshadowed any potential romantic entanglements. Still, it must have been painful for Ruth to have had to field Neil’s questions.
“I’ve been preoccupied,” I tell him. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, at least you were able to get those thank you notes written,” Neil says, with a tight smile.
I’d written the notes while sitting at Richard’s bedside waiting to see if he would ever emerge from his coma. When Eli begins tugging urgently on Neil’s pant leg, he gives me a curt nod. “Excuse us,” Neil says formally. “Nature calls. Again.”
We avoid each other for the rest of the class.
During “The Bubble Song,” I sneak little glances at Neil, who steadfastly refuses to look in our direction. Eli, who looks nothing like Neil, sits on his father’s lap and rests his head on Neil’s chest. Apart from noticing Eli’s red hair and freckles, I hadn’t really realized how little they resembled each other. How does it make Neil feel to look into his son’s eyes and see his wife? Does he find it comforting or is it a constant reminder of his loss? I cannot presume to imagine which, but it makes me thankful that Chloe looks like me.
chapter 27
The primary responsibilities of a sous-chef are to anticipate the chef’s needs and to do all the uninteresting tasks competently and without complaint. Richard is failing miserably. His physical therapist noted on his progress report that he needs to be using his right side more and that anything I can do to encourage him would be beneficial. So I’ve put him to work soaking corn husks and ripping dozens of little strands with which to tie low-fat tamales.
“I couldn’t do this before my accident. What makes you think I should be able to do it now?”
“Stop complaining.