Daddy
“Didyou know soap suds have no actual functionality to the cleaning and disinfecting component of dish soap?”
I look at James, my right brow quirked into an arch. I don’t know whether to pinch his cheek or play into his little game. I choose the latter. “What do you mean?”
“They’re there for the commercial appeal,” he explains, his hip perched against the edge of the counter. He throws a hand in the air in a noncommittal gesture. “To make it feel like the soap is actually doing something, but it does the job without the suds regardless.”
“So, the bubbles are just for show?” I ask, my curiosity growing thicker with this new slate of information.
He nods proudly. “And did you also know that the scent in gas is added?”
That one throws me for a loop. “Huh?”
“The smell in gas,” he elaborates. “Like propane or methane or even natural gas. They add in the scent so if there’s a leak, you can detect it through smell.”
I dry my hands, wiping away the ineffectual soap suds from my forearms. “So, there’s like an added step for safety measures when gas is made?”
He lifts a shoulder. “I guess. I didn’t look that far into it.”
I toss the dish towel onto the counter. “And how is your brain filled with so many of these little facts?”
Another shrug, evasive in nature. “I like learning interesting things.”
I hum a mellow purr of approval. “I love that you’re so smart, baby.”
He bends down to kiss me, his arms wrapped tightly around my waist. My fingers, still a little damp from the dishes I just finished, run through his hair in a less than fluid motion. With my hands tugging at his roots and my thighs spreading open as an invitation, he lifts me onto the kitchen counter. Just as his hands fist the hem of my dress, we hear a knock at the door.
“I think that’s the delivery guys,” I murmur against his lips.
“Mm-hmm,” he mumbles back with no sign of stopping. In fact, his fingers continue to wander higher, making me want to ignore our brand-new dining table waiting outside. Another knock and James finally pulls away with a disapproving grunt. He looks over his shoulder and yells, “No one’s home.”
“James! They’re going to leave.”
“Even better,” he rasps, leaning in for another kiss, but I pull away.
“Go answer the door,” I scold, swatting my hand on his shoulder, and he does as I say.
I watch him strut to the door, enjoying the view with the slight sway of his hips, before I hop off the counter. I linger in the kitchen, back and forth in the narrow space between the sink and stove, while James conducts the delivery of our new table.
It’s been a few weeks since he officially moved in, and we decided a brand-new dining set—with chairs that didn’t have wiggly legs—was the perfect way to celebrate our new living situation. Our lives have settled into a happy plateau. Routine that doesn’t feel dull but comforting instead. The move came a little suddenly—and conveniently—when Sylvia and Tommy announced their engagement a month ago. And with it came a slightly unexpected push, urging James out the door with a gentle nudge. A nudge that landed him in front of my doorstep with a downcast look that rivaled that of a puppy dog—more manipulative than regretful. But it worked, his tactic to usurpthe left side of my full-size bed, and now we’re having a dining set delivered toourapartment.
I saunter to his side, wrapping my arm around his waist. I slide a hand into his back pocket, and he leans down to kiss my temple.
“Don’t forget to tip them,” I whisper, adding a light tap to his left buttock.
His hand reaches for my forearm, but I slip just out of reach as I walk back into our room, out of the way and into a box of James’s things I’ve been meaning to condense. It’s mainly things he kept in the back of his closet in his own apartment. Old diplomas, photo albums, sheets still in their packaging. And a specific stuffed owl.
I reach for it, running my cheek along the plush fabric, all while the sounds of the delivery men take over our dining area. I inhale a deep breath, wondering if I could smell anything other than the stale scent usually found in old storage boxes. Nothing. I don’t know if I expected it to have a faint baby scent, considering it came from ababystore. Or if there would’ve been something more familiar about it. Something intrinsic and intimate.
Time has felt fleeting and ephemeral since my miscarriage. My due date had come and gone. Just when the air was transitioning from spring to summer, and my mind was thankfully preoccupied with end-of-school-year activities. I was able to distract myself for the most part. I almost wonder if it even happened. Our families, James’s parents and siblings and my mom, know nothing of it. They don’t placatingly run a warm hand down my arm when I see them, wondering if any lingering signs of grief or regret can be seen on my face because as far as they know, there’s nothing to console me about. To them, I’m a contented adult going about my usual day. But along the lines that deepen when I smile or in the creases between my browwhen I scowl or look confused, it’s there. It feels phantom, my pain, and I don’t even know how to talk about it anymore. Or if I even want to talk about it.
The emails help. I don’t read them after I’ve sent them. They justwhooshout into cyberspace, and I know they’re out there. Out in some cosmic universe where hopefully our baby can see them and know all the things I want her to know. I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do, to hold on to this grief, like it’s the perfect carry-on with a set of swivel wheels and a retractable handle, because it’s baggage regardless of how primly and compactly it’s packed. Something we both refuse to let go of just yet.
“They’re done,” James announces, poking his head into the room. His eyes catch on the owl still on my hand, and his plans to pop in and out disappear as he carefully steps into my space. “Where was that?”
“In your things,” I tell him. I wave it in his direction, a playful move to help lighten the mood. “I was just looking for a place to put it.”
He reaches for it and holds it between his hands. He takes a moment, staying in my bubble where we savor a moment with our grief. Our familiar and accustomed grief. “I’ll put this stuff away later,” he tells me, bending down to replace the owl.
