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“Phoebe, you’re here,” I commented, like an idiot. Obviously she’s here, you big galumph.
“I am,” she laughed. Turning to Henry, “And who’s this?”
“This is Henry,” I said, stepping back from the meat to introduce the two. “Henry, say hi to Phoebe. She’ll be living with us for a few days.”
Phoebe knelt down to Henry’s height. “Hey, Henry, how ya doing?”
He smiled, and his fluffy cheeks dimpled. “I’m peelin’ car-ots.”
She pretended to inspect the carrots, then declared, “You’re doing a wonderful job! How’d you get so good at carrot peeling?”
“I peel carrots all the time.”
“Maybe when I’m your age, I’ll be that good at peeling,” she joked.
Henry puffed out his chest, proud of the praise. I wondered if Phoebe could see the light that I felt practically emanating from my heart, wondered if the glow was illuminating our small kitchen. She’s so good with him, I thought.
But I couldn’t let Henry get attached. She was here for four days, not a lifetime. To let my kid, after everything that had happened, believe that he might once again have a mother… it would be a unique brand of cruelty. Phoebe was leaning down, smiling and laughing with Henry, and, though it was adorable, I worried that it’d just be getting his hopes up.
“Is Jo-Beth joining us?” I asked, breaking the tension that I was sure no one but me was feeling.
“Nope, she just said needed to rest.”
“Understandable. You two ladies have had a trying day indeed.”
Phoebe scrunched her fingers in her hair, whirling the damp strands around. “Can I help with dinner?”
“Of course not, you’re my guest. Besides, I’m the only one I trust to manage a real steak.”
She giggled, and accepted her fate of leaning against the wall and watching. “I feel useless.”
“Hey, you’re useful — I love an audience.”
Henry was utterly focused on the carrots — each one took him several minutes of methodical careful peeling — so I turned to Phoebe.
“How’d you get so good with kids?” I asked in that ‘adult’ tone which mysteriously rendered the words inaudible to any children in the room.
She shrugged. “I took child psychology in school.”
“Oh, interesting.”
“And my mom’s an elementary school teacher.”
“Really?”
I was impressed. In my book, teaching was just about the finest profession out there. I was always the first one to sign petitions calling for raises in their salaries.
“Yeah, she teaches kindergarten. The kids are adorable. Like even when they’re being frustrating, you know that they’re wonderful. The fact that you get to be part of their journey… it’s awesome.”
“You sound pretty passionate about it,” I observed.
“My mom raised me to appreciate the job. And of course, someday, I want kids of my own.”
My mouth fell open a little. Why was she saying all the right things? It burned to know that I had someone so lovely standing in my kitchen, watching me cook, chatting with my son and knowing that I couldn’t pursue her. If only I could start over again, and this time, get everything right. I’d go back ten years, since before I ever met — but never mind about that. That woman doesn’t deserve to be named.
“And your studies?” I asked, clearing my throat, hoping to redirect to safer territory.
Phoebe leaned over my skillet, sniffed, and nodded with satisfaction before replying, “This smells great. I study psychology.”
“Interesting.”
Her mouth crooked up a little. “Really? People usually tell me it’s a waste of a degree.”
I shook my head vehemently and said, “Don’t let anyone ever say that about what you love. Nothing’s a waste if it makes you happy.”
“What if it’s something that makes me happy in the short term, but could cause me pain in the long run?”
Her words rang with an alternate meaning, one I tried to ignore by taking some maple syrup out of the fridge and beginning to mix up a glaze.
“I suppose,” I said, my words cautious, “that you gotta think big picture. Put your needs before your desires.”
“But what if I need to do this?” she whispered.
My eyes glanced up from the bowl and caught hers. Phoebe’s gaze was hungry, and not just for the meat. She wouldn’t say more, not while Henry was in the kitchen, I was sure of that much. Nevertheless, I wished she would. If only I could decide to throw consequences to the wind… but no, I was too old for that. A father. I knew better. Even if the woman standing before me was so beautiful I thought I might melt.
Changing course, I asked, “What do you want to do after college?”
Her intensity softened, and she adopted the tone you’d use to wave off a boring relative at Thanksgiving.
“I’m twenty-one, do I have to think that far ahead?”
Twenty-one. God, that was young. I tried to remember feeling the possibilities of the world stacked before me, but no images came to mind.
