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I wait a beat. “Mommy’s coming.”
Charlie’s reaction at the prospect of her mother’s visit makes it all absolutely, hands down, worthwhile. Her whole face opens up with joy and I laugh as she jumps off her stool and onto my lap, wraps her arms around my neck and plants kisses all over my face, as if Mommy coming was my doing, as if I’d made it all happen.
THREE
Jack’s home. He comes in the way he always does: fast, with a whoosh and a slam of the door. I’m always struck by how good-looking he is, in a boyish, forgive-him-anything kind of way. He looks after himself, puts product in his hair, checks himself out in the mirror sometimes when he thinks I’m not looking, flexing his biceps. He dresses well: chinos, trainers, T-shirt under a blazer, super skinny jeans on weekends rolled up at the ankles with no socks.Sometimes I wonder how we ended up together. I’m more the jeans and tee type—the “I-really-don’t-care” look—although since we got together I’ve considerably improved my wardrobe whereas he has downgraded his, so maybe one day we’ll meet in the middle.
“Hey! Where were you? I was getting worried.”
“Why?”
Ah. He’s in a mood. I am acutely tuned to Jack’s moods. He doesn’t look at me. He walks into the living room while pulling off his tracksuit jacket.
“Did you get my message?”
“Yes. How is she?”
“She’s fine. Minor hiccup at school, that’s all.” Jack doesn’t pay attention to what goes on at school. That is well and truly my department. “She’s thrilled to bits that Bronwyn is coming. You want to go and say hi?”
“Christ’s sake, Laura! I just got home, can you cut me some slack please?” He makes a beeline for the liquor cabinet and pulls out the bottle of Scotch.
I tilt my head at him. “You okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? I just went for a run.” He’s about to throw his jacket on the back of a chair but I extend my hand for it. He hands it to me. The sleeves are inside out and I pull them back the right way.
“Did something happen?” I ask.
“Did something happen.” He chuckles. “Yes, Laura. Something happened. I didn’t get the job.”
I make a sound at the back of my throat. “The Boeing job? But I thought it was yours if you wanted it?” That’s what he’d said. It was a great job that an old colleague had lined up for him. Jack was the perfect candidate. The job description could have been written for him. The old colleague had assured him the interview was only a formality. Jack had returned from the interview oozing confidence.
“You should have heard the questions that one guy on the panel was asking. It was painful. Obviously knew nothing about quality assurance. I literally had to rephrase every question for him. These management guys, they all think they know more than they do. But I got a good vibe from the team. And I got a tour of the place. Impressive.”
“I bet they don’t do that for every candidate,” I’d said, sounding like something out ofGood Housekeepingcirca 1955:How To Boost Your Husband And Help Him Get Ahead!
“No, I’d say they don’t,” he’d agreed solemnly as I handed him his Scotch just the way he likes it. (Dry, two ice cubes.)
He’s poured his own this time. He narrows his eyes at me over the rim of the glass before taking a big swig. “Yes, Laura.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s right. The Boeing job. I didn’t get it.”
And all I can think is, Oh God. This is so bad.
Jack used to run his own very successful engineering consultancy, but then things happened and the work dried up and a year ago he wound it up and decided to go work for one of the big firms.
It wasn’t so bad, at first. We had savings, it wouldn’t take that long to find a job. He was highly qualified, well respected in the industry. All he had to do was shake the job tree. Lots of low hanging fruit, he’d said. The very next day he was on the phone talking to old contacts and sounding them out for a position. He’d tell me about these conversations while rubbing his hands together and exclaiming that this was the best thing that had ever happened to him, that life was about to get so much easier from now on, that he’d have more time with his family.
Except there are no jobs; those old contacts are either getting retrenched themselves or they’re hanging on for dear life. Lately, there are days when Jack doesn’t get out of bed until eleven, and he’ll start drinking at four in the afternoon. I will come home and he’ll stare at me from under slanted eyelids.Don’t blame me, Laura. I’m trying, it’s not my fault. It’s the recession. Those jobs have gone offshore. It’s not my fault.
But then there are other days where he’ll be the old Jack again, or a more manic version anyway. He’ll spend hours at the gym training, he’ll lock himself in his office and produce spreadsheets and flowcharts and then announce over dinner that he is going to start another engineering design company, that it was a stupid idea to look for employment. He wasn’t that kind of guy, he needed to be in charge. He’d had a chance to reflect on what went wrong last time and he knew what he had to do differently. Charlie and I will squeal with delight because we both know instinctively that’s what he needs from us, and he will rope Charlie in to come up with ideas for a new company name, a fresh start, and what about a logo? Would she do that? She could be in charge of public relations, she’s so bright, so talented, this could be a father–daughter company, Blackman & Daughter, how’s that for a name? Would she like that? And he’ll borderline harass her, for more ideas! More enthusiasm! Come on Charlie! Whatchagotforme! Let’s hear it! Until Charlie’s little face starts to fall because she thinks she’s not doing it right, but she doesn’t understand what’s expected—fair enough, nobody does—and I’ll gently tug at Jack’s sleeve and point out that Charlie is seven years old and it’s time for bed.
Forty-eight hours, that’s how long that usually lasts, which is how long it takes for the bank to sayno, we won’t give you a loanand I’m secretly ecstatic because God knows we’re in enough debt already, and then we are back to dejected, pacing, sullen, angry Jack,don’t blame me,and round and round we go.
A few months ago he went off at Charlie. She’d been doing handstands in her bedroom and knocked over a floor lamp cracking the lampshade. It had cost fifteen dollars at the Walmart Supercenter. But Jack was drunk. He kept berating her over and over and it got to the point where I snapped at him to cool it and bundled a sobbing Charlie into the car so I could take her for a drive and calm her down, explain to her that Daddy is going through a very difficult time and he doesn’t know what he’s saying and he sure doesn’t mean it because he loves her more than anything in the world. When we came back an hour later, Jack was beside himself. He was absolutely and genuinely remorseful. He apologized to Charlie, talked to her for half an hour, explained that the stress of everything sometimes sent him off and it was very wrong what he’d said but it had nothing to do with her, she was the best thing that had ever happened to him, the light of his life, and he was very sorry. In our bedroom that night I stood in front of him with a finger in his face and told him that he needed to get his shit together. Get some counseling, stop drinking. Be responsible.
“Marry me,” he said.
I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him right, or if he even meant it.
“I love how fiercely you love Charlie. You are a lioness when it comes to that kid. I know in my bones that she and I will always be safe with you. We need you, Laura. Will you marry us?”
