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“Dad, we’ll get to see each other a lot, and we get to take our rabbits home, feed them, play with them, and we get to name them.”
“Wait a minute buddy, them? More than one?” Landon’s brows bunch together.
“Oh, yes, I wasn’t specific when I said rabbit, was I? There are two. A bonded pair. Jackson and Jacob each get to take one home. But this is why it is especially important that they get together, so the rabbits can spend time together and feed together. Otherwise they might get lonely and depressed because they are separated. Rabbits. Who knew they were just like us?”
“Who knew?” I say, lacking the vocabulary I had before this conversation started and I was face to face with the ex-love of my life.
Oh, God. How’s this going to work? I feel my stomach churn at the thought of spending time with Landon. What a time to take a trip, Mom. No way can I have Shay do this for me. Not after I said I’d be fine. Not that she would say anything. She’d be more than happy to take on this assignment for me with Jacob. But I can’t; I have to be strong and show them I can do this on my own. Be the strong, independent woman I profess to be. Not only for myself, but for my son.
You can do this, Lacey. He is just a man. You are as strong and confident as you’ve ever been.
Pulling my resolve and confidence together, I say, “When do we start the project?”
“If both of you are free, you can start right now. Just follow me to the classroom to collect the rabbits. They’re all yours for the next four weeks.”
Landon and I follow in silence as Mrs. Pear and the boys talk excitedly about the project and the observational report—captioned drawings made with our help—they’ll be handing in after their stint as caregivers is up. What happened to the good old days of just hoping your child didn’t eat the paste?
Landon and I collect our rabbits and decide, much to Jacob and Jackson’s disappointment, that it would be best if we meet the next day to start the project.
Here I am, sitting inthe jeep with my son and a fluffy rabbit who’s chomping at the bit to see its bonded mate. I can’t believe I’m taking a rabbit to what amounts to a conjugal visit.
“Mom?” Jacob unbuckles himself, crawling next to me in the front seat.
“Hmm?” I manage to say, staring through the windshield at the building in front of us.
“Aren’t we going in?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you look scared?”
I turn in my seat to him. “Why would I be scared? We’re going to do your project.”
“You have the same face I make when you make alien heads for dinner.” He grimaces. “Yuck.”
I smile at his little face. I don’t know why I keep making brussels sprouts. Other than it’s what good mothers are supposed to do, make their kids eat vegetables. Hell with it, I’m not making any more alien heads. There. And I’m still a good mother.
“Aren’t we going to get out, Mom?”
“Yes, of course.” I grip the steering wheel tight.
“When? We’re just sitting here, staring at the building. You don’t want to see Jackson’s dad?”
“Why would you say that?”
I don’t know where that came from. I bite the inside corner of my lip, and he slips his little hand into mine. I really want to know why he would say this. I haven’t spoken Landon’s name out loud since the day he left. It’s impossible for him to know we use to know each other in any way. We’ve only been in proximity to each other twice, not enough times for a six-year-old to draw anything from.
“You look at him funny.”
“Do I?” I ask, trying to keep my emotions hidden.
“Umhmm.” He nods his head. “But you don’t have to be scared. I think Jackson’s dad is nice. Jackson talks about him a lot. They do things all the time. Play baseball and go to the park, like a real dad.”
Obviously, in recent days, I’ve been failing at my facial reaction control, unlike my tear duct control, which has been on point.
Don’t let the tears go. Don’t let them go. I can handle this without dissolving into the puddle of tears that are pressing in toward my trembling heart. This is what I’m telling myself when I ask, “Sweetie, what’s a real dad?” I brace, waiting for the answer. I know he’s thinking it over, figuring out the right way to say it. I’m sure he has the feeling for it, but not the vocabulary of emotions to express them the way he wants. I squeeze his little hand, encouraging him on, and as always, he squeezes back. My baby.
He bows his head. “I don’t want you to be sad.”
