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“He’s stable enough to go home.”
“That is good,” she says, her voice sounding hollow. “He misses his own bed.”
I take her arm in my hand and give it a small squeeze. “I’m finishing up here. Want me to come over? Keep an eye on him.”
She nods, and a little hair tumbles out of her messy bun. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
We pick up bar food at the Anchor and drive to Kenzi’s place.
Missus P sets the table, a meal of bar burgers and fries, but no one seems very hungry. Eventually, Kenzi takes Otto upstairs to give him a bath and put him to bed.
Kenzi’s mom is clearing the table, putting the dishes in the sink. I roll up my sleeves and button them above the elbow.
“Can I lend a hand, Missus P?”
“You do one better and lend both of your hands, Jason. That wine won’t open itself.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I find the corkscrew and take the bottle of red from the counter, uncorking it. Then I pluck a glass from the cabinet and pour her one. She wipes her hands on a dish towel and then takes the glass with a “thank you” before stepping out of the way so I can pick up where she left off.
I load dishes while she sips. “That boy is her whole world, you know.”
“I know. Otto is a great kid.”
“God forbid, if something were to happen to him…”
“Nothing will happen to Otto on my watch. I’ll make sure of it.”
She sighs, then says, “I’m just…saying. Worst-case scenario being what it is. Kenzi will…need someone.”
“I’m not leaving her side for a second. I promise.”
She examines me. “Someone raised you right. Which is strange, because I’ve met your father.”
I load the last of the dishes and wipe my hands. “Yeah, well, Kenzi and I have something in common.”
“Which is?”
“We both have pretty cool moms.”
She lets out a laugh at that. Then she taps the side of her glass. “I’m taking this into the bath with me. You be good to my daughter.”
“Good night, Missus P.”
She gives my arm a pat as she drifts past me and heads upstairs.
She’s a class act. It occurs to me, out of nowhere, that I’m more comfortable in Kenzi’s kitchen, with Kenzi’s family, than I am with my own.
I break my own rules and pour myself a half glass of wine.
“Can I get one of those?”
I glance up. Kenzi descends the stairs and collapses into one of the flimsy chairs around the kitchen table. She’s changed out of her hospital clothes and into equally cozy non-hospital clothes: gray sweatpants and an oversized blue sweater with snowflakes knitted into the collar. Her thick hair has gone frizzy, and her eyes are half-lidded. She looks exhausted. But—and, I swear, I’m not trying to fetishize this kind of soul-weary fatigue—there is something beautiful about her right now. She’s vulnerable. Too tired to keep up those ten thousand walls she usually has around her. She’s soft and tender, like a bruise, and I try to be gentle with her.
I pour her a glass and slide it across the table. She wraps her fingers around the stem and takes a small sip, but it’s mechanical. Her eyes stare into an empty chair across from her, so I fill the spot.
“How’re you holding up?” I ask.
