What Came First (22 page)

In my memory, my father is the handsomest man on earth, tall and powerful, with deep, dark eyes, glossy black hair, and a heartstopping smile. But when I look at old photos, I see something different. His body was strong but square, like the whole world had been pressing down on his shoulders. His teeth were worn and crooked. His eyes looked so very, very tired. But they were beautiful. I was right about that.

“Pop Goes the Weasel” got louder as the ice cream truck got closer. I knew better than to ask my mother for money. Instead, I said, “When I was at Julie’s house, her mother let us buy Popsicles.”

My mother said, “So go live with Julie, then.”

A couple of months later, she was waiting outside of school when Aurora and I got out. That was weird. Usually we walked home alone.

The Santa Ana winds blew hot, dusty air. I couldn’t drink enough water that fall. I dreamed of swimming pools and sweet lemonade.

“Wanna go to Baskin-Robbins?” my mother asked.

Aurora and I were too surprised to say anything. Without waiting for our answer, my mother headed toward the closest strip mall. We followed her, amazed by our great luck.

Aurora got a dish of chocolate fudge or chocolate swirl or Rocky Road—something dark. I got a cone. Bubblegum ice cream. There were little bits of bubble gum inside. The more you licked, the bigger the wad got.

We sat at an outside table because my mother said she’d rather be too hot than too cold. She wasn’t eating anything, wasn’t even asking for bites of ours. We ate fast, afraid she’d change her mind and make us leave.

My bubblegum wad was medium big when she said it.

“Your father is dead. Car hit him. He was running across the street on his break, and—” She stopped talking. Tightened her mouth. Shook her head. That was all she was going to say about it, at least for now.

Just like that, my world turned black. The person who loved me best was gone. Later, my mother would have boyfriends, men who either didn’t look at me at all or, when I got older, looked at me so long that I’d lock my bedroom door. But I’d never have another father whispering stories and sneaking me treats. Never.

But I was six years old. I didn’t get it. Something terrible couldn’t be happening while all that sugar swam in my mouth. When my mother stopped talking, I licked some more pink ice cream. I suctioned another bit of bubble gum from the surface, added it to my lump.

Aurora sat still, her spoon stabbing the side of her ice cream. She stared at my mother. And then she began to wail.

“Stop it,” my mother commanded.

Aurora wailed louder.

“I said,
stop it
.” My mother smacked Aurora’s head, just above the ear. Not hard, but enough so Aurora jerked back, her hand still on her spoon, and knocked the ice cream on the ground.

I jumped up and pointed at the lump of chocolate, already turning to a puddle on the dirty concrete. “Should we save it?”

No one answered.

When I got older, most of the boys I liked were dark-haired, dark-eyed, mostly Hispanic. I wasn’t a loser magnet like Aurora. Most of the guys I went out with were okay, if a little too slick, a little too flirty. None of them were kind and gentle like my father. None of them were happy just to sit and talk and
be
with me. They thought I should always be happy and laughing. They thought I should look good all the time, even if I was sick or sad or just tired. They liked me on my best days, but lots of days weren’t my best, and that’s when things would fall apart.

Then I met Eric and everything changed. Except maybe it didn’t.

Ian stands poised at the water’s edge, ready to race the waves up the beach and back again.

A wave crashes at his ankles. Even from where I stand, farther up the sand, I can see his khaki shorts darkening at the hem. He twists his head to look at Eric and me, smiles, and holds his hands up as if to say,
What could I do?

“He’s a good kid,” Eric says.

“He’s a great kid.” His green flip-flops dangle from my fingers.

I didn’t plan it this way: time alone with Eric, the perfect opportunity to make my request. But when we reached the end of lunch, Ian suggested a walk on the beach. So here we are.

Ian follows the receding water down the slope, pauses for an instant, and tears back up the hill. Nearby, a woman snaps photos of a little red-haired girl in a pink bonnet.

“That reminds me,” I say, reaching into my purse. “Wendy Winder, the other, you know . . .”

“I know.”

“Right. She asked to see a photo of you. So if you don’t mind . . . I mean, maybe you do mind. In which case . . .”

He shrugs. “Um, sure.”

“Great.” I pull out my compact camera and take his photo, realizing as I do so that I want the picture at least as much as Wendy does. I check the shot. He’s squinting in the harsh midday light, but it will have to do.

I slip the camera back into my purse. “A lot of people thought I was crazy when I had Ian. When I chose to have him, I mean.”

“Why?” Eric says.

“People kept telling me how hard motherhood is. How children can suck the life out of you.”

“Someone actually said that?”

“My own mother,” I admit. And then, to my surprise, I laugh. The statement has never struck me as amusing before.

I say, “And other people, some of whom I hardly even knew—coworkers and their wives—accused me of being selfish.” No laughter this time: it still isn’t funny. Besides, I hadn’t intended to say this; it just slipped out somehow.

“These were people with children or without?” he asks.

“With. Traditional two-parent families. Mom stays home, Dad works. They said I wouldn’t have enough time for a child. And that if I had a boy, he’d need a role model.”

“You have any brothers?” Eric asks.

“One. Lives up north. We’re not really close.”

“What about your father?”

I shrug. “If it weren’t for my stepmother, we’d never hear from him at all. But that’s not to say Ian doesn’t have any positive role models,” I continue, trying to get the talk back on course. “His Cub Scout leader—his son and Ian are friends—he’s been a really positive influence. As have his various sports coaches.”

“From what I’ve seen, you’re a really good mother,” Eric says.

I check his face. The green specks in his irises sparkle in the sunlight.

“You don’t end up with a kid like Ian unless you’re doing something right,” he adds.

“Thanks. Though I suppose genetics had something to do with it.”

He grins. “From your side, maybe.”

I clear my throat. This is it: my opening.

“The point I’m making is that although I was initially concerned with the challenges inherent in single parenthood, the endeavor has, in fact, been a success.”

“I wasn’t aware that you were making a point,” Eric says.

I swallow hard. “I’m sorry. When I get nervous I tend to . . .”

“Sound like a lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you nervous?”

Near the water, Ian squeals. He has failed to outrun a wave. His shorts are soaked, as is the bottom half of his shirt. He runs up the sand, laughing wildly.

“It was a big one!” he says.

“I see that.”

He turns and heads back to the ocean.

“There’s something I have to ask you,” I tell Eric. “A request.”

My phone rings. I grab it out of my purse and check the display: Carmen.

“Hi, Carmen.”

“Ian’s shoes in the closet, maybe?”

“What?”

“His shoes. You check the closet?”

Of course: I’d called her earlier.

I speak quickly. “One of his green flip-flops was in a toy basket. Don’t worry. We found them.”

Hands in pockets, Eric wanders toward Ian and the water.

Carmen and I say good-bye, but by the time I hang up, it is too late: Eric has reached Ian and is chasing the waves with him. The scene is almost painfully sweet. I resist the impulse to take their picture. And then I give in, furtively capturing the moment on my digital camera.

Eventually, they tire of the game and trudge back up the sand toward me.

“Why don’t you build a sand castle?” I suggest to Ian. “Near the water, maybe.”

He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. He’s not going anywhere. Looks like I’ll have to make my request in front of him. Who knows? Maybe that will make it harder to refuse.

“I’ll be forty-three in July,” I tell Eric.

“Happy birthday.”

“Well, yeah—it’s a little early. But, um, according to my doctor, my odds of fertility are still, well, not good exactly, but good for my age.”

“Eric?”

A trim man, dressed more for the golf course than the beach, has come up behind us. In his mid-to-late thirties, he is olive-skinned and dark-eyed, with a receding hairline and intense brown eyes.

For an instant, Eric looks confused. Then recognition clicks in. “Dr. Sanchez. Hey. I didn’t recognize you without your white coat.”

“I, uh—” The man looks at me, not entirely kindly, then back at Eric. “Melva called me. Said Vanessa needed a ride. But I guess . . .”

Just like that, I see her, a dot of purple against the white sand. She’s a ways down the beach, beyond the volleyball nets and near a family with a beach umbrella, sitting on the sand, hugging her knees.

Eric says, “I thought she . . . I mean, uh—no. I got her. Thanks.”

The man tightens his lips. “I’ll just make sure she’s okay.”

He heads down the beach, shoulders hunched forward.

“Crap,” Eric says.

“I’m sorry if this . . .”

“Lunch was a bad idea.”

“No! Please don’t say that.” Ian stands next to me, looking up at Eric. “Maybe it was just a bad idea to . . .” I stop myself before I can say “bring her
.
” I try again. “Maybe we should have eased into a meeting more gradually. And I suppose it’s inevitable that this situation would arouse certain insecurities.”

“I have to go,” he says.

“Wait! There’s just one thing I need to ask you. And then—well, here’s the deal. Before I had Ian, I purchased three vials of your . . .”

“Right.”

“But I threw two of them out. After Ian was born, that is. Because I didn’t think I’d want another child. But now it turns out I do. Only I don’t want to use a new donor because then I’ll have two kids with identity issues. If they’re full siblings, they have each other, and I just think it would make them more grounded. More secure. So what I was wondering was . . . can you give me some more?”

“You mean some more—”

“Yes.”

“Oh. God.”

“If you need some time to think about it . . .”

He shakes his head. “I don’t.”

“You—”

“I’m sorry. But I can’t. I just—can’t. It was nice meeting you, Laura. And you, Ian.”

He hurries across the sand, away from us, toward the girl in purple.

The day was going so well.

And then it wasn’t.

When I picked up the twins from kindergarten, they were smiling. Well, Sydney was, anyway. And Harrison was neither crying nor raging. So: score!

Their teacher, Mrs. Rath, whom I’ve taken to thinking of as Mrs. Stick-up-her-Rath, caught my eye before I had a chance to look away. But for once she didn’t say, “Can I have a word?”

Instead, she nodded (slightly, but still) and said, “They did well today.” And yes, okay, the clear implication was that tomorrow they’ll probably be monstrous as usual, but so what? Today they did well!

To celebrate the victory, I took them for frozen yogurt. Because you know what? That lactose-intolerance thing is a load of crap. Harrison had chocolate yogurt with about fifteen toppings. Sydney had mint, peach, caramel, and pistachio mixed together with about sixteen toppings. I ordered nothing because right now I’m all about self-denial.

And then I ate most of Sydney’s because she couldn’t finish it and I hate waste. But it didn’t count because it was from her dish and I didn’t actually enjoy it.

At home, I let them unwind in front of semi-educational television and poured myself an icy glass of Diet Coke to sip while checking my e-mail. All week I’d been waiting for Laura’s photos of Eric Fergus. Finally, here they were. I opened the photo attachments to see a beachy California guy on the sand, alone in one shot and with Laura’s little boy in the other.

Her note was short:
An interesting lunch. Call me when you have time to talk.

I saved the photos (filing them under “Friends and Family”) and reached for the phone. That’s when I noticed the answering machine light blinking.