“One… two… twee!” he announced confidently.
All right, he didn’t get the whole “counting down” thing quite right, but ending on the adorable “twee” was better idea, anyway.
I clamped my hands comically against my mouth and bulged out my eyes, as if struggling to stay silent. Rafi lifted his head and giggled.
I shot a warning look-no noises! Rafi clamped his lips together and rested his head back on my chest.
I stroked his hair.
Five minutes later, I won. Turns out that not only did Rafi steal the blankets like his dad, but he snored like him, too.
Lucky kid. I felt more awake than ever.
I couldn’t believe I’d almost left the apartment while he was in my care. What was I thinking?
I wasn’t. But, in my defense, Tony hasn’t exactly been making me feel like I was a significant person in Rafi’s life. Last night and this morning were the first times he’d given me sole responsibility for his son’s welfare. Look how close I came to blowing it.
But I didn’t.
There is, I thought, feeling the warm body next to me and the weight of his little head against my heart, a kind of magic in this. A level of trust and unconditional love that you just don’t experience from anyone other than a child. A special brand of blessing.
But it’s a burden, too. I was really looking forward to going to the gym. I felt like I deserved it. While I wished I were selfless enough not to resent it, I did feel a little “stuck” here. Literally, as I was afraid to get up and disturb Rafi’s sleep.
Sleep. God, that sounded good. Too bad it had deserted me. There’d be no returning to slumber now, not with my feelings of guilt, appreciation, resentment, and happiness running around my head like a bunch of unruly toddlers determined to keep me awake.
Still, it was nice to lie there with this toasty warm little guy nestled against me. He smelled good, like the bubble gum shampoo I’d used on his hair last night with an undertone of that scent unique to loved and happy boys. What was that fragrance? Smooth, new skin, clean sweat, innocence. Even his snoring was sweet, not loud like his dad’s but rhythmic in its regularity. Not noisy enough to drown out the sound of his breathing, that relaxing metronome of respiration, in and out, in and out, in and out, in and
“Kebbin!” Rafi called, amused at the reversal of roles that found him waking me up for school. “It’s time to get up, sweepyhead!”
I groaned and looked at the clock. 7:37. Enough time to get ready, but we’d have to hustle.
So much for being unable to fall back asleep. Maybe this is why people had kids-for their narcotizing abilities.
He’d rolled on top of me and pressed his nose against mine. “He wwwooo…” he said. “Is there anybody in there?”
“I’m up, I’m up,” I grumbled. Not that I was really mad. I thought Rafi was enjoying playing the bossy parent, though, so I thought it was only fair that I acted the truculent kid.
“On your feet, soldier,” he commanded. “We have to go to school.” He straightened up and grabbed my hands. “C’mon.”
I let him pull me up to sitting and blinked a few times. “All right,” I said, “you got me. I’m getting up.”
“Good boy,” Rafi said, in his manliest voice. “You don’t want to be wate for school, do you?”
“No,” I said, deciding there was no reason to point out he was the only one going to school. “Have you made breakfast yet?” I asked him skeptically.
“No, Kebbin. I can’t make breakfast. That’s your job!”
“Fine,” I said. “You get dressed and I’ll make breakfast for us. But first…” I let the tension build.
“What?” Rafi finally asked.
I flipped him off me and on to his back.
“It’s attack of the Tickle Monster!” I cried.
Rafi squirmed and laughed with delight as I alternated my attacks between his tummy, underarms, and legs.
“C’mon,” he ordered after a few minutes of this. “We have to get weady!”
“All right, boss. You need my help getting dressed?”
“Kebbin,” he said with exasperation. “I’m a big boy now. I know how to get dwessed.”
Not so big that you can pronounce it, though.
Which I thought was just about perfect.
Ms. Sally gave me a wry smile as she saw me approach with Rafi.
“Is that bed head I see?” she asked wryly.
“On me or him?”
“You,” she asserted. “He looks perfect.”
It was true. I’d paid a lot more attention to his grooming this morning than mine. The price of being a parental stand-in, I conceded. First I’d skipped the gym, then my shower. Apparently, good child rearing was an exercise in sacrifice.
Her knowing look implied I’d come to this messy end after a night of impassioned lovemaking with Rafi’s sexy dad. I would have hated to disappoint her with the dreary truth: Tony and I had a conversation followed by conflict followed by sleep. Then, I helped his son get to sleep and ready for school. Not quite the bawdy man-on-man action she’d been imagining.
Instead, I echoed her observation. “Yeah,” I said, “he does look perfect, doesn’t he?” I’d taken extra care getting Rafi ready today, dressing him in a nice outfit he’d left over on a Sunday when Tony’d taken him to church, and slicking his hair back with about fifty dollars’ worth of Clinique for Men styling products. He looked like a miniature businessman on his way to close an important deal. He was so cute you could die from him. A fate I wished upon his “faggot”-flinging mother.
“See?” Ms. Sally asked. “Didn’t I say you’d make a great second dad?”
“You did at that,” I commented. “And if the job opens up, I’ll be sure to apply.”
Ms. Sally regarded me curiously. “I thought you and Mr. Rinaldi were… you know.”
“It’s complicated,” I said. “ He’s complicated.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But he’s not stupid. Hang in there, sweetheart.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek.
28
“It’s all set,” my mother announced cheerily. “Tomorrow’s the big day! Isn’t this exciting?”
My mother had a habit of labeling as “exciting” events I found, alternately, embarrassing, horrifying, or deeply traumatic. This was looking to be one of those that managed to be all three at the same time.
We were in Andrew’s office again, this time at the oval conference table that fit six. And six we were: Andrew; my mother; myself; Roni, the segment producer; Steven Austen, who’d be handling the makeup; and our cameraman, Laurent. The job before us was to plan the covert taping of the interview Andrew had set up for us at Families by Design, the adoption agency that had placed Adam with the Merrs, the couple who’d caged and brutalized him for the two years he’d been in their custody.
“We’re going to expose these chozzers for what they are,” my mother practically spat. Well, when I say “almost” I mean “actually.” Spittle flew from her lips at the thought of the serial child abusers. The fine spray landed on the left hand of Roni, a somewhat quiet woman in her mid-thirties who commanded respect on the set without ever raising her voice. Roni discreetly wiped the anointed hand against the leg of her jeans.
“We’ve never done a location shoot like this,” Andrew observed. “But we’re lucky to have Laurent on our
