It’s weird to me how, in the span of four weeks, this has become normal. On Monday I go into the office and go to meetings, and set my schedule for the rest of the week, cramming as much work as I possibly can into the day. Tuesday, I pick Riley up from Ethan’s house and bring her back to my apartment, and the day flies by between playing and caring for her and getting as much of my work done as possible while she’s napping or occupied. Then, by mutual agreement, I drop her back off at home with Ethan that evening. Wednesday, this morning, Ethan drops Riley off with me on his way out to the work-site, and then picks her up at the end of the day on his way home. Tomorrow, I’ll go to Ethan’s place in the morning, pick Riley up, and keep her until Friday morning, when Ethan will pick her up and I’ll get ready for work.
There’s a knock at the door and Riley calls out from her playpen. Even she knows that it’s her dad, even though we’ve only done this for two weeks. She’s ceased even asking about her mother. I’m sure either Ethan or I will have to deal with the subject eventually, but I’m sure it’s a relief for him not to have to answer her questions about when she’ll see Alexis again. It’s questions he can’t even really answer, because at nineteen months old there’s no way for Riley to understand her mother being dead, or even that she’s just not coming back.
I open the door and Ethan comes in. It’s obviously been a tough day at work, and it’s seven-thirty at night, so he’s been working for the better part of almost twelve hours. He’s in a pair of jeans and a plaid work shirt with a denim jacket on over it, and his hair is plastered against his head from sweat. He still looks like a defeated man and I can’t blame him.
“Hey,” I say, letting him into the apartment and closing the door behind him.
“How’s my best girl?” He goes directly into the living room where Riley has abandoned her playing to hold up her arms and cry out that she wants “up” in her chirpiest voice.
“She’s been very good today,” I say, locking the apartment door. I step over to the stove and check on dinner.
I’d figured that it would be a long day for Ethan, and it was a pretty long day for me too, even though Riley was on her best behavior. She went down for her nap like a good girl in the morning and the afternoon, so I’d made a casserole, and some green beans, and a salad. I don’t even know what kind of food Ethan eats, but I figure there has to be something he’ll manage in the whole deal.
“Whatever you’re cooking smells amazing,” Ethan tells me from the living room.
“It should be pretty good,” I say, bringing the pot from the stove to a trivet on the table.
“What’s she had to eat so far today?”
I look at the notepad on the refrigerator door where I keep track of all the stuff that Ethan will need to know from the times I take care of his daughter.
“We had eggs and toast for breakfast, a morning snack of apples and peanut butter. For lunch, she had tuna salad, and some pretzels about two hours ago,” I reply.
“Thanks, you seem to be getting the hang of this co-parent thing quickly,” Ethan tells me as he settles Riley in her high chair.
I roll my eyes. “I’m obsessive about doing it right,” I counter.
“This looks good,” Ethan says, sitting down at the table next to my niece. I open the fridge and get the half-empty bottle of white wine out, along with some milk for Riley.
“What do you want to drink?” It feels weird to have Ethan sitting at my table, to be serving him dinner, but we agreed that in addition to the fact that it would be better to keep Riley on a schedule for meals, it would be good to try to keep things as normal for her as possible, and that meant sitting for meals together when we can.
“Water, please,” Ethan says.
“Watah, peas,” Riley copies.
I chuckle. “You’re going to have milk, my little turtle-dove,” I tell her. “The yummy strawberry milk you like.”
I mix her strawberry milk and put it in her sippy cup, and get Ethan a glass of water and pour myself a glass of wine. I won’t be minding her, and I managed to get most of my work done, so I feel like I’ve earned it.
“Thanks,” Ethan says as I finally sit down at the table. He serves Riley little portions of everything.
“I don’t know if she’ll like the salad,” I say.
“It’s good for her to try it, though,” Ethan points out, and I nod.
I’ve found — to my surprise, since Alexis was always kind of a picky eater — that Riley’s willing to eat just about anything I put in front of her.
We settle in to eat and while Ethan chatters with Riley and I occasionally fill in the details he needs to know, I think about how bizarre my life has become. I’m taking care of my sister’s daughter three days a week, talking to a man who I swore I would never ever even say more than “hello” to in my life. I still haven’t forgiven him for what he and Alexis did, but it’s as obvious now as it was the week of my sister’s death how tough this has been on him. I can’t help but feel a little bad for him, even if
