I suddenly felt like I had a second chance with her. I decided to leave her once, but I could decide differently now. I could be better. I could be better for her, for our daughter. I could go back to that motel room in the rain and pull her into my arms instead of pushing her away. I could be better.
I would be better.
When I was certain Abbi had fallen asleep, I arranged the blankets carefully around her. I brushed a strand of hair from her face. I leaned forward and pressed an almost fearful kiss to her forehead.
She was cracked because of me.
I was either going to mend the wounds or scatter the pieces to the ends of the earth.
And I wasn't sure I was strong enough to decide which it would be.
Abbi
I woke up fearful that I was about to roll over and see what “Brad Pitt” really looked like without my beer goggles. I turned my head and peeked one eye open. I let out a sigh of relief to find myself in my own bed, alone. I closed my eyes and sagged back into the sheets, intending to fall back asleep.
But something itching at my neck prevented this. Staring down my nose, I pulled at the neckline of my t-shirt and squinted at the tag. My t-shirt was on backwards. But that wasn't the problem. The problem was that I didn't remember putting on my t-shirt.
Frowning, I sat up with a small groan at the throbbing in my head and looked around my room. There was only one shoe on the floor next to my jeans; God only knew where the other one was. Did I take off my pants? I wondered. I vaguely remembered the cab ride home with Sandra. I had flashes of us rolling down the windows to sing “Don't Stop Believin'” till the driver yelled at us to shut up. I kind of recalled shouting a goodbye to her as lights came on and neighbours peered angrily at me through their parted blinds.
But after that…
My confusion only grew as I found a glass of water and two aspirin waiting for me on the bedside table. I took them gratefully even as I tried to remember what the fuck happened at the end of last night. Rubbing at my mascara-smudged eyes, I padded out of my bedroom toward the living room. For some reason I had images of popcorn.
But as I peeked around the corner, I found the living room spotless, save for a blanket and pillow rumpled on the couch. It all came crashing back down on me when I looked across the living room to see Michael there in my kitchen with Zara.
I remembered seeing him on the floor when I came home drunk.
I remembered falling over while trying to get my shoe off.
I remembered him carrying me to my bed.
I remembered him undressing me.
I remembered telling him about calling to tell him about Zara.
I remembered the kiss he pressed to my forehead when he thought I was asleep.
Quietly I crossed toward them in the kitchen, my footsteps silent across the plush carpet. With their backs turned toward me, Michael and my daughter spoke in quiet voices, like they were in a library and, unlike myself, wanted to be there. From what I could tell they were making pancakes, and I was surprised at the ease with which they interacted. Zara stood on a stool with my apron nearly brushing against her bare toes as she held a large metal mixing bowl.
"How much flour?" Michael asked.
"Two cups," Zara read from a cookbook held open with a wooden spatula.
"Hmm…" Michael replied. "It looks like we only have 1.75."
Zara checked his measurements with a studious eye.
"We'll have to reduce the recipe by 12.5 percent," she finally said. "That's our only option."
"We've already poured in the sugar."
Zara looked down at her bowl. "We'll have to start over."
Michael agreed as he opened the sugar jar for her, saying, "Yes, I think that's for the best."
I stifled a burst of laughter with a hand over my mouth. I couldn't believe how similar they were. They cooked pancakes like they were conducting a chemistry experiment with uranium. I actually imagined their ideal kitchen would look very much like a lab. I smiled at the idea of them in white lab coats, holding up beakers, writing complicated equations on chalkboards, their green eyes shining with excitement.
I thought I could stand there watching them for the whole morning. I'd never seen Michael so gentle, so patient, so engaged. And it wasn't just Michael who seemed different.
As the two started over their double- and seemingly triple-checked measurements for the pancakes, Zara chatted with comfortable ease. Oftentimes it felt like drawing more than single word responses from her after school or in the car was like pulling teeth. I was used to my daughter being a verifiable safe, her lips and thoughts under strict lock and key.
But as I crossed my arms and leaned against the living room wall in just my baggy old t-shirt, Zara wonderfully went on and on about everything and nothing. She talked about national parks and teachers and her classmates, things I'd never even heard of. Strangest of all, she sounded like a nine-year-old. She giggled and babbled and seemed to have no self-awareness that she was just talking and talking and talking.
And Michael didn't appear to be just listening; he seemed to be drinking in every word. He nodded often, supplied “emhmms” and “ohs” whenever
