A Necessary End (20 page)

I
have a small cooler full of Leah's milk. The diaper bag is well stocked. Michael's looking great in his monogrammed sleep-and-play (what we called “pajamas with feet” when I was growing up). All I need is for Gabe to hurry up and finish shaving. He's moving gingerly, like a man with a hangover, but I know he wasn't drunk last night. He was out playing poker, and he says only a total idiot plays drunk.

While Michael and I wait in the living room, I put him on his stomach and watch him try to hoist his head. It's huge in comparison to the rest of his body but those seem to be typical newborn proportions. Someday, he'll catch up to his head. We all do.

I'm antsy because I didn't tell Leah we were going into the city today. She might want to come along, like a member of the family. That's why we need to get going while she's out for a run.

Gabe's taking so long, it's like he wants her to catch up with us. “Gabe!” I call. “Any decade now!”

Michael is getting bored of tummy time, as the books unfortunately call it. I put him in his vibrating chair while I go back through
the diaper bag, making sure I didn't forget anything. I refold and repack, trying not to let my annoyance show. I like to look my best for Michael.

“Did you fall back asleep?” I shout to Gabe. In his vibrating chair, Michael startles. “Sorry, little one,” I tell him, my voice soft as Brie. His eyelids begin to droop once again.

Since he's buckled into the chair, I decide I can steal away for a moment. I go into the master bathroom, where Gabe is standing with a towel wrapped around his waist, foam on his face, but no razor in his hand. He's staring down into the sink like he's in a trance.

Something's odd about this picture. “Are you depressed?” He might need to see a doctor and get on some medication to help him adjust to all the changes. He's never been the most adaptable guy.

“No, I'm shaving.” He picks up his razor, but when he watches himself in the mirror, it's like he doesn't recognize his own face.

“This isn't a joke. You seem off.”

“You want to go to the city, we're going to the city.” He sounds weary as he drags the razor down his cheek. “Right?” His eyes meet mine in the mirror.

I put my hand on his shoulder. We're still looking at each other's reflection. There's a physical discord to us, like we don't fit together. One of these things is not like the other, not anymore. “What's wrong?” I say gently.

He seems frozen for a long moment, and then he says, “Nothing. Let me just finish shaving, and we'll get on the road. We're going to have a good day.” There's a palpable resignation to him.

“You can talk to me.” But even as I'm saying it, I'm thinking how long I've left Michael alone in his vibrating chair. He's not crying, but that's not necessarily a good sign. SIDS is silent.

I'm almost relieved when Gabe shakes his head slightly and rinses off his razor. “I'll be there in a minute.”

It's not a minute; it's closer to ten. But I'm so grateful to see Michael alive and well in his vibrating chair that I refuse to quibble.
Most important, we still make it out before Leah gets home, despite all Gabe's lagging, despite his taking the time to write her a note telling her where we're going, when we'll be back, and that we're reachable by cell phone. You'd think she was our kid and we were leaving her alone for the first time with no babysitter.

I bite my tongue. I'm not going to blow this outing. Michael was born exactly one month ago today, and we're going to celebrate.

I sit in the back with Michael during the ride to the city. It only makes sense, since his car seat is rear-facing. He needs me next to him more than Gabe does. This will be his longest car ride by far, so I'm at the ready. I've got burp cloths, rattles, blankets, and pacifiers, not to mention the cooler full of milk.

“Slow down!” I tell Gabe.

“I'm only going eighty.”

“With a newborn in the car.”

“He's been alive a month. That's not all that new.”

We never used to bicker like this. Even when we disagreed, it felt playful, sexy even. It was good to have differences—for me to be a woman and for him to be a man. Now it feels oppositional. Michael's polarized us.

Not that it's Michael's fault. He's a month old. Anything that's wrong is our fault. It's our failure to adapt. Well, Gabe's failure. I've taken to motherhood pretty well, even if I have to say it myself. Neither Gabe nor Leah has ever commented on my nurturing skills.

“Just slow down,” I say. “Please.”

Gabe swerves out of the fast lane, decelerating by ten miles in an instant. The tires don't exactly squeal, but they protest. I place a restraining hand on Michael's car seat and begin singing to him softly. He looks much more content than I feel. Gabe and I don't speak again for the remainder of the ride, but he doesn't attempt any more
Fast and Furious
maneuvers, either.

Even though Fort Mason's parking lot is crowded, Gabe spies someone going to his car and we get the spot without any trouble. A
sign of good fortune to come, I tell myself. I know Michael won't remember, but I want his birthday to be special. I don't want it marred by tension between Gabe and me.

It's a gorgeous Bay Area spring day, though a stiff breeze is coming off the water. I readjust Michael's blue cap and momentarily fret that he'll be too cold in just his sleep-and-play. He doesn't own a jacket yet, but we're going to have to buy one if we keep up these San Francisco jaunts. I was going to put him in the stroller (as yet unused) but I figure I'll Björn him instead, for the body heat. Also, I love having him dangle so close to me, like we're on a tandem skydive.

Gabe has the stroller out of the trunk and is trying to figure out how to unfold it. When he looks up, he says, with faint distaste, “You're going to wear him?”

“He'll be warmer.”

Gabe tosses the stroller back into the trunk with a clatter. “You ready then?”

I arrange a blanket inside the Björn. Then I smile at Gabe. “See, it's easier for us to hold hands now.” I extend my hand and he takes it. We walk from the parking lot over to the long paved promenade along the water. The Golden Gate Bridge is slightly obscured by fog, but I can make out its long, curving piano strings. “It's Michael's first time seeing the Golden Gate. Most famous bridge in the world!” With my free hand, I grab on to his tiny one and point it in the direction of the bridge.

“London Bridge is probably more famous, but we've got more suicides.” Gabe's tone is inscrutable, but it certainly doesn't match my happy tour-guide inflection. Then he chants, “Go, SF!”

I feel like he's mocking me, but I shake it off. It's Michael's birthday, and he's out for his first stroll with his parents.

I tug Gabe's hand and we walk along in silence. I want to tell Michael other tidbits, but I don't want to hear what Gabe would say about Alcatraz.

A couple of Rollerbladers pass us and they start grinning at Michael.
I grin back. Most of the people going by can't resist a smile at him. Really, Gabe is the only holdout. On a bench, I notice a woman with a baby a little bigger than Michael. She's got a blanket arranged across her chest, but there's no mistaking her activity. Jealousy surges through me. No matter what I do, Michael and I can never have that.

I wish I could feel like I'm Michael's mother, completely. But until Leah signs those papers in eleven months, there will always be reasonable doubt.

I don't know who let go first, but Gabe and I aren't holding hands anymore. He stays close for a few feet, but then he starts walking closer to the water. I realize how much I want everyone walking by to regard us as a family, probably because I don't yet feel like we are one. As we walk, Gabe doesn't seem quite part of Michael and me. He drifts ahead or behind; he doesn't even seem to register the smiles Michael is attracting.

I feel like crying. On Michael's birthday! On his first family outing! This isn't me. Sometimes it's like I've had an infusion of postpartum hormones; if only I'd gotten to have the partum.

“Hey,” I say to Gabe, with a brightness I hope I'll soon feel, “do you want to get some stuff for a picnic? The Safeway is right over there. Then we can spread a blanket on the lawn and eat.” Michael can lie in the sun. But I don't say that last part. I feel like Gabe's still uncomfortable with the name. And the person connected to it. Both people, actually, past and present.

“Why don't we eat at that foodie restaurant back there? I could use a drink.”

I wonder what about this experience makes him want to get liquored up. Then I picture him from earlier, looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, unseeing. I support Michael's head all the time; I can try to do the same for Gabe.

After a pit stop to get the car seat, we head for the restaurant. We're seated right away (another good sign, I tell myself, at a restaurant that's typically jam-packed). We're in the glass-enclosed back
room, which juts out over the water. I feed Michael his bottle as I peruse the menu. Seasonal, locally grown, sustainable, vegetarian, vegan options—we're definitely in San Francisco. Gabe gives the menu a cursory glance and then focuses on the wine list.

The waiter is wearing the requisite hip glasses and wants to know if we have any questions about the menu. “You don't serve any hard alcohol?” Gabe asks. It's the question on every new father's lips.

I smile at the waiter like Gabe's just joking, though it's obvious he isn't.

“No, sir,” the waiter answers.

“I'll have this one then.” Gabe points at the wine list.

“That's only sold by the bottle.”

“A bottle's good. We're celebrating.” Gabe smiles. “The kid's one month old today.”

The waiter smiles down at Michael, as if he's just noticed him. “Happy birthday!”

Michael's eyes are closed in fierce concentration on his bottle. “Thanks,” I say on his behalf. “I'm ready to order. Goat cheese omelet.”

“Excellent choice.” He pivots toward Gabe.

“I'll have whatever's good.”

“Do you like kale? And nettles? Because—”

“Kale's great.” Gabe's manner is beyond dismissive. It's embarrassing. I'm sure the waiter is thinking we're some trashy bridge-and-tunnel family, which isn't far from the truth, at the moment. Except we don't even seem like a family.

Something's wrong with us. The patrons glancing over can feel it. The waiter can feel it.

Michael, at least, seems blissfully unaware. He falls asleep on his bottle as if there's nothing out of the ordinary. We are, after all, the only family he's known, the only one he's got. I hold him close for a few minutes, making sure he's really out, and then I ease him down to the floor and into his car seat. All the while, Gabe is looking out the window. Michael and I might as well not even be here.

He's ruining this. I can't even speak through my disappointment and fury. What I'd say, if I did—there might be no going back.

For distraction, I start looking over the wine list. I realize that based on where Gabe pointed, he must have bought a hundred-dollar bottle of wine. “What were you thinking?” I whisper to him angrily. We have to pay Leah every month; we have all Michael's expenses. We didn't need a whole bottle of wine. I won't be having any; I drink when I'm happy.

“It's house money,” Gabe says loudly. “I made more than eight hundred dollars last night playing poker—”

I motion for him to lower his voice. We are not sitting among the kind of people who make their money playing poker. We have a sleeping baby at our feet. “Just because you won money,” I say in a low, tight voice, “doesn't mean you have to blow it. You know we could use that money.”

“It's not your money.” His voice isn't as booming as before, but the next table can still hear every word. “It's my bankroll.”

I bend down to check on Michael before I answer. “This is not the conversation I want to be having. It's inappropriate.”

He scoffs at me. “
Inappropriate?
We used to hate that word. We hated the people who used it, the ones who want to tell everyone how things are supposed to be done.” He leans in and finally turns down the volume in order to growl, “Who are you?”

If I didn't know better, I'd think he was already drunk. But there's no way he drove us into the city drunk. Is there?

The waiter returns with our $100 bottle of red. I smile at him with extra force as he uncorks it and pours a small amount into Gabe's glass for approval. Gabe takes it down like a shot and says, “Perfect.” Then in a cockney accent, “Please, sir, may I have another?” The waiter is twenty-five, at most. He doesn't get the reference, or Gabe.

He fills both of our glasses and asks if we need anything else. I thank him profusely, as if to make up for the domestic drama he's having to witness.

“See,” Gabe says when the waiter's gone. “That's what I mean.”

“What are you talking about?” I say through clenched teeth.

“You're not acting like you. Ever since the kid got here. You're worried about what everyone else thinks, how they see us. You've become . . . conventional.” The way he says the word, it's like he thinks he's really putting the screws to me.

Since Michael came along, I do find myself wanting to be conventional. I want to be a regular mom, able to breast-feed my son on a bench instead of bottle-feeding him some other woman's milk. I want to be taken for a regular family. But Gabe's making that impossible, and I can only hope I'll be able to forgive him for that.

T
hat night, I'm holding Michael and watching Summer Jackson. I've been recording all the episodes on DVR, not wanting to miss any of the Joy Ellison coverage.