Every Other Saturday (17 page)

He rubbed her back, in slow circles, and Julia nearly melted. It had been so long since she’d had that simple, comforting touch of another person. The soft, rhythmic circles on her back made her want to curl up in Dave’s lap and fall asleep. His hand slowed and rested lightly between her shoulders, bringing her back.

Dave was staring at the table, too. “You okay?” she asked. Stupid question, considering she’d been the one having an ugly, snotty cry at him.

“Sure,” he said absently. “Honestly, I was just wondering if Debbie feels the same way about me. I do the ice cream and the hot dogs and the fun stuff, too.”

“Oh shit. I feel terrible.” She’d been rambling on, not thinking once about the similarity in their marital situations. “I’m sure it’s totally different.”

His mouth turned up at one corner. “Sure it is.”

Her fuddled brain cast around for something to make this better, but she couldn’t find it.

He put a hand under her chin and held her gaze for a long moment. “Listen to me, Wonder Woman. You are an amazing mom. No one can love these kids like you do. When they look back, they aren’t going to think about who gave them ice cream and got them autographs. They are going to remember who was there for them, day in and day out. You’re teaching them how to be people, Julia. Good people.”

He let his hand fall to his lap. “I can’t speak for your ex, but maybe that’s why I always let Lyric have hot dogs and ice cream when she’s with me. Because I know I can’t be there for every little decision she makes, and every little heartbreak she’ll have. And that breaks
my
heart. So maybe I’m trying to make her time with me fun so that she will think good things about me, and maybe she’ll trust me with some of that stuff.”

“Divorce sucks,” Julia said.

He gave a grim little laugh and reached to brush her hair off her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Yeah, it does. But we do the best we can, right?”

The pep talk was working. Although very little would make her feel sorry for Adam, her venomous feelings were fading. “Thank you,” she said.

His hand rested on her shoulder: light, but solid. “Don’t let anything make you feel like you are less than the best for those kids. They’re lucky to have you.”

“So is Lyric,” she said. “If you talk to her the way you just talked to me, you won’t need hot dogs and ice cream for her to confide in you.”

He drew her in suddenly and hugged her, tight. It could have been a strictly friendly gesture. But the smell of him, the warmth, and the bourbon were intoxicating. “Thanks,” he whispered and kissed her forehead. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”

“You’re welcome.” Julia sat back slowly, overwhelmed by being so close to him, not wanting to let go entirely. Their hands were still touching on her lap—not quite clasped. He lifted one hand and placed it against her cheek. When she looked up, she found his brown eyes searching hers in a silent question. Something changed, as though the air was sucked out of the room, like a depressurized airplane cabin. He leaned in, glacially slow; then stopped a few inches from her mouth to glance at her. Assessing. When his lips brushed hers, it was with a lightness she would not have imagined possible for the Dave Bernstein she had known two months ago. The kiss was tender and warm, and over—it seemed to Julia—very quickly.

“That’s new,” he whispered, still inches from her face.

Her heart pounded. Her stomach lurched. “I should sit down,” she said.

“You are sitting down.”

“Oh. In that case, I should go throw up.”

Mia Mendel’s Mom didn’t throw up, as it turned out. But she did need help getting out of her chair. Dave shouldered her against him and they staggered up the half-flight of stairs together. She sang something incoherently as they made their way up; he couldn’t be sure, but he thought maybe it was a Rolling Stones song. He kept having to shush her to prevent her waking up the kids, which only put her into a fit of even louder giggles. This shit was cuter in college.

He hoisted Julia onto her bed, carefully removing her shoes and the black vest she wore when she worked. He felt more than intrusive unbuttoning her crisp white blouse, despite the fact that she had a lacy camisole underneath. She slumped forward as he did this, and he had to push against her shoulder with his forehead to steady her while he fumbled with the buttons.

She suddenly revived a bit and shrugged out of the white blouse—just when he had nearly decided to leave her in it, wrinkles be damned. She flopped onto the pillow and rolled immediately to her stomach with her left arm outstretched, exposing another tattoo. In addition to the rose on her neck and the daisy on her dangling wrist, she had a cartoon portrait of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland on her shoulder blade with the words “We’re all Mad Here” on a scroll underneath.
Amen to that.

He was such an idiot. What the hell had he been thinking, kissing her? He hadn’t been, obviously. The crap with Emily had thrown him for such a loop, and then the bourbon, and then the crying. What was it about women crying all the time? Didn’t they have some other emotional outlet? What the hell was all that shopping for, if it wasn’t making anyone feel any less like crying until he either got up and stormed out or kissed them?

He put a trash can next to the bed, placing it beneath Julia’s dangling arm, and retrieved a glass of water from the kitchen to put by the nightstand. He ought to have found some aspirin, too, but that would entail rifling through Julia Mendel’s medicine cabinet, and he was well past the intimacy limit for one evening. He covered her with a blanket, smoothed her matted hair back from her face, and collected Lyric on his way out.

Used to the routine, Lyric fell back asleep before he’d even finished buckling her car seat. “Good night, I love you,” he whispered. “Your daddy’s an idiot.”

“Mmmph.” Lyric turned her head sideways at an angle that would’ve been impossible for his neck to sustain, and then resumed snoring softly.

He kept talking to her, though, in a soft monotone he had learned to use from her colicky days as a baby. Back then he’d take her from an exhausted Debbie, throw her in the car still screaming bloody murder, and then talk about sports or beer or politics in the same unending monotone until she fell asleep. And then he would keep talking. It became his therapy session, practice for his videos, the place he fleshed out new ideas and made big decisions. All with little Lyric asleep in the back, her cheeks red from crying and her tiny mouth pursed in dreamy concentration.

Tonight he did his usual check to make sure she was asleep. “Let’s see, should we go home or stop for chocolate ice cream?” When she didn’t respond, he explained to his sleeping daughter why kissing Julia Mendel was the biggest mistake ever.

“First of all, there’s you, and Mia and Brandon, and we can’t have things be awkward between us. Second, there’s the school, and every other Jewish institution in Northwest Atlanta. And she’s not even Jewish. That rules her out right there.

“Not that I was considering ruling her
in
to anything. Maybe I like her more than I used to, but that doesn’t mean she has dating potential. G-d, maybe she’s right, maybe I shouldn’t date anyone with kids. It’s too complicated. What do you think, kiddo? I know you say you want siblings, but trust me, actual siblings are nothing like the catalogs.”

He glanced back at his little girl, her head hanging to the side at an angle that would’ve left him sore for a week, and felt a surge of affection warming his chest. Whatever had been terrible about his relationship with Debbie, and there was a lot of that, they had done this one thing so very well.

If Julia’s rant tonight about her ex made him grateful for how much worse things could be with Debbie, it had also made him question the kind of dad he was. Had he been bribing Lyric without realizing it, trying to be everything her mother wasn’t, so she would love him? When they were still together as a family, the differences between Debbie and himself had felt like good balance. Debbie taught her to wear dresses and do yoga; Dave wrestled with her and insisted she take karate to defend herself against boys. Deb cooked kale and gluten-free pasta and tofu. He had been the indulgence guy, the “only on special occasions” or “only at baseball games” or “only on weekends” dad. They’d agreed this contrast was good for Lyric. Now that the households were divided, though, was he still balancing her out, or was he waging a quiet war with every hot dog and Frosted Orange?

Debbie had barely spoken to him, and Aaron not at all, since he’d bloodied Aaron’s nose almost a month ago. Dave knew it was all going to come to a head sooner or later, and he probably needed to prepare himself. Each time he tried to focus on Debbie and Aaron, though, his mind drifted back to a white lace camisole and that damn Cheshire Cat.

“Brandon! Don’t forget your jars of rust.”

He came down the stairs with his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles backpack clattering behind him. Julia glanced at the clock, and then at her kid, who looked mortified. “What if they break on the bus?”

“Can you just be super-careful? It’s Science Fair Day—probably lots of kids will have projects and stuff.”

“Mom,” he whined. “They’re breakable.”

Julia sighed. “Okay. We’ll wrap them in dish towels. I can drop you at car pool. But we have to hurry. Mommy has a meeting at Mia’s school and I need to get there early to set up.”

Mia shuffled down the stairs, still in her Katie the Princess pajamas. “Mommy, I have to bring a shoebox to class today.”

“Mia, why aren’t you dressed? We’re walking out the door.”

“You are not listening!” Mia yelled. “I need a shoebox. And a picture of Mr. Whiskers. We are making animal houses today.”

“Honey, we don’t have a pet anymore. Remember? Mr. Whiskers died last summer. And you have to put on your clothes.”

“Ms. Elizabeth said if we were good this week, we can all wear our pajamas.”

Julia muttered something profane under her breath and pulled out her phone. “Hang on, guys…” She thumbed through her emails. Between Brandon’s elementary school and Tree of Life, there were fourteen unopened emails, twelve of which had attachments.

“Which dish towels can I use?” Brandon opened a cabinet.

“I just checked all this stuff last week,” Julia said to no one in particular. “Or maybe late the week before. Where is my planner?”

“These?” Brandon pulled the bottom towel from a stack, sending ten neatly folded dish towels to the kitchen floor.

“Brandon, wait.” She scrolled to the most recent Tree of Life email, which turned out to be a reminder from herself about today’s Hanukkah Carnival meeting. The next one was the weekly school newsletter. Seriously, was a four-page update necessary every week? She heard the rumble of the school bus and hiss of the brakes at the end of the block.

“Mom! I need a shoebox!” Mia stomped her foot dramatically, drawing Julia’s attention to the fact that she was still wearing yesterday’s socks.

“Go change your socks, please, Mia. I’m checking to see if it’s pajama day today.”

She found the update from Ms. Elizabeth and waited for the attachment to load. Brandon unloaded four sealed mason jars onto the counter, each containing a nail submerged in water, vinegar, oil, or some combination.

Except one was no longer sealed.

Orange-brown water dripped down the side of one of the jars and puddled on the oak table. That was totally going to leave a stain. It had come unsealed in the backpack; the jar was nearly empty and there was a large dark stain spreading on the bottom of the Ninja Turtles. Brandon pulled out a crumpled, dripping sheet of paper. “My permission slip! You never signed it.”

“What permission slip?”

“For the planetarium. And my night sky journal.” He breathed heavily, face getting red and splotchy with anxiety.

Julia scanned the soaked pages, holding them over the table to avoid turning the carpet to rust. Planetarium trip Monday, permission slips and $12 “suggested donation” due three days ago. Night sky journal—a full week of charting the stars, never mind that this was Georgia during Daylight Savings and the stars weren’t visible until half an hour after Brandon’s bedtime—due tomorrow.

She took a deep breath. “Let’s not panic. I will take care of the planetarium stuff on the way to the store after my meeting, and we’ll ask your teacher for an extension on the journal. You still have some nice rust left in the jar. Maybe if we put a little more water in, it will be fine.”

Brandon looked doubtful, but unscrewed the leaking lid. She tossed him one of the towels from the floor to wipe the mess. On her phone screen, the list of upcoming activities for Mia’s class stared at her in bold red. Shoebox and a picture of a pet due today. Uncut fruit to share with the class tomorrow. Volunteers needed Monday morning. Pajama party next Friday if the class behaved well this week. Frozen yogurt night on Tuesday.

“Mia-Bird, pajamas are next Friday, honey,” she said without looking up. “Not today.”

Julia helped Brandon wrap his remaining jars in dish towels, while she racked her brain for where she might have an actual print of the deceased Mr. Whiskers. Who kept prints lying around anymore? Everything was digital. She heard a sniffle from the stairwell, and watched as her raven-haired daughter’s stubborn expression crumpled into disappointment.

Mia sat down hard on the bottom stair and burst into tears.

Julia’s heart clenched. A younger sister herself, she knew what it was like to feel overlooked, as though your needs and wants were always at the bottom of the family to-do list. With Brandon’s OCD consuming even more adult attention, Julia knew that Mia had it worse than she ever had.

She squeezed in next to Mia on the stairs and put an arm around her daughter’s shaking shoulders. The comfort seemed to loosen the sobs Mia held in her chest, because they flew to freedom with loud, racking gasps. Between hoarse gulps of air, the words came. “I. Want. Pajama. Day. Today.”

Julia clutched Mia’s head to her chest, noticing that across the kitchen, Brandon was counting. She could see his lips moving with the muttering comfort of the ritual. “Me, too, kiddo.” Julia kissed Mia’s smooth, black hair. “Me. Too.”

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