Best Kept Secret (2 page)

“No!” Charlie said. “I want pancakes. And yogurt.”

I flopped back down and threw my forearm over my eyes, causing the pain to ricochet like a bullet beneath my skull. If I didn’t do something for this headache soon, it would take over and I’d never get anything written today. I had barely started my article on the Northwest’s Top Ten Bed-and-Breakfasts for
Seattle
magazine, and while it was originally due the week before, I managed to sweet-talk the editor into extending my deadline through tomorrow. I couldn’t afford to screw up and not get paid.

Charlie pushed me playfully and giggled. He was not going to give up.

I sighed and forced myself to rotate up and out of bed. The room spun around me, so I kept my eyes closed and took deep breaths until it passed.
Ugh.
I felt awful. I hoped I wouldn’t be sick.

“Pancakes!” Charlie hollered, and I cringed, clutching my forehead with one hand.

“
Shh,
honey. Mama has a headache.”

He leapt off the bed and sped down the hall in his Spider-Man
pajamas. The noisy clamor of cartoons quickly echoed throughout the house.

I trodded after him, my bare feet slapping against the hardwood floors. I wondered when I had changed out of my jeans and into my pajamas the night before; I didn’t remember doing it.
I must have been really tired,
I thought hazily.
I’m really not getting enough sleep.

In my tiny, black-and-white, fifties-style kitchen, I immediately went for the super-size bottle of Advil on the counter and shook four out into my hand. I popped them into my mouth and used my cupped palm beneath the faucet to splash them down with a water chaser.

I fought with the coffee filters for a minute, but soon managed to get a pot brewing, throwing in an extra scoop of aromatic grounds for a super-charged medicinal kick of caffeine. Charlie raced in from the living room and threw his arms around my legs, squeezing them tightly.

“I love you, Mama,” he said.

“I love you, too, Charlie bear.” I hoped my voice didn’t sound as weary as I felt. I reached around and cupped my hand against the curve of his head.

He let go of me, padded over to the refrigerator, and grabbed a strawberry yogurt from the bottom shelf. I kept most of his snacks within reach so he could get them himself. I’d read somewhere that giving him tasks like this to accomplish on his own would encourage his self-esteem. It also reduced the number of things I needed to do for him each day from one hundred to ninety-nine.

“Did you turn off the TV?” I asked absentmindedly, then realized the sound of cartoons had ceased.

“Yep!” He sat at the chrome-legged, black Formica kitchen table that put in double duty as my desk. The house was too small for an office, so my laptop and printer took up one end of the table, and at meal time Charlie and I took up the other. It was all the space I needed, really, since most of my work was done online and over the phone.

“Let me get you a spoon,” I said, reaching into the silverware
drawer and setting the utensil on the table. “Eating yogurt with your fingers isn’t such a hot idea.”

With an impish grin, he wiggled his fingers threateningly over the open cup.

“Don’t you dare,” I said. Too late. He dropped his fingers in the creamy pink yogurt and scooped a bite into his mouth.

“Charlie,” I said, exasperated. “No.” I snatched a dish towel from the counter, took him by the wrist, and wiped his hand clean. I gave the bottom of his chin a gentle pinch. “Don’t do that again, okay? You’re a big boy. You know better than that.”

“Okay,” he said. He dutifully picked up his spoon and began to eat. My head screamed at me to go back to bed, but I knew it would be impossible.

While I inhaled my coffee from a black, soup bowl-size mug, I zapped a few frozen pancakes in the microwave. When they were done, I cut them up into bite-size squares and served them to my son. I nibbled on one without butter or syrup, hoping the carbs would take the edge off my nausea.

“All done!” Charlie said, pushing away from the table and jumping down from his chair. “Want to come play with me?”

I smiled at him. “I need to work for a little while. Can you watch TV quietly?”

“But I want you to
play,
” he whined, yanking on my hand.

I took a deep breath, then exhaled. That was that. As always, work would have to wait for his nap time. I knew spending time with my son was more important, but the money I’d received in the divorce settlement wasn’t going to last forever. If I watched my pennies and pulled in at least a little bit from freelancing, it would be enough to live on for a couple of years. Martin paid child support to cover basic things like Charlie’s clothes and food, but in order to survive on my own long term, I needed to step up my professional game. Something that was difficult to do, considering I wasn’t all that crazy about freelance journalism in the first place. After I left the
Herald,
my career had morphed into a matter of convenience rather than a passionate pursuit, but it was all I knew how to do. So for the time being, I didn’t have a choice but to make it work.

“Mama!” Charlie said, jerking on my hand again. I allowed him to lead me into the living room, a small space made to look even smaller by the arrangement of an overstuffed khaki love seat and two matching, comfy lounge chairs with ottomans. There was a flat-screen television hanging above the river-stone fireplace—an indulgence Martin encouraged before he moved out, a purchase I reluctantly grew to enjoy. The built-in cherry shelves on each side of the fireplace were stuffed with my books, a few candles and pictures, but mostly Charlie’s toys.

He let go of my hand and ran over to the enormous pile of brightly hued Duplo blocks that already lay in the middle of the tan, skeleton leaf-imprinted area rug. He sat down and gave me a toothy grin.

“Here,” Charlie said, holding out a single red block. “This is yours. Mine are the rest.”

“Okay,” I said, walking over to join him on the floor. The combination of Advil and caffeine had finally kicked in—the elephants tromping through my head began to slow down. I took the block from him. “Where do you want me to put it?”

“I’ll do it,” he said, snatching the toy back immediately.

“Okay,” I said, smiling. “Gotcha, boss.” I watched him play for a few minutes, amazed by the intensity of my feelings. No one told me that the love I’d feel for my child would be so pervasive and consuming. Charlie came howling from my body and in an instant, my own soul was woven into his so completely it became impossible to extricate one from the other.

“Here,” my son said again, handing me another red block. He pointed to the top of the tower he had built. “Put it there.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, setting the block where he wanted it. “Like that?”

“Good job, Mama,” he said, patting me on my knee with his plump hand. He suddenly jumped up and launched himself full-force
into my lap, pushing me over onto the floor with his arms around my neck.

“Oomph!”
I said, laughing and hugging him to me so he wouldn’t crash his head into the nearby bookcase.

“I love you to the stars and back!” he announced.

“All the way to Timbuktu,” I answered.

“All the way to Kalamazoo,” he finished. The words were our nightly routine when I tucked him into bed, what I whispered in his ear before he drifted off to sleep.

Charlie pulled back and landed a wet, slightly open-mouthed kiss on my cheek. His breath smelled faintly of the peanut butter and syrup he had had on his pancakes. I almost wished I could take a bite out of him, I loved him so much.

We played for a couple of hours, coloring and building with more blocks. I took a hot shower, trying to scrub the cobwebs from my brain, while Charlie sat on the bathroom floor, chattering away about Spider-Man and what kind of superhero outfit he wanted me to sew for him.

“Mama doesn’t sew, baby,” I said from behind the shower curtain. Where he had gotten the idea that I could, I had no clue. I opted to throw away his socks rather than darn them; he’d even seen me do it.

“That’s okay,” he said simply. “You can learn.”

We both got dressed, then went outside to the backyard so Charlie could climb on the wooden jungle gym Martin had tried to put together for Charlie’s second birthday party. At the last minute, I ended up having to call the toy store to send an employee to finish the job.

“I can do it, Cadee,” my husband had said.

“Uh-huh. And is it supposed to lean against the fence?” I only meant to tease him, but he dropped his tools to the lawn and stormed off toward the garage.

“It’s a safety thing, honey!” I called out. “We don’t want the other kids’ parents to sue!” He didn’t answer, and every time after that when
a project needed to be done around the house and I asked him to help me with it, he’d shake his head and say, “I don’t know, Cadee. You don’t want me to screw it up. Maybe you’d better call a professional.”

Now, the May sun was warm on my face, and my eyes wandered over the overgrown clumps of vibrant bluebells and delicate forget-me-nots along the fence. Yard work—another thing I didn’t have time to do. The outside chores had always been Martin’s. At least, when he came home from work long enough to do them.

“Watch me, Mama!” Charlie said over and over again as he went down the slide or made his way up the ladder. “Watch this!”

“I’m watching,” I reassured him, my arms crossed over my chest. My thoughts danced with the descriptions I needed to be writing. I wished I could just sit Charlie in front of a movie and get started. I knew some writers could get words on the page no matter what was going on around them—with music playing or children chattering in the background—but I wasn’t one of them. I needed silence to work.

I pushed Charlie on the swing and chased him around the moss-covered pear tree until it was time for lunch. “What do you want to eat?” I asked as we walked up the back steps into the house.

“Orange,” Charlie said.

“Oranges?” I said. “I don’t think we have any.”

“No. Not oranges.
Orange.
”

“Ohhhh,” I said, realizing what he meant. It was his favorite color. I fed him macaroni and cheese and sliced peaches.

After he ate, I snuggled with Charlie on the couch and watched an episode of
The Berenstain Bears
. As I held him, his eyelids drooped and his breathing deepened. When the show ended, I glanced at the clock. It was almost 1:00.

“Time for your nap, baby,” I said, kissing the top of his head. When he didn’t respond, I knew he was asleep.

I carried him into his room, marveling at the heft of his deadweight, careful to keep jostling his body to a minimum. I lay him down, slipped off his shoes, and tucked his favorite blue blanket up
around his neck, making sure the silky edge was against his face, the way he liked it. Quietly, I shut the door behind me, listening for any movement. He didn’t make a sound.
Success.

Back in the kitchen, I grabbed a poppy seed muffin I’d baked the day before, thinking it might be better for me than finishing off the entire pot of cheesy pasta. I started to type the description of a popular San Juan Islands, Fidalgo Bay, 1890s Victorian. I was cheating a little, using online reviews for references and interviewing the establishments’ owners over the phone instead of in person, but the logistics of lugging Charlie along for a road trip to visit them all were too complicated to consider.

I’d barely gotten a page completed when I heard Charlie’s door open. His bare feet pattered down the hall.

“You need more sleep, baby,” I said, turning to look at him when he came through the kitchen’s arched doorway.

“Nope!” he said cheerfully, though his cheeks were rosy and his eyes half-lidded. “I’m hungry.”

“You just ate lunch. And you only rested half an hour. You need to get back in bed. Mama needs to get some work done.”

He clambered up into a chair and looked at me expectantly. “I’ll help you.”

I sighed, tapping my fingers on the top of my thigh. “No, honey. You can’t. This is grown-up work.”

He pounded on the table with his fists. “I’ll
help
you!”

“Charlie,” I said as gently as possible. “You can play quietly in your room, but Mama needs to be by herself for a little while. We’ll play later.” If he didn’t get a nap, I wouldn’t get anything accomplished and both of us would hate the rest of this day.

“No!” Charlie said, setting his jaw in a determined line. It was his father’s expression, one I had seen on my ex-husband’s face too many times to count.

Something in me snapped. I shoved my chair back from the table, then tucked my hands in my son’s armpits and lifted him out of his
chair. He gave a few rowdy kicks and managed to knock my laptop onto the floor with his foot. It landed on the checkered linoleum with a frightening clatter. All my work was on that computer—I wasn’t a master of backing up my copy. If he just killed the machine, I was screwed.

“Dammit, Charlie!” I yelled. My heartbeat galloped in my throat. “Knock it off.”

“Don’t say ‘dammit’!” he screamed, continuing to struggle as I carried him back down the hall to his room.

“You’re fine,” I told him through gritted teeth. “Mama’s here. You’re
fine.
“

“Daddy!” he wailed, wriggling and writhing to get away from me. “I want my
daddy
!”

It made me crazy how often my son asked for Martin. Charlie and I spent most of our time alone even when his father lived with us. Yet something did shift when my husband no longer came home at night. I was
it.
Responsible for absolutely
everything.
Sometimes I wasn’t sure I was up for the job.

I lay Charlie in his bed. “I love you, sweetie, but you need to take a rest.” I kept my voice calm, though aggravation skittered along its edges. I smoothed his hair and he kicked at the wall, still crying. I hoped he’d tire himself out and go back to sleep as he’d done a hundred times before. I closed the door behind me again and this time, I stood in the hall, waiting.

Over the next five minutes his screaming intensified. There was the loud
thunk
of something being thrown against his door. A toy, probably. It wouldn’t be the first time. The tips of my nerves burned beneath my skin.