Dirty Red
Page 18
Present
I am in my Juicy sweats and a tank top, making a smoothie in the kitchen, when Sam arrives for work the next day. I am supposed to be watching Estella — who is napping in her movable bassinet — while Caleb takes a shower, but by the time I let Sam in the front door, I have forgotten where I parked her.
“How are you?” Sam greets me warmly, carrying a duffel bag over his shoulder. I wonder if he is planning on spending the night. I am creeped out by the thought of it.
“So, where’s my charge?” he says, rubbing his hands together and smiling. For a minute, I think he is referencing a credit card — because it’s something I say often as I browse the mall and scrounge around in my purse for my American Express — and then I realize he’s talking about the baby. It takes everything in me not to roll my damn eyes.
The baby’s insatiable hunger rescues me as she begins to mewl from somewhere over my shoulder. It is then that I remember wheeling her into the dining room. I glance toward her bassinet in annoyance.
“I’ll get her,” Sam says, taking control and walking past me. I shrug with indifference and wander toward my laptop. He walks back into the room, cradling her in his arms, just as Caleb bounds down the main staircase — his hair still damp from his shower. I feel a surge of lust just looking at him. Caleb ignores me and walks over to slap Sam on the back like they're old friends. He hasn’t spoken to me since our late night trip to the hospital, other than to ask a question about the baby or to spout an instruction. I turn away and sulk while they discuss things that don’t interest me. I am planning a trip to the spa and deciding how many treatments I can fit into eight hours when Caleb calls my name. Desperate to be the center of his attention, I forsake my computer and look up at him hopefully.
“I won’t be home until later,” he says. "I have a business dinner.”
I nod. I remember when I used to accompany him on those business dinners. I open my mouth to tell him that I’d like to come, but he’s kissed the baby and is halfway to the door. An empty planet.
I turn my attention to the manny.
“So you’re related to your boss,” I say lamely, biting into an apple. Sam raises an eyebrow at me, but doesn’t respond. My mind goes to that place where I wonder if Caleb ever slept with Cammie.
“Do you … um … do you hang out with her much?”
He shrugs. “Cammie has a lot of friends. Martinis with the girls really isn’t my thing.”
“But, don’t you want to meet someone?” I ask, getting sidetracked. He’s pretty good looking if you’re into the grungy musician type. Hellooo, grunge died with Kurt Cobain.
“Is that where you’d hang out if you were single?” He looks directly at me when he asks. It’s a simple question, but the look in his eyes makes me feel like I’m being interrogated.
“I’m not single,” I snap.
“Proof,” he holds the baby up. I look away.
“Have you met any of her friends?” I am hoping for a reference of some sort to Olivia. It would be nice to know if she plays into this somehow.
Sam plays dumb. I can’t tell whether or not he knows something.
“Eh, a couple here and there,” he says dabbing Estella’s mouth with a burp rag. “Are you sure you don’t want to do this?” he nods towards the baby. “I don’t want to take away your time with her.”
When he looks down at her, I roll my eyes.
“Nope, I’m good,” I say pleasantly.
“You’re not bonding with her, are you?” he says, without looking at me.
I’m glad he can’t see my face. My face is smeared in shock. I force my features into neutrality.
“Why would you say that?” I narrow my eyes. “You’ve known me for what? Five minutes?”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he says ignoring me. “Most women experience some form of depression after they give birth.”
“Okay, Dr. Phil. I am not depressed!” I turn away and then spin back around. “How dare you judge me — you think you’re qualified to “diagnose” me, psych boy? Why don’t you take a good square look at your own parenting skills? You have a kid in Puerto Rico, buddy … without you.”
Sam seems unfazed by my words. Instead of recoiling like I want him to, he looks at me thoughtfully.
“Caleb is a pretty nice guy.”
I stare at him. What did that matter? Was this some type of psychological trick? Some sort of trap that will confirm to him that I suffer from the baby blues? I lick my lips and try to see his angle.
“Yes? And?”
He takes his time answering me, setting the bottle on the counter and positioning Estella on his shoulder for another round of burping.
“Why would he marry a girl like you?”
At first, I think I hear him wrong. Surely not … he couldn’t have said what I think he did. He's the help — a lowly manny. But, when he looks at me expectantly, waiting for an answer, my eye begins to twitch — an embarrassing reaction. I feel heavy under my rage. Like I can lift it from my shoulders where it landed and throw it at him.
So rude! So inappropriate!
I briefly consider firing him, and then I see milk erupt from Estella’s mouth and run down the back of his shirt. I scrunch up my nose. Better him than me. I turn on my heel and charge up the stairs, as if motherhood herself is chasing me.
When I shut my bedroom door, the first thing I think about is sex. I have the urge to rip someone’s clothes off — someone being Caleb, of course. When I was seventeen, my therapist told me that I use sex to validate myself. I promptly had sex with him.
The second thing that enters my mind is the box of Virginia Slims I keep stashed in my lingerie drawer. I go there now and run my hand across the wood paneling at the back. It is still there, half full. I pull a lighter out of an arrangement of silk flowers and head for the balcony that sits off my bedroom. I have not had a cigarette since my sixth month of pregnancy, when I sneaked one after a particularly stressful night at my in-laws house. I light up while replaying Sam’s grody comments in my mind. I would have to talk to Caleb. Obviously, Sam could not continue to work for us after saying such terrible, degrading things to me.
I wonder what he meant by “a girl like you”? People had used that line on me many times in my life, but it was usually to deliver a compliment or to grease the prospects of my bright future. A girl like you can go far in the world of modeling. A girl like you can be anything she wants. A girl like you can have any guy she wants.
I am in my Juicy sweats and a tank top, making a smoothie in the kitchen, when Sam arrives for work the next day. I am supposed to be watching Estella — who is napping in her movable bassinet — while Caleb takes a shower, but by the time I let Sam in the front door, I have forgotten where I parked her.
“How are you?” Sam greets me warmly, carrying a duffel bag over his shoulder. I wonder if he is planning on spending the night. I am creeped out by the thought of it.
“So, where’s my charge?” he says, rubbing his hands together and smiling. For a minute, I think he is referencing a credit card — because it’s something I say often as I browse the mall and scrounge around in my purse for my American Express — and then I realize he’s talking about the baby. It takes everything in me not to roll my damn eyes.
The baby’s insatiable hunger rescues me as she begins to mewl from somewhere over my shoulder. It is then that I remember wheeling her into the dining room. I glance toward her bassinet in annoyance.
“I’ll get her,” Sam says, taking control and walking past me. I shrug with indifference and wander toward my laptop. He walks back into the room, cradling her in his arms, just as Caleb bounds down the main staircase — his hair still damp from his shower. I feel a surge of lust just looking at him. Caleb ignores me and walks over to slap Sam on the back like they're old friends. He hasn’t spoken to me since our late night trip to the hospital, other than to ask a question about the baby or to spout an instruction. I turn away and sulk while they discuss things that don’t interest me. I am planning a trip to the spa and deciding how many treatments I can fit into eight hours when Caleb calls my name. Desperate to be the center of his attention, I forsake my computer and look up at him hopefully.
“I won’t be home until later,” he says. "I have a business dinner.”
I nod. I remember when I used to accompany him on those business dinners. I open my mouth to tell him that I’d like to come, but he’s kissed the baby and is halfway to the door. An empty planet.
I turn my attention to the manny.
“So you’re related to your boss,” I say lamely, biting into an apple. Sam raises an eyebrow at me, but doesn’t respond. My mind goes to that place where I wonder if Caleb ever slept with Cammie.
“Do you … um … do you hang out with her much?”
He shrugs. “Cammie has a lot of friends. Martinis with the girls really isn’t my thing.”
“But, don’t you want to meet someone?” I ask, getting sidetracked. He’s pretty good looking if you’re into the grungy musician type. Hellooo, grunge died with Kurt Cobain.
“Is that where you’d hang out if you were single?” He looks directly at me when he asks. It’s a simple question, but the look in his eyes makes me feel like I’m being interrogated.
“I’m not single,” I snap.
“Proof,” he holds the baby up. I look away.
“Have you met any of her friends?” I am hoping for a reference of some sort to Olivia. It would be nice to know if she plays into this somehow.
Sam plays dumb. I can’t tell whether or not he knows something.
“Eh, a couple here and there,” he says dabbing Estella’s mouth with a burp rag. “Are you sure you don’t want to do this?” he nods towards the baby. “I don’t want to take away your time with her.”
When he looks down at her, I roll my eyes.
“Nope, I’m good,” I say pleasantly.
“You’re not bonding with her, are you?” he says, without looking at me.
I’m glad he can’t see my face. My face is smeared in shock. I force my features into neutrality.
“Why would you say that?” I narrow my eyes. “You’ve known me for what? Five minutes?”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he says ignoring me. “Most women experience some form of depression after they give birth.”
“Okay, Dr. Phil. I am not depressed!” I turn away and then spin back around. “How dare you judge me — you think you’re qualified to “diagnose” me, psych boy? Why don’t you take a good square look at your own parenting skills? You have a kid in Puerto Rico, buddy … without you.”
Sam seems unfazed by my words. Instead of recoiling like I want him to, he looks at me thoughtfully.
“Caleb is a pretty nice guy.”
I stare at him. What did that matter? Was this some type of psychological trick? Some sort of trap that will confirm to him that I suffer from the baby blues? I lick my lips and try to see his angle.
“Yes? And?”
He takes his time answering me, setting the bottle on the counter and positioning Estella on his shoulder for another round of burping.
“Why would he marry a girl like you?”
At first, I think I hear him wrong. Surely not … he couldn’t have said what I think he did. He's the help — a lowly manny. But, when he looks at me expectantly, waiting for an answer, my eye begins to twitch — an embarrassing reaction. I feel heavy under my rage. Like I can lift it from my shoulders where it landed and throw it at him.
So rude! So inappropriate!
I briefly consider firing him, and then I see milk erupt from Estella’s mouth and run down the back of his shirt. I scrunch up my nose. Better him than me. I turn on my heel and charge up the stairs, as if motherhood herself is chasing me.
When I shut my bedroom door, the first thing I think about is sex. I have the urge to rip someone’s clothes off — someone being Caleb, of course. When I was seventeen, my therapist told me that I use sex to validate myself. I promptly had sex with him.
The second thing that enters my mind is the box of Virginia Slims I keep stashed in my lingerie drawer. I go there now and run my hand across the wood paneling at the back. It is still there, half full. I pull a lighter out of an arrangement of silk flowers and head for the balcony that sits off my bedroom. I have not had a cigarette since my sixth month of pregnancy, when I sneaked one after a particularly stressful night at my in-laws house. I light up while replaying Sam’s grody comments in my mind. I would have to talk to Caleb. Obviously, Sam could not continue to work for us after saying such terrible, degrading things to me.
I wonder what he meant by “a girl like you”? People had used that line on me many times in my life, but it was usually to deliver a compliment or to grease the prospects of my bright future. A girl like you can go far in the world of modeling. A girl like you can be anything she wants. A girl like you can have any guy she wants.
