Charlie

The rest of the week passed by at breakneck speed, powered by my team nearing the end of an acquisition that demanded an outrageous number of hours. Twice I’d slept in the office—though maybe sleep was a generous term for the four-hour nap I’d snuck in. I’d barely seen the kids, which I hated, nor had I seen much of Hannah, which I also hated.

Time and space hadn’t banished her from my thoughts.

It was always in the quiet hours when my tired brain found itself idle that she snuck into my mind. While at work, I’d wonder what she was doing, wonder how the kids were. Throughout the days, our conversations had been limited to texts; she’d sent me photos of crafts, the kids baking, videos of them saying goodnight, and Halloween trick-or-treating photos—my plans to join them annihilated by an emergency meeting that lasted until after midnight.

Hannah was never in the pictures other than the occasional hand or her voice laughing or prompting them to speak. And every little glimpse I got of her would reignite that desperate wonder I couldn’t seem to shake.

I came home late that night, creeping up the creaky stairs as quietly as I could. I’d been so aware of her presence—her coat hanging next to mine, her shoes under the bench, the flowers in the kitchen, which were daisies now—as if every part of me turned its focus to the woman down the stairs. But I didn’t stop walking, didn’t stop moving until I was safely between my sheets.

As tired as I was, I couldn’t fall asleep, her face in my thoughts, thinking of the things I’d say to her in the morning, imagining the conversations we’d have, the moments we’d have.

I’d found myself living for those moments.

That was the worst part—the anticipation of seeing her, the admission that I looked forward to it, needed it.

At that, I cursed myself and pushed thoughts of her away, though they only bobbed back up again to mock me.

She’s too young, I told myself.

You pay her to work for you.

You’re just lonely, Charlie boy.

She’s just different, that’s all. New.

It’s a fantasy, Charlie. Just pretend, only make-believe. Put it away.

She wouldn’t want you and your baggage anyway.

And that was the loop of self-flagellation I fell asleep to.

When I woke that Sunday morning on the heels of a solid eight hours of sleep and with such a brutal week behind me, it was with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. I felt rejuvenated, if not still physically tired, and Hannah and the kids would be home with me all day. I had to work—I needed to, as the contracts on my desk were due for approval first thing in the morning—but I’d see them all. My mind spun with imaginings of moments.

Dangerous and stupid.

But logic didn’t apply. For the first time in a very long time, I was reminded that I could feel, that I could want, that I was a man, not a robot. Not just a father or a cuckold or a workaholic. It was a reminder that I was alive.

I’d unknowingly allowed myself the luxury of daydreaming, stoking the tiny flame of desire for her. I only hoped I could keep that fire contained and in check, well within the ruts I’d dug to keep it penned in. If the wind picked up, if it jumped that boundary, I would be in trouble.

Big trouble.

In any case, I felt like a million bucks when I woke. I whistled as I made my bed and dressed for the day and took the stairs with a little bounce, the sound of Hannah and the kids floating up the stairs to me.

And there was Hannah with my children in the entryway, smiling up at me.

Make that a million and one bucks.

“Daddy!” Sammy called, whipping away from Hannah to run for me just before she could get his jacket on.

He bounded into my arms, and I picked him up.

“Morning, buddy. Where are you guys off to so early?”

“The zoo! Can you come with us?”

I couldn’t. I had a metric ton of paperwork to get through, and there was absolutely no way I could take a day off. I couldn’t even take a couple of hours off.

So I looked at my children and Hannah, whose faces were hopeful, and gave the only answer I could. “Absolutely. Give me ten minutes.”

All three of them lit up like a row of Edison bulbs.

I kissed Sam’s temple and set him down, trotting back up the stairs. I ducked into the bathroom to brush my teeth, assessing my scruff and my messy hair. But they seemed all right, and a day awaited. A day off. A day with my kids.

A day with Hannah, a little voice in my head said.

Shut up, I said back.

When I came downstairs, they waited patiently on the bench under the hooks where coats and bags hung—Maven in Hannah’s lap, Sammy talking about giraffes.

“Hannah, how do you say giraffe?”

“Easy. Giraffe.”

“Gee-raf-fuh” he echoed, pronouncing it just like her but without the soft roll on the R.

“Well done.”

“Did you know a giraffe’s tongue is one-and-one-half-foots long?”

“Really?” Hannah said, seemingly enthralled.

“Uh-huh. And they only sleep two hours every day.”

“It’s like a nap.”

He nodded. “I wish I could just sleep that long, and the rest of the time I could play, play, play.” With every play, he jumped.

Hannah and I laughed, and the three of them stood as I pulled on my coat and took Maven. Hannah grabbed the bag, Sammy took her hand, and I carried the stroller as we headed out. She and I worked around each other, situating the kids, setting Maven up—I buckled her in, and Hannah placed Maven’s sippy cup in my waiting hand, hung the bag on the handles, and took the wheel. And with Sammy’s hand in mine, we walked toward the subway entrance. We hadn’t spoken a word.

I smiled to myself at the easiness of it all, smiled at the crisp fall sky, at the sight of Hannah pushing the stroller and Sammy talking—now about sea otters. Did you know that a group of sea otters in the water was called a raft? Yeah, me neither. My son, the wonder boy.

The train was uncrowded so early on a weekend, and before long, we were walking up 5th Avenue and into the park. There was a small line—the zoo was just opening—but before the ticket booths unfurled their metal shields, the Delacorte Clock struck ten, and the animals danced.

Maven sat on my shoulders, clapping, and Sammy jumped up and down, giggling, as the clock chimed its song, the bronze sculptures spinning around—bear and kangaroo, penguin and hippo, each playing an instrument. And Hannah’s face was just as filled with wonder, turned up to the sight, smile on her lips.

I found myself thirsty for that smile, the sweet simplicity of her joy.

When the song ended, we bought our tickets and moseyed in.

The zoo was small but quaint, and I was nearly as enthralled as the kids. They’d been before with Elliot, but I hadn’t been since years before. Of course, now that I was older, things were different, and my perspective along with it. It was the way of the world, I supposed, the joy of seeing something through the eyes of your children, experiencing the newness and possibilities in life.

And so we made our way around, starting with the sea lions in the center of the park, through the bats and lemurs and snakes. Did you know snakes didn’t have eyelids? I could have guessed, but it was unnerving to learn it from my five-year-old all the same. Past the monkeys and snow leopards we went, Sammy asking for the animal names in Dutch all the while, which were strikingly similar to their English versions. Except snake, which was apparently called a slang in Dutch and was pronounced way too close to schlong for me to be happy about my three-year-old daughter repeating it on a loop, which she did—and with enthusiasm.

When we reached the grizzly bear, both kids shot up to the rail, watching the beast lumber around his habitat, batting at a large red ball.

I hung back, eyes on the kids, my heart soft and quiet and full. So much of this I’d missed, so many afternoons at the park and making pasta necklaces and finger painting. As much as I’d been trying to make it up to them, it didn’t feel like enough.

They were growing up, and I had been missing everything. It seemed like only a moment ago that I had rocked Maven with a bottle in her mouth, her little fingers gripping one of mine as her big, dark eyes watched me, while I listened to the soft suckling noises, the rhythm broken only by her sighing breath. A deep longing spread through my chest, its roots twisting around my stomach.

“I’m a terrible father,” I said quietly, wishing for forgiveness with the confession, though I knew there would be none.

Hannah turned her face to mine but said nothing.

I kept my eyes on the kids, not wanting to admit it aloud but compelled to all the same. “It took my wife leaving for me to realize that I wanted to be more present in their lives. Five years of neglect, five years of stumbling through fatherhood and hiding behind work. How horrible is that?”

She only watched me. I could see her eyes out of the corner of mine, and they were sad.

“I was always too busy. It was always later. Tomorrow. Next weekend. Never now. Never yes. Only no.” I took a breath and let it out. “The problem is, I can’t have what I want. Even considering it now seems silly, like a daydream. I can’t be there, not like I want to be. I shouldn’t have even come today.” I sounded pitiful and wretched, which was exactly how I felt. “They deserve more.”

She reached for my forearm and clasped it, an act not intended to be anything but comforting, though I found myself wishing she’d slide her fingers into mine, wondering if it would ease my mind and heart.

“You’re doing the best you can.”

I shook my head. “That’s just an excuse, Hannah. I’ve been using that line for years.”

“What I mean is, you are enough,” she said without doubt.

I chanced a look at her, and her eyes held me still.

“For more than a month now, I’ve watched you with your children. I’ve watched you play with them and listen to them and hold them and take care of them. I’ve seen you in the moments you don’t think anyone’s watching, the moments when you’re happy and sad all at once, the moments when it’s clear just how much you love them. Anyone who saw you with them would agree that they are the most important part of your life. And a terrible father wouldn’t worry if he was a terrible father.”

“But it’s never enough. I’ve changed. I want more. They need more. And I can’t truly give it to them.”

“Charlie, this is your lot, and you’re surviving it as best you can.”

It was the truth and it wasn’t. I should have made more time and long before now. I should have. But I hadn’t.

I swallowed hard, but the lump lodged itself back in my throat.

“I wish that were true. I wish there were a way to … to …” I shook my head. “It’s stupid. I’m not one to wish for things I can’t have.”

She nodded, her eyes sad, full of acceptance and recognition. “I understand how you feel. And I’m sorry.”

It was so quiet, so simple, two little words that said a dozen different things but solved nothing other than a brief moment of companionship, the feeling of being heard and understood. And that would have to be enough.

I thanked her with a smile, resisting the urge to hug her, to pull her into me. Instead, I turned back to my children and scooped them up, one on each hip and the promise of cotton candy on my lips, and Hannah followed us with the empty stroller, smiling again.

Always smiling.