Two Years Later

“We’re here to see Ms. Travers?” the woman said, her voice raising the tone at the end of the sentence so that it sounded like a question, not a statement. Her little boy shuffled in his winter boots restlessly, staring past my chair at the front desk into one of the classrooms where others were playing with their instruments.

“Art 101?” I asked, smiling at both the woman and her son. They seemed nervous. Maybe their first time at the Institute.

“That’s it,” she said. The woman reciprocated my smile with a slight twitch in her eye.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “Charlotte is an amazing teacher. She taught my daughter how to paint and look at her work now!”

I gestured to the landscape on the wall behind me, a huge watercolor of Beech Lake, full of moody green shades for the profusion of trees. They murmured appreciatively and then shuffled away down the hall to the class where I told them Charlotte would be starting things up in a few minutes.

I couldn’t believe this was my life.

So much I’d done had been incredible: start a band with my favorite people in the world, reach global acclaim of such a level that sold out massive stadium venues, had a daughter as wonderful as Ava.

And now there was this: the Sarah Sargent Institute, a non-profit organization dedicated to teaching affordable art and music classes for the Minneapolis area. It was exactly what Charlotte and I had needed, had longed for in our own personal lives, and it also happened to be precisely what I yearned to do in order to honor Sarah one last time.

To say it was a single last time might have been reductive; every time a new child came in the doors anxious and left with a smile on their face, new music clutched in hand or a smattering of paint stains on their skin, I felt renewed.

Every day was different, and every day was rewarding in a way I’d never thought possible.

If Charlotte hadn’t been in my life, I wouldn’t have risked it. Financially, I could have done anything I wanted. Charlotte had a good job waiting for her at the elementary school. But we both knew we had to try something else, had to give back to the community in a way that would keep us alive, energized, and happy.

I was beyond happy.

My life was the best version of what I had once thought would be endless misery and an early, alcohol-soaked grave.

I missed Sarah, of course. And Ava asked questions about her now and then, wanting to learn about her mother to replace the memories she couldn’t access. Charlotte was kind and respectful of our need to remember Sarah. Through her, we had a sense of comfort about our loss.

The most dramatic difference in my grief was that it became dormant, one of those ever-present sounds in the background of a life, rising up in certain moments but for the most part making up just one part of the harmony. Charlotte sounded out bright and clear in the foreground, bringing joy to all the things she touched.

And I knew she was much happier, too. Duncan came around again one time last year, yet again trying to scam his way into her feelings. The guy was a relentless narcissist. Luckily, we’d moved in together by that point so he was left stammering at the front door when I answered it.

Without him, she could heal. She could mourn the way she’d never be able to have biological children. And then she could move on, push past the pain and focus on the things that brought her joy, like seeing the light in a child’s eyes when they learned how to make a color wheel.

Those were the things that mattered in our lives.

Charlotte, Ava, and I were a family.

Like all families, we had our idiosyncrasies, but we liked them because they were ours. Together.

At the end of her lesson, Charlotte came by. There was something dancing on her face, a hidden emotion bubbling underneath the surface that gave a hint at her eyes.

“Did you post about the barbecue on Sunday?” she asked me as she looked over my shoulder to check on our social media accounts. We had a fundraiser event on Sunday, wherein I’d match every dollar raised with one of my own to help fund a mobile after-school art and music program in one of the poorest neighborhoods in Minneapolis.

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, rolling my eyes at her a little. The gentle teasing was part of our work dynamic, one where her responsible tendencies butted up against my rock star background now and then. The funny part was that I’d been the level-headed one in The Avowed half the time.

Times change, Jack.

“So listen,” said Charlotte, “How about we order some pizza tonight? I have something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Mysterious,” I said to her in a deep, sultry voice. “Something sexy?”

“That ‘you’ referred to you and Ava, Jack. It’s definitely not a sex thing.”

“Point taken. I retract my innuendo.”

In the moment where we both sat there, smiling, I revelled yet again in the wonder of finding this woman. She was so warm, she practically glowed. All the kids at the Institute loved her, probably some of the older ones nursing hopeless crushes on her. When she laughed, it felt like something plucked at my heartstrings.

And what’s even better, Ava felt the same way.

* * *

That night, Charlotte dug into a piece of pizza with gusto before she started to talk. Might have been buying herself time. Ava and I sat there waiting for her to finish chewing, eager but anxious. It was rare that Charlotte wanted take-out food; she’d been enthusiastic about cooking family meals most nights of the week since her New Year’s Resolution.

“Before I met you, Jack, you know that I was married to Duncan. Ava, Duncan was my ex-husband, in case you forgot.”

“Come on, I don’t forget things!” Ava said, indignant. She was Charlotte’s number one cheerleader. Facts that Charlotte told her about herself were immediately absorbed, categorized, and recited back to her at a moment’s notice.

“Well, a few months after Duncan left me I’d put in an application to an adoption agency. It was a long shot, seeing as I was a single, mentally unwell person, but the way we’d left things made me feel like I had to have some hope. Sending in that application was my way of saying I was looking into the future to find something I could hold onto.”

“Ok,” said Ava. She’d raised an eyebrow at Charlotte. Perhaps it was hard for her to picture Charlotte desperate, or sad.

“Anyway, they got back to me today.”

Something stirred in my stomach. Was it anxiety?

No, it was excitement.

“And?” I said, unable to restrain myself.

“There’s a little one year-old,” Charlotte said. Then she paused, choked on emotion and wiping at her eyes. “A one year-old boy, if we want him.”

I couldn’t breathe. I’d long since given up any plans to have more children, having thought that Sarah’s death was the end of my life. Charlotte’s infertility had also kept me from opening the box in my mind where I might have stored those thoughts.

Now, though, with the possibility staring me directly in the face, I was struck by it. Moved, deeply.

But I also knew it wasn’t just my decision. I glanced at Ava, trying to gauge her reaction.

She was chewing on her lip, her fingernails rapping on the table in a steady wave. “Why wouldn’t we?” she said.

“I just thought you might not want a brother, or Jack might not—,” Charlotte started to say, but before she could finish Ava had leapt from her chair and hugged Charlotte.

“I’m going to have a brother!” she said, throwing her head back and laughing while they embraced.

“You are,” I said, and I got out of my chair to join them. We hugged so hard that Ava yelped. All the while my eyes were stinging with tears and Charlotte was unabashedly crying, great big sobs that shook her shoulders beneath my grasp. I held Charlotte and Ava tightly in my arms, thinking about how my entire world was now within the span of my body.

For now.

Soon, there would be another person, a little boy with his own thoughts, and wants, and problems.

A son. Our son.

I couldn’t wait for the future now. It seemed to get better every goddamn day.