I'll Be You(13)

I quickly released his hand and stepped backward, hitting the wall with my sneaker. There was no escape.

“Caleb!” he went on, triumphantly. His eyes searched mine behind his glasses, looking for something that he clearly didn’t find, because his expression of excitement began to fade. “Oh shit, you don’t remember me, do you?”

I paused. “Should I?”

“Caleb Stowe. We were in class together, back in grammar school.” I stared at him, looking for something that I might remember, but could dredge up nothing. Or wait, there was a whisper: a heavyset kid with coke-bottle glasses and lashes so long that they pressed against the lenses. Was that him? “Now that I think of it, there’s no reason you’d remember me. I mean, I remember you because you got famous and that really ingrained you in my memories, obviously. But why would you remember me?” His face was turning pink, and I could tell that he wanted to quit talking but couldn’t quite stop himself. “You kicked me in the shin on the school playground once. Said I was a bully because I wouldn’t give up the swing to your sister after she’d been waiting for her turn. And you were right, you know? I was being a selfish dick. I always remembered that later, when I saw you on TV. Anyway, I’m sorry to babble on like this. I’m not a freak or a stalker, I promise. I just wanted to say hi.”

“Hi,” I said. The moment grew awkward, and I could tell that he was looking for an escape. I took pity on him. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you, but you know. I did a lot of drugs. Which probably doesn’t come as a surprise because I’m here.”

He laughed at this and nodded, running a hand through his hair; and then he got a funny expression on his face as he felt something there he didn’t expect. “Oh God, and I look like a crazy person today, too. I let my daughter give me a haircut, and I haven’t had a chance to go to the barber to get it evened up yet.”

“Oh yeah?” I felt myself perking up. “How old is your daughter?”

“Seven.”

“You let a seven-year-old give you a haircut? Are they even allowed to hold scissors at that age?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes you do things that seem crazy just to give your kid a yes instead of a no. I figured no matter how bad it was going to look, it was still something that I’d be able to fix. And she really wanted to do it.”

Suddenly I liked this guy, Caleb, with his wonky haircut and his tendency to overshare and his willingness to do stupid things to make his kid happy. “You know a lot about kids, huh?”

“I know a lot about one kid, but sure. If that counts?” He smiled nervously at me. “Why, you have a kid of your own?”

“No,” I said. “But I’m borrowing one for the time being and could probably use some childcare advice.”

He put his hands on his hips and thrust his chest forward a bit, an exaggerated swagger of confidence that I suspected was intended to redeem himself from his earlier fumbling. “Well, I’m your guy,” he said. “Just let me know how I can help.”





7




A TERRIBLE SOUND SPLIT my sleep apart, shattering the pleasant void into a thousand nerve-jangling pieces. I lay in the dark, disoriented, as it came again: a wail of utter despair. Was it a dying junkie, a betrayed girlfriend, the victim of a car accident down on Hollywood Boulevard?

My nose registered the soft must of an unfamiliar comforter, and everything suddenly came back to me: I was at my parents’ house. Charlotte was asleep on the other side of the wall. Or, rather, she wasn’t asleep anymore. Either something horrific had just happened to her or I was hearing the primal howl of a little girl who no longer wanted to be in bed.

I waited for the sound of footsteps in the hall, someone coming to quiet her, until I remembered that I was supposed to be the footsteps. I stumbled into Charlotte’s room and plucked her from the portable crib where she lay, sweaty in her footie pajamas. The blankets were tangled around her feet and her Pull-Up was sodden, so heavy that it sagged when I picked her up. She clung to me, tearful and dream-tossed.

I changed her Pull-Up and brought her into bed with me. I had visions of us snuggling up together spoon-style, her warm baby skin pressed against mine as we drifted gently back to sleep. Apparently she did not share this vision. She was awake and required entertainment. We lay there in the dark, Charlotte squirming against me, fighting me as if I were her jailer.

She sat up and tugged at my hair, clenched her fists, and yanked until my eyes watered. “Wan’ puffs,” she said insistently.

“Puffs?” Was this some sort of breakfast cereal I’d never heard of?

“Hungwy,” she said, her voice serious.

I puzzled through this for a moment. “Good idea, let’s go out for breakfast,” I said. “No way am I drinking your grandma’s coffee.”



* * *



—

There was a café not far from my parents’ house that served a decent pour-over and fresh croissants. We were the first in line when they opened the door at seven a.m., Charlotte wedged on my hip, greedily studying the pastry case. I bought a chocolate croissant for her and a coffee for me and we sat at an empty table, eyeing each other blearily, near-strangers.

What did one do all day with a two-year-old? My first instinct was to watch cartoons, but I’d already been warned off this path. “Elli doesn’t allow her to look at screens,” my mother had informed me the previous evening. I’d seen something in her eyes, a glint of sadistic delight. “Bad for brain development.”