The Other Side(24)
Mrs. Bennett turns her head toward Chantal’s voice and I see the vacant look in her eyes and know recollection isn’t likely, reminders or not. “Who?” She’s studying me, but it’s the assessing of a stranger.
I nod toward the door, subtly giving Chantal the permission I know she feels like she needs to leave. “She’ll be fine,” I whisper as I watch Mrs. Bennett’s gaze snap back to the TV.
She always feels guilty leaving them both. Guilt is a burden we both carry, though she allows it to fuel her these days and I’ve always let it destroy me, but it’s harder on the days that her grandmother’s Alzheimer’s is in control of Mrs. Bennett, instead of the other way around. “I know,” she whispers before she slips out the door.
Walking to Joey on the floor, who’s holding a brightly colored plastic block, I sit down beside him on the blanket and set my backpack and sketchpad on the floor out of the way. I’ll do my homework after Joey goes to bed in two hours.
“That taste good?” I ask as he gnaws on the corner of the red block.
His hands and the block are covered in slobber. He stops momentarily and grins at me and the sound of my voice. He’s never done this for me. Chantal can prompt smiles from him all the time because he’s a momma’s boy. But this is new and it makes me feel not quite so invisible. Picking him up and sitting him on my lap, a sudden swell of emotion creeps into my throat and before I know it tears are blotting my eyes. I’m glad I have my back to Mrs. Bennett, because even in her current state of bewilderment, I don’t want her to see me like this. This is similar to the common surge of emotion that comes on several times every day, but especially at night. It’s the overwhelming rush of disappointment in me, my actions, and my life. It’s the constant reminder that I’m an asshole who deserves nothing and no one. It’s the message that runs on a loop through my brain, reminding me that I’m hopeless and everyone would be better off if I wasn’t around. Looking at this little boy, it’s also the unjustness that someone so pure and sweet wasn’t fathered by someone who should be the mentor and role model he’ll need down the road.
I let the paralyzing helplessness flow until the taps are dry, while Joey chews on his fist and his tiny fingers on the other hand fiddle with the drawstring on my sweatshirt. When the tears stop and I feel like I can breathe without hiccupping in air, I run the sleeve of my sweatshirt across my eyes and cheeks to clear away the evidence of my failure. I stand holding Joey and walk to Mrs. Bennett. She’s resting back against the couch cushions, settled in to watch the rest of a Three’s Company rerun that’s playing.
“Are you finished with your dinner?” I ask her.
There are a few bites of mashed potatoes and meatloaf left on the plate.
When she looks up at me and asks, “Where’s Irvin? Is he still at work?” I know I’m not going to get an answer out of her and that I should clear the dishes.
Irvin was her husband. He died in World War II, over forty-four years ago. When all else escapes her, the memory of Irvin always seems to swoop in. I like to think it’s merciful comfort on her mind’s part to reunite them.
“Yeah, he’ll be home late.”
Chantal says when this happens, I should remind her that Irvin’s been gone for years to try to bring her back to the present, but I can’t do it. So, I lie because it brings her fleeting happiness. It won’t last; she may as well enjoy it while she can.
I cover Mrs. Bennett’s leftovers in foil and put them in the refrigerator so she can eat them tomorrow and then I return to the living room. Figuring Joey will be ready to return to his blocks on the floor, I try to lay him down, but he clings to me and starts to whimper, the precursor to actual tears. Changing my mind, I sit on the other end of the couch and ask Mrs. Bennett if she needs anything.
She responds with, “No, thank you, Toby.” Mrs. Bennett is back. “I’m tired, I’ll probably turn in when this program is over.”
“Okay,” I respond as Joey snuggles into my chest, rests his head on my shoulder, and drools all over it while he tries to gum his fist off.
The room is quiet except for the TV for the next ten minutes. When the final scene plays and a commercial appears telling us how much Mikey likes Life cereal, Mrs. Bennett announces she’s heading to bed.
It’s only six thirty, but who am I to begrudge anyone getting some extra sleep if they can? I’d probably go to bed early every night if monsters didn’t keep me awake.
She’s standing in front of us, staring at us. She does this a lot, stares. It makes me unbelievably uncomfortable, but if I don’t meet her deep brown eyes and engage her, it’s easier.
“When you hold him it always reminds me of my husband holding Chantal’s mom when she was that age. There is not much in this world that makes my heart sing like watching a child transform a man into a father. Good night, Toby. Good night, Joey.”
That was a compliment. That I haven’t earned. “Night, Mrs. Bennett.”
She smiles sweetly, pats Joey’s back gently, and disappears behind her closed bedroom door. Since the baby is content, I grab the paperback I’m reading for an English assignment from my backpack and lie on the couch with Joey stretched out on my belly, his head resting on my chest. And I read “Moby Dick” aloud to him for thirty minutes. My sweatshirt is soaked with drool by the time my voice grows hoarse from use, and I can tell Joey is fighting sleep when he starts rubbing his eyes.