All We Ever Wanted(12)

   Even worse, she started to hide things from me. Not big things, just random shady shit with her phone and laptop. But it was enough to make me stop trusting her, then begin to dislike her. I still loved her, though, because she was Beatriz, and also the mother of our child.

Then, one summer night, just after we’d moved into our Craftsman bungalow on Avondale Drive (where Lyla and I still live), everything exploded. Our argument started that morning when I suggested we do something as a family, just the three of us. Maybe go to the zoo or have a picnic in Cumberland Park or visit my mother (whom Beatriz still couldn’t stand but had learned to tolerate because of free childcare).

I was trying hard to salvage things between us, but Beatriz quickly shot me down, saying she’d already committed to a cookout with friends. Which friends, I asked. She told me. I said I didn’t like those people—or the person she became around them. She more or less fired back, tough shit, she was going, and she would be taking Lyla with her.

   “Am I even invited?” I asked, which, crazily enough, didn’t seem to be a given.

She shrugged, then said sure, I could come if I wanted, but she understood if I didn’t. I took it as my cue to head to the workshop, where increasingly I’d been finding peace. But later that afternoon, as I put my tools away, I got a funny feeling in my gut that something was wrong. So I tracked down her friends’ Inglewood address and drove over to the party.

The second I pulled up, I could see Beatriz on the front porch, dancing with some loser I recognized from her MySpace page. Both of his hands were on her ass, and it didn’t look like it was the first time they’d been there. Lyla was nowhere to be seen. Enraged, I jumped out of my car and walked over to the house, climbing the porch steps. “Where’s Lyla?” I said, doing my best not to knock the guy out. He dropped his hands right away, looking guilty as hell. I waited for the same expression to cross my wife’s face, but she was shameless and glazed, clearly drunk or high, probably both.

“Where’s Lyla?” I shouted this time.

Everyone got quiet, staring at me, except for Beatriz, who said, “God, Thomas. Chill out. She was right here. Just a few seconds ago.”

I looked at her, and it suddenly hit me that she was wearing a bikini under her tank top—and her hair was wrapped into a wet bun. So she’d been swimming. Which meant that these fucking idiots had a swimming pool. I panicked, pushing past everyone, tearing through the house, then onto the back porch. It was one of those elevated decks with a long flight of stairs down to the lawn. I did a quick scan of the yard and, sure enough, there was the pool. Beyond a group of older kids playing Marco Polo was Lyla, all alone, perched on the edge of it. A black 3 FEET was painted on the side—shallow but still way too deep for a four-year-old who had only taken a couple of swim lessons in her life.

   I sprinted down the stairs and over to her, calling her name. Logically I could see that she was safe, but I had the irrational feeling that something bad might still happen while I watched. My voice scared her—probably because she thought she was in trouble—and she tipped forward, nearly falling into the water. I scooped her up and covered her face with kisses. I knew I was traumatizing her, but I couldn’t stop. I held her in my arms and ran back to my car, this time going the long way around the house. I didn’t know if Beatriz was still on the porch, or whether she saw us, but if she did, she didn’t follow me. I strapped Lyla into her car seat, drove her home, gave her a bath and a snack, reliving the fear over and over. I finally put her in bed with me, both of us falling asleep. Beatriz never called to check in.

I don’t know what time it was when she finally stumbled home, only that it felt like the middle of the night. “Get out,” I told her. “You’re not sleeping here.”

“This is my bed, too.”

“Not tonight it’s not.”

“Where do you want me to sleep?” she said.

“I don’t care. Sleep on the couch. Anywhere but here.”

We began to fight. There were no apologies, only accusations and sorry-ass excuses. I’d embarrassed her. I’d overreacted. I was a paranoid, jealous dick. She’d left Lyla alone for only a few minutes.

“It takes three minutes to drown!” I shouted back at her. “One hundred and eighty seconds to lose her. Forever.”

We went round in circles, making the same points again and again. At some point, I called her a drunk. She asked me what had I expected? I’d fallen in love with a girl at a bar. Like it was something to be proud of.

   “Yeah. Well, you’re a fucking mother now,” I shouted.

“It doesn’t change who I am,” she said, raising her chin defiantly.

“And who are you?” I asked. “Other than a party girl who fucks on the first night?”

She couldn’t have looked more stunned if I had slapped her across the face. “Is that how you really feel about me?” she asked, her accent thick, the way I once adored and now couldn’t stand.

I said yes, wanting to punish her for the image I couldn’t shake of Lyla sitting on the edge of the pool. I told her I had no respect for her, that she was a terrible mother, and that Lyla would be better off without her. That it was better to have no mother than to have a mother like her. I braced myself for more fighting, but she only bit her lip and said, “Well. I’m glad I finally know what you really think of me. Tom.”