Chapter 2

2: 2

2.

A plane ticket home was eighteen hundred. A rented place, two thousand.

All I needed was to land the plainest, most ordinary job in the world.

And I could be free of this life for good.

I took the bus home.

On the way, I started reworking my old resume, a little at a time.

I got so absorbed I missed my stop.

Right after, Joyce's call came through.

"Peter, where are you? Why aren't you home yet?"

Aunt Beulah Lambert, my neighbor, stepped in awkwardly to explain.

"Joyce, don't be so harsh. The child's been sick for days now. It hasn't been easy on Peter either."

A while back the baby ran a fever, and I'd stayed up with him for days and nights without closing my eyes.

Aunt Beulah worried I'd wear myself out.

She offered to watch him for half a day so I could get some rest.

Half a day. That was all the rest I got.

In Joyce's eyes, that made me the one falling short.

I wanted to explain.

But listening to the baby's frantic crying, I could only grit my teeth and grab a cab home.

The moment I walked in, Joyce shoved the baby and his bottle into my arms.

"I have a meeting soon."

"Keep him quiet. Don't mess up my work!"

The study door slammed shut.

That thin door was all that separated me from the cool air inside.

From the other side, I could hear Duane's easy laughter.

And something in my chest stung like a needle going in.

The baby cried all the way into the night.

His body was burning up, back to 102.

I hurried to get Joyce.

What met me was a pair of impatient eyes.

"Didn't I tell you to take the kid out of here?"

"I'm swamped with work. Can you not bother me while I'm working?"

I was so panicked my voice shook.

"He's got a fever again. This afternoon, did you give him that leftover milk that had been sitting out for hours?"

Joyce's expression froze.

She didn't answer, but her eyes told me the answer.

I was choking on my anger, but there was no time to argue over it.

I stuffed a few baby things into the bag, any which way.

"Drive us to the hospital. He's burning up too badly. I can't manage him alone."

Joyce looked put out.

She'd just picked up the car keys when her phone rang.

I don't know what the person on the other end said, but her face went tight with worry.

"Duane's caught a cold. He's home alone and feeling awful."

"I'm going to go check on him."

I lifted my head, unable to believe it.

"Your son is at a hundred and two right now!"

"A fever won't kill him."

She frowned and yanked her coat off the hook.

"Aren't you his father? Just take him to the hospital yourself."

"Duane doesn't have any family here. It's pitiful, being sick all alone. Can't you have a little empathy?"

The door slammed shut in my face.

The baby jerked in fright, his little mouth open, crying harder, like his heart was breaking.

There was no time to think.

One arm holding the baby, the other pushing the stroller, I rushed for the hospital.

The foot I'd sprained that afternoon had swollen up.

Every step was a stabbing pain.

The elevator wouldn't come, and then the baby suddenly threw up.

Sour, curdled milk ran down my shoulder and into my collar.

I had no free hand to wipe it, so all I could do was kiss his forehead, over and over.

"Don't be scared, baby. Daddy's taking you to the hospital."

"Daddy's here..."

Sweat soaked through my shirt.

But his little face only got redder, and his crying slowly faded.

My hands shook with fear.

The nurse couldn't help frowning.

"Where's the mother? This little one's fever is serious. You can't handle him on your own."

My throat was dry.

"She's busy."

She was always busy.

Beside us a child was crying, with a mother to hold and soothe him and a father taking the forms off to pay.

When my child cried, all I could do was hold him with one arm and tear the medicine packet open with my teeth.

After they got the IV into him, my arm had gone numb and aching, but I didn't dare switch hands.

The doctor said he needed to be watched overnight.

Carrying the sleeping baby, I went upstairs to pick up the medicine.

Passing the VIP ward, I heard Duane's laugh drift through a half-open door.

"Joyce, it's just a cold. Why did you go to all this trouble?"

My steps halted. I turned to look.

The spacious room was full of flowers and candles.

Duane lounged against the bed, color back in his cheeks, the designer watch Joyce had given him on his wrist.

Joyce sat across from him, pushing a plate of cut steak toward him.

"You're here all by yourself. I couldn't stop worrying."

The candlelight flickered.

And the space between them kept closing.

Duane was just reaching to top off her red wine when I pushed the door open.

Joyce shot to her feet.

Our eyes met.

There was no guilt in hers, only the anger of being caught.

"Peter, what are you doing here? Didn't I tell you to stay home with the kid?"

I lowered my head and gave a small laugh, and said it one word at a time.

"Joyce, let's get a divorce."