I said we were here for immunizations.
"She's been here before?"
Yes, she had been coming to the doctor since she was born.
"Are you related?"
Yes, I was the father.
Eventually we were ushered in. The doctor shook hands with me, was very friendly, never asked why I was there instead of my wife or the housekeeper. He gave two injections. Amanda howled. I bounced her on my shoulder, comforted her.
"She may have a little swelling, a little local redness. Call me if it's not gone in forty-eight hours." Then I was back in the waiting room, trying to get out my credit card to pay the bill while the baby cried. And that was when Julia called.
"Hi. What're you doing?" She must have heard the baby screaming.
"Paying the pediatrician."
"Bad time?"
"Kind of ..."
"Okay, listen, I just wanted to say I have an early night-finally!-so I'll be home for dinner. What do you say I pick up on my way home?"
"That'd be great," I said.
Eric's soccer practice ran late. It was getting dark on the field. The coach always ran practice late. I paced the sidelines, trying to decide whether to complain. It was so hard to know when you were coddling your kid, and when you were legitimately protecting them. Nicole called on her cell to say that her play rehearsal was over, and why hadn't I picked her up? Where was I? I said I was still with Eric and asked if she could catch a ride with anybody.
"Dad ..." she said, exasperated. You'd think I had asked her to crawl home.
"Hey, I'm stuck."
Very sarcastic: "Whatever."
"Watch that tone, young lady."
But a few minutes later, soccer was abruptly canceled. A big green maintenance truck pulled onto the field, and two men came out wearing masks and big rubber gloves, with spray cans on their backs. They were going to spray weed killer or something, and everybody had to stay off the field overnight.
I called Nicole back and said we would pick her up.
"When?"
"We're on our way now."
"From the little creep's practice?"
"Come on, Nic."
"Why does he always come first?"
"He doesn't always come first."
"Yes he does. He's a little creep."
"Nicole ..."
"Sor-ry."
"See you in a few minutes." I clicked off. Kids are more advanced these days. The teenage years now start at eleven.
By five-thirty the kids were home, raiding the fridge. Nicole was eating a big chunk of string cheese. I told her to stop; it would ruin her dinner. Then I went back to setting the table. "When is dinner?"
"Soon. Mom's bringing it home."
"Uh-huh." She disappeared for a few minutes, and then she came back. "She says she's sorry she didn't call, but she's going to be late."
"What?" I was pouring water into the glasses on the table.
"She's sorry she didn't call but she's going to be late. I just talked to her."
"Jesus." It was irritating. I tried never to show my irritation around the kids, but sometimes it slipped out. I sighed. "Okay."
"I'm really hungry now, Dad."
"Get your brother and get into the car," I said. "We're going to the drive-in." Later that night, as I was carrying the baby to bed, my elbow brushed against a photograph on the living-room bookshelf. It clattered to the floor; I stooped to pick it up. It was a picture of Julia and Eric in Sun Valley when he was four. They were both in snowsuits; Julia was helping him learn to ski, and smiling radiantly. Next to it was a photo of Julia and me on our eleventh wedding anniversary in Kona; I was in a loud Hawaiian shirt and she had colorful leis around her neck, and we were kissing at sunset. That was a great trip; in fact, we were pretty sure Amanda was conceived there. I remember Julia came home from work one day and said, "Honey, remember how you said mai-tais were dangerous?" I said, "Yes ..." And she said, "Well, let me put it this way. It's a girl," and I was so startled the soda I was drinking went up my nose, and we both started to laugh.
Then a picture of Julia making cupcakes with Nicole, who was so young she sat on the kitchen counter and her legs didn't reach the edge. She couldn't have been more than a year and a half old. Nicole was frowning with concentration as she wielded a huge spoon of dough, making a fine mess while Julia tried not to laugh.
And a photo of us hiking in Colorado, Julia holding the hand of six-year-old Nicole while I carried Eric on my shoulders, my shirt collar dark with sweat-or worse, if I remembered that day right. Eric must have been about two; he was still in diapers. I remember he thought it was fun to cover my eyes while I carried him on the trail.
The hiking photo had slipped inside its frame so it stood at an angle. I tapped the frame to try and straighten it, but it didn't move. I noticed that several of the other pictures were faded, or the emulsion was sticking to the glass. No one had bothered to take care of these pictures. The baby snuffled in my arms, rubbing her eyes with her fists. It was time for bed. I put the pictures back on the shelf. They were old images from another, happier time. From another life. They seemed to have nothing to do with me, anymore. Everything was different now. The world was different now.
I left the table set for dinner that night, a silent rebuke. Julia saw it when she got home around ten. "I'm sorry, hon."
"I know you were busy," I said.
"I was. Please forgive me?"
"I do," I said.
"You're the best." She blew me a kiss, from across the room. "I'm going to take a shower," she said. And she headed off down the hallway. I watched her go. On the way down the hall, she looked into the baby's room, and then darted in. A moment later, I heard her cooing and the baby gurgling. I got out of my chair, and walked down the hall after her.