Only Son (14 page)

Before she got another word out, Carl leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. He felt nothing. Even the old, familiar, bittersweet scent of her perfume didn't move him. Carl hurried out of the deli, never looking back.

 

“Well, we've been married—what, honey, about five years, right?” She glanced over at Paul, who sat beside her in the other tan sofa seat.

Staring down at the carpet, he nodded.

“Um, Paul's a sales rep for Hallmark, and I work in Housewares for Frederick and Nelson at the Lloyd Center. I got the job a month ago. Before that, I worked at a Safeway.” Amy twisted her wedding ring around her finger. “Paul and I met in college. We got married my senior year. I never finished school, but Paul did. He's a couple of years older than me. He's twenty-eight and I'm twenty-six. This October, we'll be married five years.”

“You already told her that,” Paul mumbled. He propped a foot on his knee and began to wiggle it.

At fifty bucks an hour, she could hardly afford to repeat herself. Amy smiled at the tan, starved-thin, middle-aged woman. Her shiny black hair was pulled back in a bun, and she wore gobs of Mexican jewelry around her neck and wrists. From her chair on the other side of Paul, Dr. Amberg coolly smiled back and nodded for Amy to continue.

“We had—one child,” Amy said. “A little boy, Edward. But he was abducted when he was five months old. It happened a year and a half ago. I wanted to have another child right away, but…” She shrugged and glanced at Paul.

He wouldn't look at her. He glanced around the office, frowning a little at the Navaho artwork and contemporary furnishings. He'd been dead set against this whole thing: “
I don't have any problems. If you want to go see this lady shrink, go by yourself
.” It had taken Amy three weeks of pleading and browbeating for him to consent to one trial visit.

“Have you consulted a therapist before?” Dr. Amberg asked. Her voice was soft and so passive that she sounded like she was on librium.

“No,” Amy answered. “I wanted us to see a counselor after we lost Eddie, but Paul said—well, we both agreed that we couldn't afford it. Anyway, we're a bit better off now, money-wise that is. Right, honey?” Amy reached over and took hold of his hand.

He nodded and threw the doctor a strained smile.

“You look a little pale,” Amy told him. “Are you okay, honey? Did you take your pill today?”

He sighed. “Don't worry. I took it. I'm fine.”

She turned to the doctor. “Paul's an epileptic, but you'd never guess it—thanks to this medication he's on. He's got—”

“She doesn't have to hear my medical history,” he cut in.

Amy tried to smile. “Of course not.”

“Why do you feel you need counseling?” the doctor asked.

Amy looked at Paul. He offered nothing. Amy shrugged. “Well, I'd like things to be better between us.”

“Better in what way?”

“Well, we don't talk much anymore.” She realized how lame that sounded and rolled her eyes. She glanced at Paul again; no help. “The truth is, Dr. Amberg, Paul and I haven't made love in over a year. I mean, I'm not saying it's entirely his fault. But whenever I try to talk about it, we end up fighting. That's one reason I thought—we thought we should come see you.”

Paul coughed and pulled his hand away from hers to cover his mouth. He tugged at the knot of his necktie as if it were pinching him.

“Paul, we haven't heard from you,” Dr. Amberg said in her dreary voice. “Does talking about this make you uncomfortable?”

“Hell, yes, I'm uncomfortable,” he said, laughing curtly. “I just met you ten minutes ago, Doctor, and I'm supposed to spill my guts about our sex life? I'm sorry. I feel like I'm on trial here, sitting between the two of you. We haven't made love in over a year, so something's wrong with
me
, right?”

“Honey, I said it wasn't your fault entirely,” Amy interjected. “I'm to blame, too.”

“In what way are you to blame, Amy?” the doctor asked.

She drew a blank for a moment. “I don't know,” she said, fidgeting with her wedding band again. “For a while there, after the baby was stolen from us, I—I wasn't ready to go back to what you might call a ‘normal married life.' And, naturally, Paul was pulling away, too.”

“What do you mean, ‘
naturally
' he was pulling away?”

“It was my fault we lost Eddie,” she said. Amy had rehearsed this speech many times, and had it whittled down to the emotionless facts. “See, I had him in the car, and I left him there alone for a minute. When I got back, he was gone. I'm to blame for the whole thing.”

“Do you blame Amy for what happened, Paul?”

He glanced at Amy. “Have I ever said I blamed you for it?”

“Not in so many words. But you've just about proved it to me, honey. I know what you're thinking….”

“How? You just said we don't talk anymore. So how can you know what I'm thinking? Are you a mind reader? ‘
We don't talk anymore
.' Where do you get that anyway? We talk all the time.”

“
You
talk,” Amy snapped. “You bend my ear about work, and then when I try to tell you about my day—” She turned to the doctor. “Last week, after listening to him go on and on about his boss, I start to tell him something that happened in the store, and he reaches over and turns on the TV.”

“You know what she was telling me?” Paul said. “She's telling me about this little boy she saw in the store, and how much he looks like Ed. After a rotten day at work, I'm supposed to come home and subject myself to that? I didn't want to hear about it. I'm sorry.”

“Why, Paul?” Dr. Amberg asked. “Was it painful for you?”

He rubbed his forehead. “Well, it didn't exactly lift my spirits, Doc.”

“Would you object if Amy told us about it now?”

He shrugged and looked up at the ceiling.

“Amy?” the doctor said.

“It was nothing unusual,” Amy muttered. “There's always a steady stream of mothers with babies coming through the store. But I've never really gotten used to it—since Ed's been gone. I compare every baby to Ed. Sometimes, I'll see a child with his mother, and I'll wonder if he's Eddie's age, or if he's actually Eddie himself. I know it sounds crazy…”

“Go on,” Dr. Amberg said.

“My girlfriends at work—I've made a lot of good friends through work, except for my boss, who's awful. Anyway, none of them know about Ed. I'll listen to stories about their kids, and they'll usually finish by saying something like, ‘You'll know what it's like when you have one of your own.'”

“Why haven't you told your friends at work about your son?”

“I don't know. I'm ashamed, I guess.” Amy took a deep breath. “Anyway, the baby I saw that day seemed only a couple of months older than Eddie was when we lost him.” A dreamy, tearful smile came to Amy's face. “His mother was wheeling him around in his stroller. He had the same kind of hair as Eddie—light brown and curly. Even wore a little pair of Adidas, just like Eddie's. I remember he looked at me and smiled….”

Paul slumped lower in the chair and tugged at his suit jacket. Amy glanced at him. “That's about as far as I got in telling Paul. That's when he turned on the TV.”

“What more did you want to tell him?” the doctor asked.

“I was going to tell him how much seeing that baby made me want another child,” Amy said. Then she shook her head as if she were wishing in vain. Ed's room was just the same as it had been before that Halloween almost two years ago, as if they were awaiting his return—or for a second child that would never come. The nursery was like a shrine—a grave she frequently visited. Sometimes, she'd see Paul go in there, too, late at night, when he didn't think she'd notice.

“I can't let go,” Amy said shakily. “Every baby, every little boy I see reminds me of him. At work, I'll hear a song on the Muzak system and remember how I used to sing it to Ed. God, I can't go to the market and pass a box of Pampers on the shelf without practically falling apart.” She wiped a tear from her eye and tried to laugh. “I told myself before coming here that I wasn't going to cry. I purposely didn't bring any Kleenex.”

Silent, Paul handed her a handkerchief.

“Thanks, honey.” She blew her nose and sighed. “I don't know. It's like neither one of us will let ourselves be happy.”

“Do you think that's true, Paul?”

He frowned at Dr. Amberg. “I think she doesn't want us to be happy.” He glanced toward Amy. “A day doesn't go by without you bringing him up. And it hurts. You won't let me forget.”

“That's because I know Eddie's still out there somewhere,” she replied, squeezing the handkerchief in her fist. “And I'm not giving up on him. I don't care how long I have to wait or how much it hurts. I'm not giving up on my baby.”

A half hour later, they walked to the car in silence. Paul slid behind the wheel, and Amy climbed into the passenger side. He sat there, his head turned away from her as he gazed out the window. Amy rubbed her forehead. “Thanks for going through with this for me, Paul,” she murmured. “I know you hated every minute. I know you hated
her
, too.”

He was silent.

“Paul, I have to ask you something,” Amy said. She stared at the dashboard. “You never really answered her when she asked if you blamed me for what happened to Ed. Do you blame me, Paul?”

More silence.

“Paul?”

“I'm sorry,” she heard him whisper.

“You still haven't forgiven me, have you?” Her eyes filled with tears.

Paul turned the key in the ignition, then pulled onto the street. “Forgive and forget,” he said. “They go together, Amy. Maybe if you let me forget, I'd forgive you for losing him. It's been eighteen months. I'd like to put it all behind us. Why can't you do that, too?”

Because he's the only thing keeping us together
, she wanted to say. Didn't he know that? She'd been on the verge of leaving Paul when she'd gotten pregnant. Eddie had saved their marriage—or at least the baby had given her a reason to stay on with Paul. Even with him gone, she still clung to his memory—his possible return. Now Paul was asking her to give up on Eddie. He might as well have asked for a divorce. Her love for their absent child was all she had left of their lives together.

 

Carl set Sam's blanky on the grass. It was a warm Saturday morning at Volunteer Park—just six blocks from their apartment. On his more masochistic days, Carl would try to force a little culture on Sam and push him in his stroller through the park's art museum or the conservatory; but Sam favored the diversions offered outside: the playground, amateur ball games, people throwing Frisbees, joggers doing laps around the large reservoir, and all the other toddlers and their parents. Most of the children around Sam's age were walking—even running—already.

Two years old, and Sam was still moving around on all fours. Carl imagined him a couple of years down the line, crawling to kindergarten, dragging his lunch box the whole way.

This was for his own good.

Sam cried and pointed to his cherished blanky, discarded on the grass. Carl lifted him out of the stroller. “Try walking to it, Sammy,” he said, careful not to sound overly demanding. “I know you can do it.” He lowered Sam to the grass.

“No!” Sam kicked as if he were afraid the ground might swallow up his feet. He clung on to Carl's hands. He looked like an angry cherub, his hair shimmering in the sunlight, the wet lower lip in an outraged pout.

Once Sam's little Adidas hit the ground, Carl announced: “Okay, I'm letting go now. Walk to the blanky. Here goes…”

He pulled back. Sam squatted down and softly fell on his diapered butt, then he started to crawl toward the blanket.

Carl scooped Sam up and set him on his feet again before he reached the bait. Sam shrieked in protest. He had a way of hitting those high notes that drove Carl crazy. “Oh, now, don't be a pill,” Carl hissed. “Give it a try at least…”

Sam was shirtless, and he wore a pair of pale blue overall shorts. His chubby arms were slick with sweat, and the way he wiggled and screamed, it was difficult to hold him. As Carl set him on his feet again, he saw a thin, young woman in a peasant dress, staring narrowly at him from behind a pair of granny glasses. She stood several feet away. Carl may as well have been a child molester the way she scowled.

“Walk for Daddy,” he said gently, not happy they had an audience. He forced himself to laugh as Sam sank to his butt again and crawled to the blanket. “Okay, partner, we'll try again some other time,” he said loudly—for the girl to hear. He kissed Sam on the forehead and put him in the stroller. The prized blanky in his grasp, Sam finally stopped screaming.

The nosy girl kept staring at him, her lip curled slightly. Carl turned his back to her and pushed Sam in his stroller. Was he really being too rough with Sam? Was it cruel to deprive him of his blanky? Was that girl just a nosy twerp?
Yes!
How dare she look at him as if he were mistreating his child. What the hell did she know about raising kids? He was a good father—and resented the snoopy girl for making him question that.

He knew real child abuse. In a way, it made fatherhood even tougher. How could he measure discipline against what he'd experienced growing up? So many times, saying “that's a no-no” or giving Sam a light slap on the hand didn't seem to work. For a kid who could only crawl, he sure got into a hell of a lot. He was going through the terrible twos. There were times when Carl thought he might lose it and smack him. But he never got angry enough at Sam to go past that line. Hell, he could hardly even bring himself to spank Sammy—even when the boy
needed
it. Even if the youngster wound up a little spoiled, so be it. His son would never have to suffer the wrath of an angry, frustrated old man.