I spent way too long thinking about his request—write down your plan for the next twelve months—and the notebook page is riddled with scratched out lines of text before I used a red pen to make my list.
“In terms of my personal plans, I’m staying here with her. This baby was unplanned and unexpected, but it’s the best kind of surprise. I’m still fucking terrified I’ll be a bad father, but I’ve got six months to get it together, right? And now that I’ve seen Tamara, I’m not sure I can leave.”
“Why?”
Releasing a heavy sigh, I shrug. “There’s always going to be a part of me that loves her and I don’t know how to switch it off. But this baby is mine. She is a part of me too. Even if she never loves me again, we could make this work as friends. People do this coparenting shit all the time, right?”
Dominic smiles and nods. “They do. And it works. Proud of you, Pat.”
“Thanks.” I run my finger over the tiny heart I drew beside Tamara’s name, feeling like a lovesick teenager.
“Remember you two have to talk, all right? It’s obviously killing you not knowing what went wrong or how you can fix it, so have the conversation.”
I nod and clear my throat. “In terms of professional plans, well…I haven’t met the team yet. I had to push it, then they had something come up. So hopefully next week.”
“Are you still unclear or indifferent about this?”
“I was talking to Tamara about it the other day and I’m excited at the prospect of coaching. I don’t know what it’ll entail or how I’ll feel, but it could be fun.”
He smiles and I know it’s the mention of Tamara. That morning was good, it was normal and us. Then I ruined it by bringing up camp. At least now I know something happened then, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what.
“Nihal and I are looking at a few schools to partner with here. I’m setting up meetings with them next week so I can visit their campuses, meet with their administrators and see what we can do,” I tell him. “I think we’re still going to have a really hard time partnering with the government schools, though. I’m not sure how to get through to them.”
“They did prefer the money over resources, so maybe that’s something you can look into. Instead of building sporting areas, give them a chunk of change to do whatever they want.”
I rub the back of my neck. “What if the money goes into the pockets of the admin and not to the kids? That’s where Nihal and I kept getting stuck. I know we can’t bully them to use the funds the right way, but at least by building what they need, we’re aware of what our donations are being used for.”
“Fair. I’d suggest talking to them again, feel them out and make a decision. Government schools could always use the influx of cash, even if the hybrid schools will utilise the funds better.”
I make a note to speak to Nihal, my best friend, about this later and finish out the session with more homework. At forty-seven, Dominic treats me like a kid and gets great joy in assigning me homework. I know it’s for a good reason and it helps me navigate the jumble in my head. But I hate it. I disliked it in school and college, I despise it as an adult. And he knows it too. Asshole.
I spend the rest of my morning looking up recipes I can experiment with that don’t include Tamara’s forbidden substances. A couple of new things have joined the list—cauliflower and coriander. During dinner one evening she complained that the food tasted like soap and couldn’t eat the rest of it. So I did a deep dive and discovered that she’s lost her appetite for my favourite garnish. I was disappointed, but the upside is a lot of Malayali food doesn’t really use coriander, so it’s easy to skip it.
Cooking without tomatoes is the thing breaking my head. The different ways to make sambar?1 has been interesting, but the taste doesn’t match up. Not that Tamara cares, she drinks it like soup every time I make a batch. Breakfast has alternated between pancakes, open sandwiches, waffles and I’m now considering overnight oats and yogurt. If I go bankrupt, it’ll be in the interest of feeding her good food.
The joy I get from watching her lick her plate or bowl clean is unmatched. All the moaning and groaning aside, Tamara loves food and it’s evident in how much she savours everything I make for her. I just wish she would turn some of the joy towards me. Wishful thinking.
When I get up to check the fridge, I smile at the calendar stuck to the front. I bought it as a peace offering, not really sure if it was something she cared about. But when she left it on the counter closest to the refrigerator with a note of her own that said maybe the fridge is a good place to put it up, I knew I’d done the right thing. The next day she’d made a colour coordinated key for things like monthly scans, vaccination schedules and her therapy appointments. She included a colour for my sessions too and filled whatever information she already had. So I drew a thick green line across the dates Dominic and I agreed on.
There are two boxes, pink and orange, at the end of the month, as reminders for our second trimester scan in early September. I flip the calendar and see another pink box on the 11th and another on the 14th. I’m itching to add them to my already busy personal calendar, but the whole purpose of this common one is it’s in a place where neither of us will miss it. I blow out a breath and drag my finger over the blue asterisk Tamara’s using for her therapy sessions. I hope her counsellor is helping her with all of this, since she won’t let me do any of it for her.
“Coffee, then more research,” I say into the empty apartment and press the button on the machine.
A few days ago, I caved and bought myself a coffee machine. Instant coffee does the job for only so long and I definitely don’t like the taste of the brand she bought. Instead of trying others, I settled on buying the most compact but efficient coffee maker and tucked it into the corner so it wouldn’t be in her way. She never brought it up or complained about it, so I figure it doesn’t bother her. Then the next day, a tall side table appeared by the front door. The old one was replaced by a gorgeous piece with a set of drawers. She left a note on the top that read: for your bad boy biker shit.
Now I use the drawer for my gloves, bandanas and keys. I cut up an old sheet and laid it across the top so my helmet wouldn’t scratch the surface. There’s even space under it for my footwear.
She might protest and hate me, but I think Tamara’s warming up to the idea of me being here. She’s benefiting from my presence—two delicious meals a day, someone to clean up, do laundry, water her plants and check her mail—but she’ll never say it out loud. That’s fine. It’s in the little things. After I bought the stuffed elephant, she got me a mug that says working on my dad jokes, check back in nine months.
The temptation to keep pushing is there, but I resist. She’s setting the pace and I’m her loyal follower, so I don’t ask for more than she gives, but savour every little crumb she drops at my feet. We’ll ignore the fact that I’m borderline obsessed with her grumpy ass and focus on taking things one day at a time. Maybe she’ll come around.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I mutter and sit down in front of my laptop again.
Tamara said this upcoming scan is a big one, but she can’t remember what the doctor told her about it. So I decide to do some of my own research. The website mentions a specific kind of scan to check for abnormalities and disorders. Apparently the baby’s heart should be stronger and I can hear it if I want. I wonder if Tamara heard it at her first scan, when she got the sonogram she stuck to our fridge.
While I understand the reasons why they don’t allow us to know the gender of the baby?2, I wish we could find out somehow. It won’t make a difference about how I feel for my child, but it’s something to get excited about. Something to plan for. Then again, right now my focus is on making sure Tamara and our baby are healthy. Everything else is irrelevant.
By the time I close my laptop, the sun has petered out into a dull golden haze. The heat’s still quite stifling, but all the fans are on in the flat and enough windows are open for cross ventilation. I’m jittery and unsteady, which is normal when I think about the baby. It’s a combination of anxiety, fear and hopelessness. Right now, there’s not a whole lot I can do other than support her. Pushing away from the kitchen counter, I walk to my bedroom while shaking myself to get rid of the itch beneath my skin. I change, grab my knapsack and head out. The routine of putting my gear on settles my nerves and once I’m straddling Nyx, everything else vanishes.
