I laugh, a small desperate chuckle. “Then you need a lot of Oreos.” Oreos are god’s gift to America. Cheap, but full of delicious flavor. There are even special holiday editions. An Oreo can fix a bad day whether relished in front of the TV or shoved in your mouth in the kitchen during the few seconds your child isn’t looking. Oreos can make any problem better… except this one.
The bedroomcurtain is pulled back and I’m washed with heavy morning sunlight. Not the good kind that wakes you up from a peaceful slumber with ease so you can greet the day with a smile. No, it’s the bad kind. The kind that rips you from a happy dream and tells you to get the hell out of bed and face another day of your life.
It’s possible I may not be over my slight depressive mood from yesterday.
“Rise and shine.” Nate’s voice is way too cheery for this early in the morning. He’s obviously guzzling coffee before he gets here, or worse, he’s a morning person.
With the covers pulled over my head, I try to pretend I’m still sleeping, but with a single hand he pulls them down exposing my face to the sun. On my lap he places a tiny tray that Emma uses for her tea parties. On top of the blue flower-pattern tray is a plate with eggs and two pieces of bacon, a fork, and a paper napkin. At the bedside table Nate places a tall glass of orange juice.
He fluffs the end of the bed covers and smiles at me like he’s proud of what he’s accomplished. Frankly it all reminds me of a scene fromCinderella, but that could be because it’s Emma’s current favorite movie, which means we watch it at least three times a day. I’ve gotCinderellaon the brain.
“Thank you,” I spit out before Nate leaves me alone in the bedroom with more food than I’ve had for breakfast in the last two years. The scene is different from the one yesterday.
He smiles back at me. “Take your time eating. I have everything under control.”
Yesterday, I saw what he considered under control, but I haven’t eaten breakfast, let alone breakfast alone, in months.
I wash down my morning pain pill with the glass of orange juice and eat the eggs in under five bites before I remind myself to calm down and chew slower. There are no devious little giggles coming from the living room and besides a steady clatter of pots and pans, nothing sounds as if it’s breaking.
It’s a pleasant morning.
A different scene than the one I went to bed with last night. After I let out two years of tears and relayed my entire life history and the ugly divorce while Nate cradled me on the couch, he put me to bed. Tucked me in and everything. Before he left, he said he’d see me in the morning, but I thought I’d scared him away for good. I was only 25 percent certain it wasn’t all a dream.
Once the eggs are finished, he hasn’t come back to collect the tray. There’s no way I can carry it while using my crutches, so I abandon the dirty dishes to the bed top. With more grace than I had with the crutches yesterday I meander my way out to the hallway.
The carpet still squishes and squashes when my crutches make contact, the large fan the maintenance workers set up yesterday blowing a steady stream of air down the walkway. Hopefully the carpet will be dry soon so we can stop living in a wind tunnel.
I brace for impact when I hit the living room, my eyes squeezed so tightly I only open one at a time. When they’re both open and surveying the space, panic builds and a small wall closes in around my heart with every breath. The living room is way too clean. What if last night was a dream and now I’ve woken up in the twilight zone? I died and rather than heaven I’ve gone to hell where Emma will be two forever.
There are no toys on the floor or eggs on the ceiling. My daughter who runs around room like an early morning tornado sits on the couch. Her eyes are engrossed in the morning episode of her favorite Disney Jr. show. I try not to let her watch too much TV, but if I had known peace like this existed, I’d have turned it on more often. She’s even dressed, which sometimes doesn’t happen until after she gets to daycare. Don’t judge me. I’m not the only mom who’s dressing a screaming child in the lobby at 7:30 a.m. Her hair is even done. Well, done enough for me. He’s gone with pigtails today although the right side one is placed at least four inches lower than the left side. It makes it seem as if she is tilting her head in question. But it’s not in her mouth, so a win for Nate.
“Nate?” I call into the otherwise empty room.
He pops his head out from the kitchen, a soapy pan in his hands. “Yup.”
“Is everything okay?” Have the lot of them been abducted by aliens?
With caution, he takes a full step out of the kitchen and I pinch my lips not to laugh at his outfit. The big muscular former SEAL has on his typical clothes. They’re the same he’s worn the last two days, a pair of nice fitting jeans that make his butt look amazing and the company Pelican Bay Security polo shirt in black. However, what he has over it almost has me losing my fight with self-control. A bright pink — with frills on the side — apron covers his shirt down to mid-thigh. He’s like my very own version of Mr. Mom, but cute.
The pan drips a few splats of water on the carpet. “I borrowed it from a friend,” he says, shrugging when I can’t take my eyes off his apron.
The hilarity of the situation is lost as I wonder what friend loaned him a pink apron.Oh, shut up, Josie.It’s not like I have any right to him. It’s probably from his gorgeous and skinny girlfriend.
Still, as Nate ducks back into the kitchen to finish what I presume are dishes, I take a seat next to Emma on the couch, propping my foot up on the coffee table and allowing my mind to wander. Have I ever been served breakfast in bed? Has anyone besides me loaded the dishwasher in my house? I know he’s only here because he caught me feeling bad yesterday, but a girl could get used to this treatment.
“You forgot your post-breakfast snack,” Nate says, leaning between Emma and me over the back of the couch. In his outstretched hands he holds an Oreo out for each of us. From the amount of white stuffing in the middle they’re double stuffed — my favorite.
Emma is quick to grab hers and shove it in her mouth, eating at least half the cooking in one bite. She’s never been one to turn down sugar. It takes me a few seconds longer. While I hesitate, he moves the Oreo back and forth enticing me to take it.
When I reach out and pluck it from his grasp, he smiles and pats me on the shoulder like I’m a good girl. It’s a little demeaning, but I got an Oreo out of the deal so fuck it.
Emma eyes my cookie and snuggles a few inches closer on the couch so I plop it in my mouth fast. You can’t hesitate with chocolate.
Nate brought me Oreos.
There’sa knock on the door and Nate jumps up from the couch where we spent the last hour and a half with the fictional doctor as she worked to heal all the broken toys in her neighborhood. I’m pretty sure at one point he hummed the theme song, but I decided not to call him out on it. The tune is catchy.
“Good, today’s plan can begin.” He walks to my door like he lives here.
