Case in point: Elliot Gould.
God. Damien would roll around laughing if he could see the situation I’ve gotten myself into. And I don’t mean he’d laugh with me. He’d laugh at me.
In this case, I’m not even sure I’d blame him.
I admit I was a little taken aback when Jeff called and asked if I could help him with Elliot. I hadn’t heard from him for a while, and my initial reaction was relief. My first thought was that maybe he’d finally stepped up to the plate and started acting like the father I’ve always known he could be. The father he should be.
As he explained the situation, I realized how unsure he was about things no parent should ever be unsure about. He wasn’t entirely sure how Elliot had managed to get himself into debt or how much debt he was in. He didn't even know what suburb Elliot was living in, for Christ’s sake.
That told me enough that I hadn’t bothered asking him anything else.
I was stunned when he asked if Elliot could live with me for a while. The last time I saw Elliot, he was five. I was back in Carmel visiting my parents over spring break, and Jeff got in touch to say he was in town. I suggested we take Elliot to the beach. There was a slight pause before he agreed, but I didn’t think much of it until later.
Pieces of the puzzle fell into place when I saw how excited Elliot was when we picked him up. He was all but vibrating. He couldn’t sit still. He talked the entire way to the beach without taking a breath, telling Jeff everything that had happened to him since Christmas.
When we got to the beach, Jeff gave him a little tap on the back and said, “What are you waiting for, bud? Hit the water!”
Elliot took off at a pace, kicking sand up in front of him as he ran. I remember feeling mildly perturbed that Jeff hadn’t put sunscreen on him when I heard Elliot squeal, “Yippee! Mommy makes me wear floaties, and Ihatethem!”
“Jeff! Can he swim?”
Jeff had looked at me helplessly and then shrugged.
I've never moved faster in my entire life than I did then. I got to him just as his face went under and pulled him up before he even realized what had happened. I didn’t want to scare him, so I stayed in the water with him for ages, holding him by both wrists and swinging him over the waves as they crashed to the shore. He laughed and shrieked with joy, but every so often, he’d swivel around, looking back to see if Jeff was watching him.
I didn't need to look back to know he wasn’t. I could feel it. Even though I wasn't the one whose head had gone under water, as I stood in the shallows playing with Elliot, I felt like I was drowning. Wave after wave of disappointment hit me until I felt like it might crush me.
That was almost twenty years ago, and I still haven’t learned to make sense of the fact that Jeff, my friend, and Jeff, Elliot’s father, seem to be two different people.
As a friend, you couldn’t get better. He’s funny and caring, and all my life, he’s had my back more than anyone else ever has. I’ve seldom felt as comfortable with anyone as I do with him. Even now, months can go by when we don’t see or hear from each other. But the second I pick up the phone and hear his voice, I’m right back there with him on the corner of our street in Carmel, sitting on the low wall outside Mrs. Dwyer’s house without a care in the world.
My sister, Beth, always says Jeff was simply too young to be a father. She knows him and loves him like I do. Damien only met him a few times, and he used to say that was complete bullshit. He used to say Jeff was the poster boy for being a manchild.
For me, the answer is complicated and lies somewhere in the middle. I can’t help thinking Vanessa was young too. They were both eighteen when Elliot was born. She wrote her final exams when Elliot was only four months old. She lived with her parents and went on to study law while caring for a toddler. All the while, Jeff surfed in Australia, Bali, South Africa, and anywhere else he could think of that had an ocean and waves and happened to be geographically as far away from Carmel as possible.
Still, when he asked me to help Elliot, I wanted to. He was an adorable little boy, and I've never forgotten how he looked when we dropped him back home that day after we took him to the beach. He stood on the sidewalk holding Vanessa’s hand. She kept encouraging him to go inside, but he stood firm, refusing to move as Jeff pulled away. I looked back once as we drove down the street. I wish I hadn’t. His little face was pinched and tears streamed down his sunburnt cheeks.
I’m not an idiot, of course. I knew years had passed and that little boy had given way to a man, but part of me was still haunted by the way he looked as we drove away. If there was something I could do to help him, I wanted to do it. If I’m being totally honest, I’ve been lonely since Damien left, and I thought the company might do me some good.
Still, I got a real shock when Elliot stepped out of the car. Turns out, there’s a difference between knowing something andknowingsomething.
All traces of the sweet boy had been erased. Not only that, they’d been replaced by something musclebound and cocksure, and if my initial impression was correct, prickly and arrogant too.
Having Elliot here has proved to be way more challenging than expected. He’s a walking, talking disaster. I’ve been studying him closely. I’m still unable to explain exactly how it happens, but as he moves through the house, things seem to collapse into chaos behind him. Possessions fly off surfaces and onto the floor in his wake, landing heavily on the floor. Everything about him is loud. His clothes, his voice, the music he plays all the time. All. The. Time. Even the way he walks is loud. Heels thud on timber at all hours of the day and night, alerting me to the fact he’s on the move.
On Tuesday, he tried to microwave leftovers in a tinfoil container and looked downright irate when I raised my voice to stop him.
On Wednesday, I found his toothbrush on the console table at the entrance, and he ran the dishwasher without putting a tablet in.
On Thursday morning, he was tearing around in a panic as he got ready for work, eyes dripping with accusation as he asked me where his work bag was. I found it in the laundry room. I can’t imagine why it was there. I had no idea he knew the room even existed.
Last night, I damn near fell down the stairs tripping over his sneakers. I mean, I can understand leaving them near the front door or even on the floor around the sofa, but on the stairs? Who the hell takes their shoes off while they’re walking up or down stairs?
I could live with the mess and forgetfulness if not for the fact that his attitude is appalling. It’s not just that he’s a disaster. He’s defensive and angry about it. Angry with me, by the look of it. He was skittish and unsure when he got here, hovering in doorways and apologizing for no reason, but his confidence seems to have been bolstered as the week has worn on. Ordinarily, nothing makes me happier than seeing a boy’s confidence grow in my presence, but believe me, what’s happening with Elliot right now isn’t a win.
I’ve very gently made suggestions that will ease our living arrangement, but they’ve been increasingly met with a long sigh—if not a flat-out eye roll—a thin smile, and a series of rapid blinks that end with a quick glance at the ceiling.
It’s escalating too. The look he’d given me last night when asked to move his shoes from the stairs was withering. His dark eyes narrowed as his nostrils flared. His lips pulled back tightly as he said, “Sure thing, Stuart,” in the single most sarcastic sing-song tone I've ever heard.
