She walks over, leaving Hannah fiddling with the handle of her rolling suitcase. “What’s wrong?”
“I hate this,” I say, my voice sounding like I’m near tears.
“What? Me shamelessly assuaging my guilt for abandoning you guys?”
I shake my head, unable to get more words out.
“It’ll be fine. It’ll be great.” Abby gives me a hug and smiles. “I’m here for as long as you need me. You should go on a date or something. Make the most of this.”
My sister Abby is a financial writer, so she can work from anywhere. This is one reason it was so easy for her to leave New York for Canada, and one reason why it hurt so much to see her go. I love that she’s happy, but she has stopped being my daily emotional support and my most reliable babysitter, and it’s made things a lot harder. Not impossible, exactly: I managed to get Hannah into an after-school program that runs until six every day, so my child-care costs are manageable. It’s just shifted the entire rhythm of our lives.
“I’m not doing anything but work before the fifteenth,” I murmur quietly in her ear. “And then Nick may get here.”
“Okay. But plan something fun for next weekend,” Abby whispers. Then her eyes light up with a mischievous smile. “If Nick does show up,” she murmurs, “he can watch Hannah while you go on a date.”
Hannah approaches us and starts pulling Abby by the arm, insisting they return to the sofa to watch her show. I know Hannah watches too much TV; it’s another one of the penalties I pay as a single mom—not striking the perfect balance between wholesome activities and brain rotting screen time or home-cooked meals and take-out dinners.
“Come on,” Hannah insists as Abby follows her to the sofa. “We’re missing the best part.”
“Okay, okay, kid. When did you get taller than me?”
“I’m nottallerthan you.” Hannah rolls her eyes.
They sit down and then Hannah leans one elbow right into Abby’s lap, resting her head as she gets absorbed back into her show.
“I’ll get you a ginger ale,” I say, my heart wrenching at the sight of them back together like a little team.
“Perfect,” Abby says with a grin. “I’m going to dribble it all over this kid’s hair.”
“Hey!” Hannah cries.
“Okay, fine, I won’t,” Abby groans. “Maybe just a little dribble?”
“No!” Hannah wails.
It occurs to me, not for the first time, that Abby always has more fun with my kid than I do. It’s not that I don’t adore Hannah. There’s just a constant thrumming worry when I look at my daughter, a sense that I’m forgetting something like setting up a doctor’s appointment or filling out forms for school. I rarely think about having fun with her; it’s too far down the list of responsibilities.
As I pour Abby’s ginger ale in the kitchen, I feel an ancient impulse to pour myself a drink. I haven’t touched alcohol in years, but I still miss that immediate sense of relief I got from sipping something and then staring into space, waiting to feel less of whatever I was feeling right then. I inherited substance-abuse tendencies from my mom, so I can’t go halfway on alcohol, unfortunately, which means there is none in my apartment. I still miss it, though, even with occasional AA meetings. Even with help.
That was always part of the appeal of Nick when I was with him. He supported my sobriety, but he also felt like his own addiction. Being in his arms was like being on the back of a motorcycle or sipping strong whiskey: dangerous and exciting. You could forget everything in the world except his hands around your waist, his voice in your ear suggesting some dangerous plan that you were both going to enjoy. Being with him felt like flying. We just never found a solid place to land.
