This Was Not the Plan Read online

  “Hey, Chuck,” Buck says, as he descends the steps to the driveway. “Let me help you.”

  He reaches out for Caleb, but I pull away. I don’t need help with my son, I feel like shouting at him.

  The elderly man in the wheelchair lifts his arm awkwardly, like a broken bird wing.

  “Hello, Charlie,” he says. “Welcome.”

  And that’s when I realize. The man is not my sister’s new client.

  He’s our father.

  You Can’t Go Home Again

  I stop dead in my tracks. My father’s voice is hoarse and soft, but I’d recognize it anywhere.

  No.

  “No way this is happening,” I say, looking down into his hollowed eyes. He’s lost weight. So much that his skin has shriveled around his skull like shrink wrap. It makes his jaw look sharper, his lips appear thinner. For a moment the two of us just stare at each other, speechless.

  Caleb lets out a soft moan.

  “Zadie!” I bark. “I need your help. Now.” Without waiting for permission, I stride into the house, Zadie trailing in my wake.

  “We’ll be right back,” she says to the group, before the front door snaps closed behind us.

  “What were you thinking?” I snarl at her as she ushers me into the nearest bathroom. “How did you even find him?”

  Zadie ignores me. She opens the cabinet beneath the sink and pulls out a box of garbage bags. “This is the biggest mess I’ve ever seen!” she coos at Caleb, as though this were the seminal achievement of Caleb’s five-year career as a human being. She strips Caleb’s pants off and stuffs them in a garbage bag. “You poor sweetheart.”

  “I don’t feel good, Aunt Zadie.”

  “I know, my love. But Aunt Zadie’s here and everything is going to be just fine.”

  “Zadie.”

  Zadie looks up at me, but not before rolling her eyes. “Charlie, why don’t you try to be helpful? Draw a bath for him. Do you have a change of clothes handy?”

  With a clenched jaw, I turn to the bathtub and start running the water.

  “Make sure it’s not too hot. Or too deep.”

  “Believe it or not, Zadie, I do have some experience bathing my own child.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” I snap. I know I shouldn’t curse in front of Caleb, but I’m too pissed off to care.

  “Just calm down, Charlie. You don’t need to make everything into such a big deal.” She pulls a thermometer out of the medicine cabinet, pauses to read the box, and then unwraps it from the package.

  “Let me tell you what’s a big deal. A big deal is bringing me out to his house without any warning whatsoever. That is a big deal, Zadie.”

  “If I had warned you, would you have come?”

  “Of course not!”

  Zadie shrugs. “So that’s why I didn’t tell you.”

  “This is not okay, Zadie. I have nothing to say to him. We are getting in the car and we are leaving the minute we get Caleb cleaned and dressed.”

  The thermometer beeps. Zadie examines it and then holds it out for me.

  I bite my lip when I see the number on the screen: 105.1.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” she says, “until Caleb sees a doctor. There’s a bed upstairs. Let’s get him bathed and comfortable and then we can talk.”

  • • •

  A crowd has gathered in the foyer. It’s a motley crew consisting of my father; Ives; Norman, who has made himself at home in what I’m sure is a priceless rococo chair; two blondes, one of whom looks vaguely familiar; a man who could easily pass for a Swedish model; and a silver-haired fellow holding what I hope is a doctor’s bag.

  “How is he?” Ives asks as Zadie and I descend the stairs.

  “He’s sleeping for now,” Zadie replies. “He’s got a fever. Could Charlie use the phone to call his pediatrician?”

  “I’d really appreciate it,” I say, grimacing. The last thing I want to do is ask my father for a favor, but right now my kid’s got a fever of 105.1, my cell phone is dead, and I’m carrying a trash bag filled with his poop-stained clothes. If ever there was a time to swallow my pride, now might be it.

  “No need,” my father says, shaking his head. He gestures to the man with silver hair. “This is Dr. Simms. He’s my personal physician. He’d be happy to take a look at Caleb.”

  I stop in my tracks, a few stairs up from the ground floor.

  “That’s great. Thanks, Dad.” Zadie glares at me and I glare back. Dad?

  “Maybe we should just go to the ER,” I say. “His fever’s over 105.”

  “The nearest hospital is in Southampton,” Dr. Simms says. “On a beautiful weekend like this, the traffic will be murder. Why don’t I have a look at the boy before you pack him up and put him back in a car? Perhaps we can avoid a hospital visit altogether.”

  I open my mouth to decline but quickly snap it shut. The last thing Caleb needs right now is another forty-five minutes in an un-air-conditioned car.

  “Okay, fine,” I say with a curt nod of assent. “Let’s do that.”

  “I think what Charlie meant to say is: Thank you so much for your help,” Zadie says to Dr. Simms. “We are so grateful that you’d drop everything to come over here, and so quickly.”

  Dr. Simms laughs. “Well,” he says good-naturedly, “that’s what your father pays me for.”

  • • •

  Caleb’s head looks tiny against the giant floral headboard, a lone dandelion in a bed of wildflowers. Because he was feeling the chills, Zadie tucked him beneath a fluffy duvet, better suited for January in Moscow than July in East Hampton. He’s sleeping now with the duvet pulled all the way up to his chin. I kick myself for leaving Buddy, his pink fleece blanket, back at home.

  As I watch Zadie hover at Caleb’s bedside, I think back to those final days with Mom. The sight of my sick mother—with her gaunt face and gray skin—paralyzed me with fear. I never knew what to do when I was with her: Did I keeping talking to her even after her eyes slid shut? Did I pester her to drink the water and eat the food that most often she refused? Did I sit? Stand? Were jokes inappropriate or a welcome relief?

  I didn’t know what to do, so I did nothing at all. I hung back and let Zadie do the work. She’s more competent than me, anyway, I told myself. She’s trained in this. She’s a professional caregiver, for God’s sake.

  The sicker Mom got, the more useless I felt. There were medicines to be measured, sponge baths to be given. My visits slowed from twice a week to once a month. I had excuses, some valid, some not. Zadie and I both knew the truth: I didn’t come because I was scared of doing it wrong.

  Don’t do that this time, I think to myself as I stare at Caleb. Be there for him. He’s the only thing that matters now, and he needs you more than ever.

  I glance at Zadie. She puts her hand on my shoulder, pushing me gently towards my son.

  I take a seat on the edge of the bed.

  “Daddy?” Caleb’s eyes blink open. His face floods with relief when he sees me, which is all the encouragement I need.

  “I’m right here.”

  Caleb smiles. Then he crawls over, hangs his head over my lap, and upchucks into a wastebasket.

  When he’s done, he pulls himself up with some effort and slouches back against the pillows. “I don’t feel good,” he says, stating the obvious.

  “I know, bud. But Dr. Simms is here. Maybe he can help you out.”

  Dr. Simms approaches the bed from the doorway. “Hi, Caleb,” he says with a kindly smile. “I’m Dr. Simms. I understand you’re not feeling too well. Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  Caleb furrows his brow. “You’re not my doctor,” he says flatly, as though it’s obvious this guy’s trying to sell him something. “My doctor’s name is Frank.”

  Dr. Simms looks to me for guidance.

  “That’s right, Caleb, we see Dr. Frank in the city. But Dr. Simms is here now, and he came just to see you, so wh
y don’t you tell him a little bit about how you’re feeling?”

  “I’m your grandpa’s doctor,” Dr. Simms says, clearly hoping to instill confidence. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Zadie bite her lip.

  “My grandparents are dead.” Caleb practically yells this and then promptly hurls onto Dr. Simms’s shoes.

  “Oh!” Dr. Simms looks at me, then down at his shoes, then back at me.

  “I’ll get a towel!” I say, and flee down the hall to the nearest bathroom.

  In the bathroom—which, incidentally, is roughly the size of my apartment—I have to splash a little water on my face to keep myself from freaking out. I never told Caleb that my father was dead, but it doesn’t surprise me that he thinks that. After Mira died, we had one very detailed discussion of heaven. It went something like this:

  Caleb: “Where is heaven?”

  Me: “Well, I’m not sure. Some people say it’s in the stars.”

  Caleb, looking confused: “Like Uranus and Pluto?”

  Me, surprised: “Sure, okay. Like Uranus and Pluto.”

  Caleb: “And Mommy lives there?”

  Me: “Well, yes.”

  Caleb: “Is there an elevator?”

  Me: “Hmm. Yes. I think there might be an elevator.”

  Caleb: “And a doorman?”

  Me: “And a doorman.”

  Caleb: “But we can’t visit.”

  Me, reaching for him: “No, buddy. I really wish we could.”

  Caleb, dodging my hug: “Is she lonely?”

  Me: “I’m sure she misses you. But she’s not lonely. There are lots of other people in heaven to keep her company.”

  Caleb: “Like, who else?”

  Me: “Well, your grandparents.”

  Caleb: “And?”

  Me, searching for the name of another person Caleb knows who has passed away: “And Mrs. Hill from down the hall.”

  Caleb: “Mrs. Hill’s cat, too.”

  Me: “That’s right, and Mrs. Hill’s cat.”

  Caleb: “I’m glad cats can go to heaven.”

  His grandparents—the three who matter, anyway—are dead. Mira’s mother passed away shortly after we were married; her father died the same month as my mom. So it wasn’t a lie, I tell myself, but rather, an honest mix-up. Still, the fact remains that Caleb thought my father was dead, and now, it turns out, he’s not. Caleb has every right to feel angry, betrayed, lied to, and at the very least confused. He’s not alone. That just about sums up how I’m feeling right now, so at least we’re in it together.

  “Everything okay?”

  I spin around. The younger of the two blondes is leaning against the bathroom door, her arms crossed in a way that intensifies her cleavage. I know I’ve met her before, I just can’t remember where. A friend of Zadie’s, maybe? A law school acquaintance? Though it’s hard, I think, as the pink lacy edge of her bra peeks out of her tank top, to picture this girl at law school.

  “Oh, yeah, I was just looking for towels. I’m sorry, is this your bathroom?”

  She tilts her head to one side and gives me a sly smile. Suddenly it clicks.

  “Bungalow Eight,” she says, reading my mind. “You were there for a bachelor party.”

  “Right, yes,” I say, feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Was that nine years ago? I haven’t talked to Justin in ages.”

  “Almost ten, I think.” I know exactly when it was. It was four days after my first date with Mira. Because Mira hadn’t returned my phone call, I convinced myself that she wasn’t interested in me and that it was probably best to just move on. So I did what any normal guy would do: I got wasted and made out with a random girl in the middle of a nightclub.

  That entire vodka-soaked weekend feels like it happened a lifetime ago, but as this woman walks towards me, it all comes flooding back. Nothing X-rated happened between us—in fact, our public make-out session was PG-13 at best. Still, it always made me feel dirty, because it happened around the same time I met the woman who I’d one day call my wife.

  “My name’s Madison, by the way.”

  “I remember.”

  “Probably didn’t think you’d see me ever again, huh?” she says with a tight smile. My stomach twists uncomfortably as I recall the flirty post–make-out texts she sent me, none of which I returned.

  “What are you doing here?” I blurt out, unable to help myself. “How do you know my father?”

  She smiles again, ignoring my question. She walks over to a cabinet, bends far enough over for me to get an exceptional view of her exceptional ass, and removes a stack of towels from the bottom drawer.

  “I’m Shelley’s daughter,” she says, holding them out to me.

  “Who’s Shelley?”

  She chuckles, shaking her head. “You really don’t keep in touch with your dad, do you?”

  “Charlie!” Zadie shrieks from down the hall. “We need you!”

  Madison steps aside. “I think you’re being paged, Charlie.”

  “Good to see you again, Madison.” I rush past, desperate to get away from her. “Thanks for the towels.”

  • • •

  “What took you so long?” Zadie, now covered in vomit, glares at me from Caleb’s bedside.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling guilty, though I’m not quite sure what about. “I couldn’t find the bathroom.”

  Zadie rolls her eyes and snatches a towel out of my hands. “Here, sweetie,” she coos at Caleb, and gently pats the perspiration off his forehead. “Do you want to take a nice, cool bath?”

  Caleb moans a little and slouches back against the pillow. “No bath,” he says.

  “He needs fluids,” Dr. Simms says to me. “He’s not holding down very much right now, but we have to try. How does he feel about Pedialyte?”

  That stumps me. I have a vague recollection of doing a midnight run for Pedialyte when Caleb was a year or so old, but Mira was the one who administered it, so I’m not sure how it was received.

  “He likes the freezer pops,” Zadie pipes up.

  “Great.” Dr. Simms nods. “Someone should run out to the pharmacy and pick some up.”

  “I’ll go!” Zadie and I both say at the same time.

  Zadie shoots me a look. “Charlie, you really should stay with Caleb.”

  “Do you even have your license?” I snip.

  “Buck will drive me,” Zadie snips back.

  “I’ll go.” Madison appears in the doorway. “I need to run to town anyway. What else do you need, Charlie?”

  “We’re fine.”

  “Oh, thank you, Madison,” Zadie says, ignoring me. “Could you pick up a little extra Purina for Norman? And more Children’s Tylenol?”

  “Sure thing.” Madison nods and turns towards the stairs. When I look back at Caleb, his eyes are shut. He’s fallen back asleep.

  “Probably best to let him rest,” Dr. Simms whispers, and pulls down the shade.

  • • •

  I feel better after a shower, though not much. Norman and I hole up in a dark guest room across the hall from Caleb. I’ve made a point of leaving my suitcase in my car, so I dress again in the same rumpled shirt and shorts that I wore on the drive here. I don’t need a change of clothes, I tell Zadie when she offers to fetch me one. There’s just no way we’re staying. She doesn’t bother responding.

  Part of me, the rational part, knows this isn’t true. Caleb clearly has the stomach flu. He can barely make it to the bathroom; putting him on the Long Island Expressway would be tantamount to child abuse. If experience is any guide, we’re not going anywhere for at least forty-eight hours, maybe more.

  Caleb aside, my sister wants me to stay. At least, she wants me here enough to have willfully deceived me into coming. Zadie is many things, but she isn’t deceptive. If anything, she’s honest to a flaw, owning up to things she could easily get away with, like drinking the last ginger ale or forgetting to replace the toilet paper in the spare bathroo
m. As angry as I am with her right now, I know she has a reason for bringing me here. A misguided, poorly thought-out reason, I imagine, but a reason nonetheless.

  When I hear a timid knock, I know it’s her coming to apologize.

  “Yes?” I say. My voice sounds stiff, possibly even hostile. Zadie might have good intentions, but that still doesn’t mean I’m going to let her off easy.

  “Hi,” she says, poking her head around the door. “It’s me.”

  “I know.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.”

  Zadie takes a seat on the edge of the bed. She stares at me, waiting for me to say something, and when I don’t, she drums her fingers anxiously on her knees. For the first time I notice the sapphire stone that glitters on her left hand.

  “Nice rock,” I say, nodding at the ring.

  “Thanks. Look, I know you’re mad that I dragged you out here.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. I thought maybe we could talk about it.”

  “How about you start with ‘I’m sorry, Charlie, what I did was unconscionable and wrong and you have every right to be angry’?”

  Zadie closes her eyes and lets out a long, noisy exhale. “I am sorry,” she says, “that you are so angry.”

  “You don’t think I have the right to be angry?”

  Zadie’s eyes flick open. “I think you have the right to be angry about a lot of things, Charlie. You have the right to be angry that your father wasn’t around for you growing up. You have the right to be angry that your mom was so stubborn that she chose not to undergo the chemotherapy that could have saved her life. And you certainly have the right to be angry that a drunk pilot killed your wife.”

  I shake my head. “I wasn’t talking about Mira, Zadie.”

  “I know. But I am. I’m talking about just a few of the many things that you could, in theory, choose to be angry about. But that’s the thing, Charlie. It’s a choice. What’s anger done for you lately? It hasn’t made you happier, that’s for sure. And it’s definitely not going to bring Mira back.”