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AFTER RESCUING Fideaux from my daughter’s house, I began the slow, rush-hour drive home. I considered putting on some music, but artificial cheeriness didn't suit my mood. It took a few miles, but I finally figured out what was wrong.
I liked Cissie. She reminded me of me when my first child was little. Back then I yearned to be the Super Woman I thought everyone expected me to be—that I expected me to be. How freeing it would have been to have even a half-hour without that pressure.
Was it so wrong to want to give Cissie some relief, to allow her to accomplish one minor chore without interruption, to have some small victory to brag about to her husband?
Having met Ronald, maybe yes.
Just at the sight of him Cissie’s confidence appeared to plummet. Then came the “busy” remark, which may have been sympathy but sounded like a dig. Same with the “dinner” question. And then came that smothering hug.
I am not naïve. I know opposites attract. But Cissie and Ronald’s match must have been made in Psych 101.
As soon as he saw Cissie had had my help, I saw that my good intentions had backfired.
Again.
***
WEDNESDAY MORNING my woodsy park was softened by mist. Van Gogh might have painted the broad oak trunks in thick strips of black and white, the heavy leaves electric blue drenched in silver. The lace of distant beeches, first to catch the sun, could have been butter yellow with a gentle touch of blue-green. In contrast to yesterday afternoon, my day started with a smile.
Fideaux wanted to linger over what I refer to as his “p-mail,” and although I didn’t mind his dawdling, I had a job to get to and was forced to hurry him along.
Trying to watch my footing and daydream too, I was startled when another woman rounded the corner from the second bridge. Judging by its bouncy gait, the fluffy tan dog tugging her along was a youngster.
“Creepy in here isn’t it?” the stranger remarked. Roughly forty years of age, she wore a tight exercise outfit, matching wristbands, and an unzipped jersey. Probably on her way to spin class and a salad lunch with the girls.
“First time here?” I guessed. Compared to Monday evening the park seemed downright festive.
“Ooh, yeah.” Her eyes darted from tree to tree as if she expected an ambush.
She didn’t need to know I’d been spooked here, too, so I defended the place. “It’ll grow on you, so to speak,” I remarked. Or not.
The fluff ball pulled hard enough on his leash that the woman waved good-bye.
Fideaux and I soon entered a natural tunnel of saplings. Whether it was the nervous newcomer’s misgivings or my own I couldn’t say, but a shiver began at my wrists and ran up the back of my neck. I thought Fideaux might offer some protection, might being the operative word.
Long ago I'd learned a few self-defense moves, but who knew if I would have the presence of mind to use one of them?
I glanced at my watch.
“Fideaux! Turn around. I have to go to work.”
I’d almost forgotten. My time was no longer completely my own.
***
SUSAN SWENSON hurried off to her job with every bit as much glee as the first day, no visible ambivalence at all. Shiny auburn hair flying, eyes flashing, red lips twitching to repress a giggle, she touched my arm and might have hugged me if I’d been a smidgen more inviting.
“Good morning, sport,” I addressed the youngster.
Strapped into his high chair nibbling Froot Loops one by one, he eyed me with calculation.
“Di-pur,” he said.
“Oh! Are you wet?”
His mischievious grin spread into a devilish smile. He was engaging me in his little game, and I was thrilled.
“You done eating?” I asked. “Are you full?”
Jack’s chubby fist swiped cereal to the floor.
Guess so.
Just to be certain, I held Jack’s sippy cup of milk to his mouth.
He turned his head.
“Diaper?”
“Di-pur,” he repeated.
I released him from the high chair, lifted him with effort, and settled him on my hip. I carried him to the makeshift changing table in the dining room, checked his pants, and announced. “You’re dry.”
The toddler’s eyes twinkled.
Jack—one. Babysitter—zip.
“Dry,” I emphasized with a motherly smile. “You’re dry,” I repeated, thinking to myself and you know it.
I encouraged him to play with blocks for a while, letting him alone as long as his attention span lasted. Then I helped him imagine a highway and a truck, a gas station and a grocery store. I pretended his choice was to buy eggs, pickles, beans, or Froot Loops.
"Froo loos,” he declared. Whether they were new words or not, I had no clue.
This time when I checked, his diaper was wet.
“Wet,” I told him.
“Oo-et,” he replied. Whether it meant anything to him or not, again—no clue.
I packed strawberry cereal bars and water for us both, locked the house, then walked Jack and the car seat to my red two-door sedan. I deposited the boy in the far part of the backseat then wrestled with the seat belt until the seat was attached according to regulations. Wondering how young mothers managed to get anything done, I snared the wriggling child, buckled him up, and wiped sweat from my brow.
First stop—the nearest library. A homey old standby, the lower-level children’s section possessed a broad view of a tree-dotted lawn. I let Jack romp downhill before capturing his hand and walking him inside. From a table display, I selected a book about trucks with cardboard pages and lots of pictures. Snuggling the child against me on one of the beanbag chairs, I noticed the librarian mirroring my smile.
At the last page, I inquired, “Again? More?” Which word did Jack know?
He closed the book and tried to reopen it at the beginning.
“Again,” I taught him. “Again. You say it.”
“Gan,” Jack replied, and I warmed with déjà vu. How magical it had been teaching my own children, being there when they understood something for the first time, and how lovely it was to experience some of those special moments with Jack. Would Susan be jealous if she knew? I thought not. I felt more empathy coming from the librarian.
After two more ‘gans’ and two more readings, I selected four additional books and signed them out. Enough static stuff. It was time to turn the boy loose. A municipal park near the high school faced a busy street. Maybe some of the trucks pictured in the library book would drive by.
The park was a grassy, shaded plot with two cannons and a fenced corner with wood chips on the ground. Inside were swings, seesaws, and a jungle gym.
I settled the boy on a bench and produced our snacks. Jack allowed me to feed him bites of the sticky cereal bar; and when that had been washed down, I used the water left in my bottle to rinse my fingers.
“Oo-et,” Jack remarked.
My eyes flew open. “Wet. Yes, my fingers are wet,” I agreed. Jack not only remembered the word but had used it in a different context, an astonishing degree of comprehension for his age.
“Good boy,” I praised him. “Very, very good boy.” I grinned my pleasure and gave him a spontaneous kiss. “We’re going to have a lot of fun, you and me.”
The jungle gym was too large and the seesaws too risky, so I pushed Jack on a red plastic swing seat that resembled a Medieval chastity belt. When he’d had enough, I stood him backwards on the bench next to me and named the types of cars and trucks driving past. Van, car, panel truck, tanker.
Suddenly Jack shouted, “Daddy! Daddy, daddy, daddy.” He clambered down from the bench and ran to the chain-link fence that ran along the street. “Daddy, daddy, daddy.”
Mike Swenson glanced toward the boy before resuming his conversation with another man. Both had emerged from an office building opposite the park. A curbside sign identified it as the “Norristown News.”
Probably going to lunch, I decided, since a small shopping center with a few fast food possibilities lay half a block away.
“Daddy!” Jack’s sweet voice was filled with hurt, his lashes laden with tears.
Could one daddy-daddy-daddy sound like any other to an adoptive father? It seemed unlikely, but as with Susan, I simply didn’t know.
I scooped up my shoulder bag and the whimpering child and headed toward the parking lot.
“He was busy, Jackie,” I murmured softly into the boy’s ear. “I don’t think he heard you.”
Yet I didn't believe myself for a minute. Mike had looked straight at his son—and his difficult-to-miss pink-clad babysitter—then deliberately turned away.
All the way to the car the toddler clung to my neck and snuffled against my shoulder. I hugged him and patted his back, but he was still sniffling when I buckled him into his car seat. When I checked him in the rearview mirror a moment later, he was sucking his thumb and staring out the window.
How could anyone hurt a child like that? In my opinion nothing could possibly justify such behavior.
And yet it had happened on my watch.
I vowed to find out why.