Singer
10 days with Miles
Denial was a strange, slippery companion.
An hour might pass during which everything seemed fine. The weight of Miles in Singer’s arms seemed right. His babbling, while not resolving into words, nonetheless seemed like a dialogue.
Then something would happen. Something small and insignificant. Singer would fumble resnapping the onesie after a diaper change. Or he’d attempt a jar of food, and Miles would delight in rejecting it.
All normal, he kept telling himself. Perfectly appropriate. He was new to parenting; Miles was ten months old. No part of this was mysterious, or ominous. Everything was just fine.
Right up until Jake walked into the room and … did not fumble. When Miles spit food out at Jake, Jake made him laugh and shoved it back in his mouth. How did he know to do that? They’d read all the same books. They’d visited the same websites, often together, taking pleasure in the process of discovering the ways they wanted to parent. They’d relished even the trickier conversations (Jake was adamantly against raising children in the church; Singer thought finding a church might not be a bad thing).
All of it had felt like a way to build up to this moment, when they actually had a foster child. When they could begin to practice all the things they’d only read about. But despite having invested so much time in building, brick by brick, their ideas of themselves as parents, somehow none of that mattered. Singer’s confidence, shaky to begin with, eroded steadily. He didn’t mean to hand Miles off each time he cried, but Jake soothed him so much faster.
Of course it would take time. He knew that. Mostly. But each day came with reminders that his learning curve was Sisyphean, while Jake’s was an anthill.
*
Singer escaped to his car with ignoble relief and drove down the street before pulling over until his hands stopped shaking.
He had to stop in at work. And when he said had to he should probably revise that to volunteered to. Eagerly. Each of them had eight weeks of family leave from their jobs, followed by half-time with work-from-home flexibility built in “for as long as you need it, up to six months”—wonderful, progressive policies they’d been thankful for when they’d made all the arrangements months ago, to be put into effect when they got a placement.
He’d had no idea that driving to the office would seem like an oasis. Or that he’d feel so inescapably trapped at home.
The previous days ran through his mind like an unrelenting film reel of his personal failures as he drove into the city. He dreaded being the one closest to Miles when he needed something, dreaded that moment when Miles would lean all of his weight Jake-ward, holding his arms out, willing to topple out of Singer’s grip as long as it meant Jake picking him up.
No one’s fault, of course. Maybe it was as simple as that first moment, when Brandi handed him to Jake while Singer signed the papers. Or maybe it was Jake’s comfort with children. Maybe Miles sensed he was safer with Jake, that Jake understood how to take care of him better than Singer did.
It was later than usual, and he had to park a few blocks away from work. It was good to walk. To breathe. To be outside.
To be alone.
“You coming in today? Singer?”
He’d walked past the side door to the office building, all the way to the corner where everyone smoked.
Not everyone right now. Only Victor. Of all people, Victor, the straight Republican Christian. The only person Singer knew from normal life who’d adopted kids from foster care.
If there was such thing as signs, this was undeniably a sign. Singer’s chest constricted with restrained emotion. “Sorry,” he said, to the entirely wrong person.
Victor waved a hand, smoke trailing from the cigarette. “I was just going to get coffee. You want some?”
“I should go up…” To more responsibilities, more expectations.
Victor took a long pull on his cigarette and held the smoke in, a gesture Singer was far more accustomed to seeing while smoking other things. But no, it was clearly a normal cigarette.
A Pigpen-like cloud marked the movement of Victor’s head as he looked up in the direction of the office windows. “You’ll go up and they’ll all crowd around, demand pictures, ask you if it’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened, if you’re a different person. They’ll mean better person, but they won’t say it.” He glanced over again and stubbed his cigarette out on the sole of his shoe. “I almost asked Jerry for your phone number the other day.”
It might have been the most Victor had ever said to him in the three years they’d worked together.
“Is all the paperwork in place yet, or … not?”
Singer sighed. “Not. Maternal grandmother was his first placement, and we only have some vague thing about medical reasons why she can’t keep him.”
“Risky.” But it didn’t sound like disapproval the way Victor said it. Acknowledgment, maybe.
“I swore—we both swore—we wouldn’t go forward, but—”
“I know. I remember. That’s how it was with Rachel. We were so desperate, it felt like if we said no, they’d never call again. Let’s get coffee, Singer.” Then he started walking.
Singer glanced up at the windows one last time before he followed.
*
“Ten months is a great age,” Victor said, once they’d settled into a spot at the counter. “Is he crawling? Ty, our youngest, had a little trouble crawling because he hadn’t used his muscles much. Rache was the opposite—she’d been left to her own devices and was close to walking by ten months.”
“He’s squirming. Jake’s mother is a nurse, so as long as she doesn’t look worried, I don’t worry.”
“That’s good. Worry is anathema to good parenting, I think.”
Maybe that was Singer’s problem. While he wasn’t worried about Miles crawling, he was definitely worried, in general.
“Jake’s family is nearby? I know Jerry and Meredith were saying your parents are in Southern California.”
“Jake’s entire extended family with few exceptions live within ten minutes of us.” Singer realized belatedly that it might sound … bitter. Or like a complaint. “They’ve actually been wonderful.”
Victor offered a dubious eyebrow raise but didn’t speak.
“It really has been nice.” It sounded weak, even though he meant it. Sure it had been nice. For distraction, if nothing else. By now Jake must know that, in this area, regardless of Singer’s many other offerings, he was a complete dud.
A dud for a dad. Oh, god. It was a clear indicator of his distress that his brain was forming bad plays on words.
“So, scale of one to ten, how freaked out are you right now?”
The question jolted his focus. “Um, a six? Well, seven. Maybe.” Closer to nine.
Victor nodded. “That might be your new calm, Singer.”
“For how long?” God, no. No.
“Oh, depends on how it all happens.” Victor’s fingers twitched, like he wished they were holding a lit cigarette. “We got burned once, before Rache. So with her, we were panicked for, I don’t know, three years maybe, thinking someone would take her from us. Until the paperwork was signed and sealed and the judge congratulated us, and for another six, maybe nine months after that. Dull panic can be a hard habit to break.”
That was a warning. Probably a good one. Singer nodded.
“We should get back.”
“I haven’t even made it to the office yet.”
“If you have pictures, get them ready now.”
He had pictures. Lots of pictures. Miles with Jake, Miles with Frankie, Miles with Alice and Carey, Miles with Cathy and Joe, Miles with various other Derries, Miles with Jake, Miles with Jake, Miles with Jake. Singer could click pictures with his phone all day long and call it fatherhood.
Right before they stepped into the stairwell, Victor stopped. “Listen, get my phone number before you leave. Call if you need anything, Singer. Even when you’re surrounded by people, this process can make you feel pretty isolated.”
Isolated. The word careened around in his skull until he nodded, shaking it loose. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
Everything Victor said came true. They gathered and cooed and asked what felt like more-personal-than-casual questions, though he was surely being oversensitive. After years working in the same big room, hadn’t they earned personal? He assured everyone that Jake’s phone had dozens of pictures of him with Miles.
It didn’t.
*
He’d received two voicemail messages from Dad and seven from Mother. He hadn’t mentioned Miles. The vast hollowness of their reaction to the news that he and Jake were planning to adopt—in contrast to the near-intervention Cathy and Joe had staged in their living room, with cupcakes, followed a day later by more cupcakes and expressions of total support, with previously stated reservations held in check—made telling them about Miles difficult.
And, if he was being honest, it didn’t feel real yet. Why invite the horrible sucking sensation of parental ambivalence if it didn’t even feel like the truth?
Mother called again, when he was almost home. He pulled over to talk to her. Anything to put off the inevitable moment when he’d have to muster a smile and pretend everything was just fine. And Mother was the perfect practice.
“Your sister won’t answer her phone, Singer. Are you certain she’s all right?”
“She got out of a cult a little over a month ago. I’m certain she’s not all right, Mother, but I’m not sure what I can do about it.”
“Are you trying? Do you even talk to her?” The low mumble behind her was censure from Dad, but she brushed it off and persisted. “I mean, it’s like you kids are completely unreachable!”
“We’re living in the house, Mother. How unreachable can we really be?” He bit his tongue, sparking just enough pain to distract him from the rant he wanted to launch into. “I’m sorry. I’m not sleeping much. Lisa’s safe, Mother. I’m not sure what else you want from her.”
“I want her to be like she used to be!”
Conceited, obnoxious, self-obsessed. “She was there for three years. I think it’s going to take more than a month for her to … move on.”
“Maybe I should come up there, Singer. You shouldn’t be responsible for your sister—”
“I’m not, Mother. She’s responsible for herself. You have to give her time.”
“You sound just like your father!”
Singer rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry she won’t talk to you, but there’s nothing you can do about it. I’ll mention your concern to her when I see her.” If she ever leaves her room. “I have to go now, Mother.”
“Fine. Good-bye, Singer.”
“Bye, Mother.”
A sharp pulse began to beat at Singer’s temple. Home. Go home. Kiss Jake. Smile at Miles. He wasn’t sure what to do about Lisa, but at least he knew he could smile and nod at everyone else. And that was going to have to be good enough.