I think she’s hot, man. You know I’m more into skinnier girls, so maybe that’s why I like her.”
“I can understand why you would, she is attractive. But boring, you know? As in…where are the curves? How is she any different from a dude?”
“Justin, if you‘re calling me gay…” Trace threatens, narrowing his eyes at me menacingly.
I roll my eyes and click my seatbelt off my, flinging it behind my back. “You know what I mean. Amber’s just a little too on the anorexic side for me.”
“She’s not anorexic,” Trace defends. “That’s her natural body shape, and it looks great on her.”
I shrug. “You’re right. But I want more on the T and A scale.” Thank god Cat’s not with me…I can almost hear the disapproving feminist tone.
“Well, I wouldn’t mind hittin’ that,” says Trace, resting his hand on the door handle as Tiny pulls up in front of my apartment building.
Trace and I hop out, saying goodbye to Tiny, who squeezes in one last complaint about being the ‘fucking designated driver’, before speeding off. As soon as my Nike-clad feet hit the cold gray concrete of the sidewalk, the clickety-click of photos being taken and a bright flash of light in the dark to my right attracts my attention momentarily. The sight of three photographers squatting on the sidewalk outside of the grounds of my home, their faces concealed by the large black cameras strapped to their eyes, greets my gaze. I bow my head and quickly stride into the building, letting the old, camera-wary Justin take over and block out their existence.
“I wonder how long they’ve been there,” Trace says behind me as I get into the grounds of my apartment, resisting the temptation to turn around the paparazzi and say ‘Thanks to privacy laws, you can’t come on my property or I’m legally allowed to shoot you, so ha!’.
“Probably not long after they caught sight of that article this morning,” I mutter bitterly, casting a contemptuous gaze in the direction of the now silent cameras that are hidden behind the gates. “Excuse me, but how long have those photographers been out there?” I ask the wizened doorman standing at the entrance of the building in a dark navy blue suit.
“They came not long after your young house guest left about five hours ago, Mr. Timberlake,” he replies.
I frown. “What…after Cat left?”
He nods. “Yes sir.”
“So they didn’t get a picture of her?”
“No sir, she had already been gone for twenty minutes before they arrived.”
“Do you know what time she came back?”
“I haven’t seen her yet, sir.”
Pausing to jut out my bottom lip in confusion, I shrug. “Okay, thanks.”
He nods and opens the door for us as we walk into the ostentatious foyer of the apartment block. “I wonder where Cat went,” I murmur casually, hitting the white circle with the black twenty on it in the elevator to get up to my floor.
“Shopping?” Trace offers tiredly, tilting his head tiredly against the mirror and closing his eyes. Today was a long day; Amber and I were elaborating on what we had done yesterday and the time sped by without me even realizing. We barely know each other, and yet we have this unstoppable creative energy that just weaves everything together perfectly.
But working in the studio for ten hours can somewhat drain one’s get-up-and-go factor. The constant tweaking and altering that has to be done to every single little thing…it’s exhausting. There’s nothing I want more than to just crawl into bed and have Cat stroke my hair as she talks about random clever crap that I don’t understand. Last night she made the terrible mistake of trying to explain the judicial heresy…she was unsuccessful.
The doors slide open as I shrug in response to Trace’s suggestion. She probably did come back, the door guy just didn’t realize. After all, where the hell could she be at quarter past ten on a Wednesday night? We’ve not even been here for a week, so she doesn’t know the area well enough to go out walking in the middle of a dangerous city late at night.
Trace and I stumble into the apartment, more from tiredness than anything else. “Cat!” I call out, throwing my keys onto a small utterly useless table that was put into the hallway for appearance reasons alone, letting them slide across the polished mahogany surface. “Cat!” I repeat, kicking off my sneakers and plodding up the stairs slowly.
Poking a head around the doorway of our bedroom, I frown when I find it empty and slightly messy. I’m a tidy person by nature and can’t go to sleep if there’s that much disorder to my bedroom, and although Cat isn’t quite as “anal” as I am, she’s not sloppy. The jaunty angle of one of the drawers sticking out of the chest with a bundle of clothes all bunched up and crushed catches my eye. It looks as though someone was rushing through the drawers in such a hurry that they didn’t take much care with the folded clothes or even bother to shut the drawer. That doesn’t sound like Cat. She can rifle through the drawers without making such a mess.
My eyes flit around the room, taking in the rumpled appearance of the made bed. Although the comforter has been placed over the mattress and the corners tucked down, creases and ruffles contour the canvas of white, as though someone’s been stacking things on the bed or…I don’t know, jumping on it?
“What on earth…” I mutter, frowning as I walk into the room and slowly tidy up a bit, straightening out the bedspread and bumping in the drawer before closing the open closet doors. “Trace!” I yell.
“Yeah?” comes a reply from the kitchen.
“Is Cat down there with you?”
There’s a pause, before a, “Unless she’s hiding behind the couch, don’t think so!” is returned. Rolling my eyes, I quickly check all the rooms on the top floor; peaking into Trace’s room, checking the TV room, the music room in case she’s playing around on the piano, the work out room in case she suddenly had a spurt of energy to exercise, and all the bathrooms. I even walk out onto the balcony and up the fire escape stairs to the roof, despite knowing Cat is too scared of falling to her death to go dancing about on the top of a twenty storey building in the dark.
The prickly feeling of panic begins to rise in my throat as I jog down the stairs with a lot more urgency than I had on the way up. That’s what I hate about having a fairly big home--you just can’t keep tabs on people that way that you would like to. You’ll drive yourself crazy with worry thinking that someone you love has been brutally murdered with a pickaxe, until you realize that they are, in fact, reading at the opposite end of the house.
“Trace, she’s gone!” I exclaim, rushing into the kitchen, my eyes darting around for any sign of her.
“Gone where?”
“Gone…gone! She’s just…not here!”
“So? She’s still out. What’s the big deal?”
Why does this always happen? A nerve-racking experience arises and I tear my hair out with anxiety as Trace remains cool, calm and collected. Why can’t I be the level-headed one who never shows his worry? I swear, Trace makes me look like such a chick.
“Out at ten thirty in New York City? She’ll get shot, or raped, or…oh my god, there possibilities are endless,” I groan, clamping a hand over my eyes. “No…no, Cat’s not that stupid. She wouldn’t just go out meandering the streets of New York without letting anyone know. Especially when she doesn’t know the area very well.”
“Perhaps she went to the studio to meet up with us?” Trace suggests, slapping two buttered pieces of bread separated by a slice of ham together and taking a bite out of it.
“I doubt it,” I mumble, chewing anxiously on the skin of my thumb. “And the doorman said she left five hours ago. That’s ample time to get to the studio fifty times over.”
“I don’t suppose in the midst of your overreacting you ever considered calling her cell, did you?” Trace says calmly, taking another bite of his sandwich and staring at me in a way that makes me question my own intelligence.
“Of course!” I exclaim, digging into my pockets for my cell phone. I pull it out and flip it open, seeing a message typed out in black bold letters across the screen--1 New Voicemail. When I’m recording, I put all noise and vibrations of my phone off so as to not distract me. That was why I didn’t get the message. Note to self: don’t do that again.
“That’s probably from her, right?” I question, staring at Trace desperately. He nods slowly, looking at me curiously as though I’ve said something incredibly stupid. Which I haven’t, right?
Just as I was about to press the button that said ‘listen’, a flashing light with the name Cat displayed on the screen.
“Hello?” I answer quickly, bringing the phone to my ear.
“Hey,” comes a small voice softly through the phone line.
“Cat, baby, is that you? Are you okay? Where are you? I came back and you were gone!”
There was a slight chuckle down the line amid Trace’s, “She’s not a dog, Justin…”, but I ignored him and pressed the phone closer to my ear.
“Didn’t you get my message?” she asks in a tired voice.
“I just got it when you called,” I reply. “I haven’t had the chance to listen to it yet. What’s wrong? Where are you?”
She sighs. “I’m in Ohio.”
“What?!” I shout loudly, causing Trace to jump a foot in the air and almost drop the orange juice that he was rooting about in the refrigerator for. “Why the hell are you in goddamn Ohio? Have you left me?”
“Justin,” she snorts, “You really bring a whole new perspective to being melodramatic, do you know that?” At my sigh of annoyance, she continues. “No, of course I’ve not left you. There have been family problems, that’s all.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Do you remember Malcolm? My sister Sophie’s husband? You met him at Thanksgiving; he’s got sort of dirty blonde hair and glasses.”
“Yeah…” I reply cautiously, my heart gradually decreasing its rapid beating to a normal pace.
“Well, he’s left Sophie.”
“What? I thought they were okay.”
“So did everyone. But clearly they aren’t, and he’s left…I don’t know. I’m not aware of all the details; all I know is that Sophie’s got Cam to take care of, work to do…not to mention she’s crushed about her marriage. She needs someone to help her right now.”
“But can’t you’re mom help her?” I demand, before realizing just how selfish I sounded. I suppose I can’t help it. I just want Cat all to myself.
“No, she’s…she’s got my dad to worry about,” says Cat hesitantly, an ever wearier, more depressed tone taking over her voice.
“Your pops? What’s wrong with him?”
She’s quiet for a moment, before a choked sob rips its way out of her throat, startling me.
“Cat, what’s happened?”
“Oh God Justin, it was so awful. I had to go and see him in hospital, and he just looked so helpless on that cold bed surrounded by all those machines…”
“Baby, slow down, I can’t understand you. Just tell me what happened,” I say as calmly as I can, trying to soothe her as she rambles incoherently. Trace frowns and steps closer to me, folding his arms across his chest as he leans against the island and listens.
“He had a stroke.” My mouth drops open wordlessly but she carries on before I can utter a thing. “Not a major one. We were lucky. And I know he’ll be out in a week or so, but it’s just so horrible to see him in that place…” she breaks off into a sob again, her gentle cries hitting every single nerve of mine.
“Oh sweetheart, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she splutters through her tears, her voice contorted from her crying. “Everything just happened so…so quickly, and suddenly. I mean, what if he had died Justin…”
“Baby, he’s not going to die,” I firmly establish, the image of her breaking down in tears stabbing my heart like a knife tipped with poison. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
“Really?” she sniffs.
“Of course. This has just all happened so unexpectedly and you’re a little overwhelmed at the moment. Why don’t you go and take a nice long bath, and then go to bed, hmm? Things will seem ten times better in the morning.”
She sighs, her breathing calming down to a less erratic speed. “I suppose so. My head is just buzzing. I’m sorry I left so abruptly, but it’s not like I was doing anything up there and I may as well help out as much as I can before I start looking for work, so…”
“No, I understand. It’s not your fault,” I reply, kicking the soles of my socked feet against the floor. “Do you want me to come up there?”
She pauses, and I can just see her biting her lip like she does when she’s torn between decisions. Finally, she answers, “No…no, I can’t ask you to do that. Not when you’ve just started work on your album and--”
“Sweetheart, you know you mean more to me than a thousand albums. If you need me up there, I’ll be there in a second.”
She sighs, and to my horror I think I hear her crying again. “Oh God, Justin, I know you would…”
Just as I was preparing to hang up and call for the next flight, her voice came through again, more determined. “No, no…I won’t let you do that. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure? Because I could probably get a flight tomorrow morning.”
“No, honestly, I’ll manage. You just work hard on making musical history up there,” she laughs. “How was the studio today?”
“Fine. Amber and I were doing really well.”
“I will be calling Trace regularly to check that things with you two are purely platonic…”
Her laugh tells me that she’s just teasing and I smile. The grin fades however, as I look down at my feet. “When are you coming home?” I ask shyly.
She sighs. “I don’t know. I mean, my mom needs help with my dad, Sophie needs help with Cameron, it sounds like Dawn is freaking out over the whole situation…I could be down here for a few weeks.”
“But Cat--”
“I’m sorry Justin, but I have to be here. You know I’d rather be in New York sightseeing and taking my first walk in Central Park, but I can’t. My family needs me.”
“So do I,” I whine like some desperate kid left for his first day at preschool.
She laughs. “I know you do, but you have me all the time. It’s only fair that they get a little of me too.”
Smiling, I straighten up. “I can pay you. Whatever they’re giving you to be down there, I’ll double it.”
She giggles, and I pray that her tears are at bay, for now at least. It’s always especially heartbreaking when Cat cries, because it has to be something fairly deep to hit her emotions like that. Apart from when she starts whining about the way she looks or weight, but I’ve come to the conclusion that’s just a universal attribute of women’s.
“You just want to indulge in a little prostitute role play, Justin.”
I let out a throat chuckle, pangs of longing to be with her already striking my chest. “Call me big daddy.”
“We’ve already discussed that particular incestuous nickname more times than I care to count, Justin. Accept that it is never happening.”
Smiling, I lean against the island, ignoring Trace’s questioning look. “I had paparazzi outside my door today. They snapped me walking into the building.”
“Well exactly,” she says sensibly. “This is a good time to let things cool down after that ridiculous article this morning. If they don’t see me for a little while, they’ll just assume they got it wrong and people won’t care by the time I get back.”
“Okay,” I reply. “Listen sweetheart, you sound really tired. Why don’t you go and take that bath and call me tomorrow, okay?”
She yawns. “Sure. I miss you already,” she chuckles.
“I know, I know…you want me in that tub with you, I understand.”
She lets out another laugh. “I certainly do. I could always do with having my hair washed with bubble bath.”
“That was one time, okay? I couldn’t see the label on the bottle!”
“Alright, well I’d better go.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you too,” she replies coyly.
“Call me if there’s a problem, I’ll be up there like a bullet.”
“Will do. Bye.”
Flipping my phone shut with a sigh, I look up at Trace. “Well?” he prods.
“It’s a long story,” I reply.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The horribly antiseptic smell of the hospital greeted my nose as I stepped back into the dreaded white walls of the building for the second time in the past forty eight hours. I had seen my dad the night before, after shouting at the bitch of a receptionist that I didn’t care if visiting times were over, I was seeing my father.
I hate hospitals, just being inside of one fills me with a nervous anticipation for the worst. Then again, who walks into a hospital thinking “Well, isn’t this just great?”? Something about the way people are either running around, rushing people into surgery or they are settling into those odd lulls of peacefulness, where nobody seems to move at all and it’s just waiting, waiting, waiting.
But I braved it for my dad. I can’t imagine how much he hates being here, strapped to some hard bed that isn’t his. When I was speaking to him he said he thought about just ripping off all of those little wires and stalking off because he was so bored. If there’s one thing my father hates it’s staying still and doing nothing, which is exactly what he’s forced to do as doctors and nurses buzz around him, fussing over him. I know they’re doing their job, but I just wanted them to leave him alone.
Walking along the white corridors with a dark blue strip running through the white, I arrive at his room. I open the door and walk inside, gripping a few books that he wanted to keep him amused. By standards, he’s quite young to be in hospital; he just turned fifty three a few months ago. That just makes the sight of seeing him stuck here even worse.
“Knock knock,” I say quietly, not wanting to startle him as I walked into his room, holding his various books about World War Two to my chest.
“Hey Catherine,” he says, sitting up slightly in his bed at my appearance.
“Morning Catherine,” greets my mom, standing up from the hard blue seat she’s refused to leave ever since my dad went into hospital.
The only people in the world aside from those that don’t know me at all that call my Catherine are my parents. I have no clue why the didn’t pick up on saying Cat like everyone else did, but for some reason it just feels right to hear them call me by my proper Christian name. It’s almost a nickname in itself, as no one ever calls me Catherine anyway.
“How are you?” my mom asks, taking the books from me.
“Fine. How about you two?”
“These ridiculous doctors are keeping me in here,” my dad mutters bitterly, folding his arms across his chest stubbornly.
“These ridiculous doctors are not allowing him to go out and cause himself even more damage by gallivanting around the place,” my mom adds, sending my dad a condescending gaze. “They need to make sure you don’t get another weak leg, Tom.”
My father rolls his brown eyes. “That is exactly the type of superstitious behavior that is dragging down America’s health service.”
“Soph’s got a meeting today, so I’m picking up Cameron,” I interrupt swiftly, recognizing my dad‘s preparation for a lengthy discussion on the health service. “She goes to St. Peters, right?”
“Yes,” my mother replies. “Just like you did.”
“At three o'clock, right?”
She nods. “It’s so kind of you to help your sister out like this, Catherine.”
I shrug. “It’s the least I can do. She is my sister, after all.”
“How are you finding New York? Do you remember it from when you were younger?” asks my father, preparing himself for the chit chat we didn’t have last night because I erupted into tears at the sight of him bed-ridden and he was drowsy from the prescription medicine. It wasn’t a good meeting.
I smile. “Dad, please. When I went to visit Uncle Alex I didn’t do anything touristy, I just went to ghettos to watch people that were a lot cooler than myself get into gang fights.” He laughs. “I haven’t even been to Central Park.”
“Sometimes I wonder whether sending you there ever summer was just a waste of money.”
“Well…it was,” I say cheerfully, sitting down on one of the uncomfortable seats. “But yes, I’m enjoying it.”
“How’s Justin?” my mom asks, a dreamy look coming into her eyes.
I refrain from rolling my eyes. “He’s as wonderful as usual.”
“He’s such a nice boy,” she continues, twisting a strand of her short brown hair the exact same color as mine around her fingers girlishly. “So polite and handsome.”
“Or so he would have you believe,” I mutter.
“And what about that other strange boy that you live with?” asks my father, smiling.
“He’s not a boy, dad. He’s twenty four years old.”
My father shrugs. “He’s still strange.”
“He’s fine,” I reply, grinning. “I talked to Justin last night, actually. He had no idea where I was.”
“I suppose he understands,” says my mother.
“Of course.”
She sighs happily. “I thought he would. You find that southern men are usually the most considerate.”
“Susan, shut up,” my dad says jokingly, avoiding the swat my mom aimed at his head. “No, I agree with your mother there, Catherine. He is a lovely boy.”
I smile. “Oh, I know.” I let out a little gasp of delight. “Things are just so fantastic. We’re at this strange point where we know we have flaws…but it almost doesn’t matter, you know? Because we work around them and it just makes our relationship that little bit weirder…sorry, I’m probably making no sense,” I shrug sheepishly, grinning at them, fully expecting a lecture on how to form a grammatically correct sentence.
“I don’t suppose you two are thinking about tying the knot, are you?”
“Oh God no, dad,” I jump back in surprise, shaking my head. “Absolutely not, no.”
“Just asking,” he shrugs. “I would bet money that you two will be in wedlock within these next two years.”
“Dad, don’t be stupid,” I retort, rolling my eyes at him. My parents like to think they’re perfect matchmakers, but I remember not so long ago them adamantly exclaiming that Bill Clinton would never cheat with ‘that Lewinsky girl’ because he was so dedicated to his wife. I think that is evidence enough to prove my statement.
“Why are you suddenly talking about marriage?”
“Well, I was thinking, what if this had been more serious? What if I had died, or…”
“Dad, don’t--”
“No Catherine, it’s something I’ve had to think about, being in here. What if I never got to see you grow up? What if I never get to walk you down the aisle?”
“Jesus dad, you’re even more depressing than I am,” I groan, burying my head in my hands and massaging my head. “And in case you haven’t noticed, I am grown up.”
He smiles. “No you’re not, you’re still a child.”
“I am not! I’m twenty two!” I exclaim, my head snapping up. I sound like one of those highly irritating teenagers that stomp off to their room after their parents refuse to extend their curfew screaming, ‘I’m not a child!’
“You know what I mean…a proper woman, with children and a family.”
“Hold on…you want me to have a family?” This is a tad ironic. My parents always threatened to kill me if I had a child before twenty five, because children age you. Your youth is supposed to be the most selfish time of your life, but with children you always have to put them first. They always wanted me to have a life before I tied myself down like that.
“No, no, I’m just saying. I think that you and Justin are going to come to the stage where you either take that big leap to be with each other for the rest of your lives, or you don’t.” My dad shrugs. “But that’s just my opinion.”
Your opinion scares me shitless, dearest daddy. Marriage? Children? Of course, one day, but I doubt in the next year or two. If I wanted a promised, stable marriage with adorable children running around by the time I was twenty three, then I would have married Sean.
“Dad, where on earth is this coming from?” I ask in bewilderment, wondering whether they had broken all laws against it and given my father cannabis for medical uses.
“I’m just pointing out that you could be very happy with him, Catherine. Very, very happy. I mean look at you now, even as you’re worrying about me and your sister with her own marriage problems, you’re still in a better place than I’ve ever seen you. Justin has somehow managed to capture a little part of you and made your life worth living, right?”
“Um…”
“Catherine,” he sighs, and I can see him revving up for an inspirational, parental talk with me. “How many times have you been in love?”
“Twice.”
“Right, and presumably the second one is Justin?” I nod. “What does it feel like?”
“It’s not perfect, we have our issues…” I mutter uncomfortable. I suppose this is just the automatic response to a brush with death, but I don’t understand why my father is suddenly delving quite so deep into my relationship. My parents and I acknowledge that my love life and theirs are matters that don’t concern each other; I don’t want to hear about some fling my mother had in the seventies, or vice versa.
“But try to imagine your life without him. Try to picture not waking up beside him every day, try to think of you and Justin just…ceasing to exist as a couple.”
“It would be awful, I would be crushed. But why are you telling me this?”
“Because Catherine, love won’t always be like this. Let’s say you and Justin got married…you would have to work at it, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course.”
“That’s all I need you to remember Catherine, you have to work at it. Things don’t fall into place magically.”
“You’re really starting to make me worry, dad,” I say, eyeing him suspiciously. “You’ve only met Justin a few times. I didn’t realize you two were big buddies.”
“We’re not. I barely know the guy. But I can see the difference in you, and I know that he’s done something to you that no one has ever managed to do before.”
“Um…okay,” I reply slowly, frowning as I look to my mom, who shrugs.
“So just remember, even when things get tough, you must remember that he is worth the work, he is the one you’re supposed to be with, okay?”
“So you’re saying that even when things go bad, I just have to get through them because things will ultimately be beneficial for me?”
“More than beneficial Catherine, they’ll make the ride of your life a lot more enjoyable to take. Just remember that, okay?”
I hate these talks. I hate the times your parents sit you down, eye you with a concerned look, and then say something like, “Honey, life has its ups and downs, and you just have to cling on for dear life as you go over every hill…” It’s such an awkward position, because you want to listen to them and take on their valid advice, but at the same time you really don’t want to have to hear a bad version of Jerry’s Final Thought.
My parents kindly spare me on these talks usually, but…my father has got it bang on. Justin and I know that we’re either at the brink of something great or something terrible with our relationship. What if I encounter paparazzi on a larger scale and freak out? What if Justin’s jealous finally get the better of him and he completely loses his trust in me? Or equally, the other way around?
Is my father saying that for my own sake…for my happiness’ sake, no matter what hits us, I’ve got to stick it out? It would make sense, especially as the thousands of factors that are bound to hit us in the next few months with the release of his album and such could potentially ruin us…perhaps my dad is seeing this as the calm before the storm, so he’s cramming as much advice in as he can.
“Oh sorry, I have to go and pick up Cameron, but I’ll try and come by later, all right?” I say quickly, glancing at the clock.
“Great,” my mom says, standing up to give me a hug. “He’s just had a lot of time to think about things,” she whispers in my ear before pulling away, winking at me before I kiss my father on the cheek.
Justin. I sigh as I walk out of the hospital, kicking tufts of grass as I walk towards Cameron’s school to pick her up. Part of me is unwillingly to admit that yes, I miss Justin already. If he were here, he’d be full of jokes and laughter, but at the same time he’d know when to pull it back and be serious…but I refused to let him leave his work just to come down here and sort of hang around me, cheering me up when I asked him to. I know he would in a heartbeat if I asked him, but I won’t.
Doesn’t mean I don’t still wish he was here anyway.
Leaning against one of the trees in the schoolyard, I take a glance around the school I attended for goodness knows how many years when I was younger. I immediately spot the places that mean something to me; the side of the science building where I tried my first cigarette, the steps where I cried my eyes out on prom night because Matthew had danced with that bitch Sharon Kockanowski, the stream of girls in shorts and t-shirts clutching their sides as the butch gym teacher ordered them to run around the track one more time, just like I had done…
But now I couldn’t be happier. Were those dark, bleak days of my teenage years the price I had to pay for living so well now? Will every unhappy, chubby girl on campus all grow up to have a fantastic boyfriend that seems to offer her the world on a regular basis?
I hope so.
But how long can this last? Justin and I have been together for, let’s see…eight months? Something like that? I guess we could still be classified as being in “the honeymoon period”, and are yet to take off those rose-tinted spectacles. We do argue, we have thunderous altercations at times, but we also participate in those sickening make-ups and tell each other how much we love each other at regular intervals. Things won’t always be like this…in fact, I should probably start counting the days until we get bored of each other and go for weeks without speaking directly to each other.
“Auntie Catty!” A lisped voice screams, and suddenly I spot the bouncy head of curls on my niece’s head in the crowd of running children.
“Hey, Cammy,” I say, holding my arms out to her and grasping her in a hug. Despite my complaints that children are noisy, irritating and Satan’s minions, I love children more than anything in the world. Even chocolate.
How can you not love them? As I take Cameron’s hand and her pink Barbie backpack to lead her back to Sophie’s house, she starts to talk and talk and talk about…nothing, really. She bounces between what happened at school that day, to who her friends are, to how many stickers she has on her reading book. She could talk for days about nothing in particular, and there would be nothing anyone could do to stop her.
“And then Miss Brian said that my drawing was the best in the class!”
“Really?” I smile, gripping her hand as I look both ways before crossing the street.
“Yup. It had a dog, a cat, and a duck.”
“That’s great Cam.”
“My daddy’s gonna real like it, dogs are his favorite,” she says happily, jumping over a crack in the sidewalk.
I freeze, an uneasy, embarrassed feeling taking over me. “Well…he’s not home right now, but you can show it to him as soon as he gets back.”
“Oh yeah,” she pauses, protruding her bottom lip in a pout. “I forgot.”
Biting my lip, we continue walking, and Cameron quickly starts chatting about what happened at recess. She’s so in the dark, it’s horrible. When I arrived yesterday, I didn’t really have the chance to talk about Malcolm with Sophie. I was tired and went straight to see my dad, before falling asleep in Sophie’s spare room without talking to her about it. I don’t know why he’s gone, where he’s gone, or what the chances of him coming back are.
As Cameron starts to sing the new song she learnt at school that day, I try to get my head around the thought of someone leaving their own child. How can they do that? I thought the bond between a parent and their baby was indestructible. Perhaps for some, it isn’t.
When we arrive back at the house, I quickly set Cameron to work on coloring in a piece of paper as I calmly wait for Cameron to finish so I can take her out for a treat. At the same time, the phone rings in the hall and I reach over to pick it up, expecting Sophie.
“Hello?”
“Do you have any idea how many Sophie’s you have in your address book? It’s taken me fifteen minutes to get the right number!”
“Hey Justin,” I smile.
“Hi baby, what’s up?”
“Nothing much. I’m just back from the hospital and picking up Cameron.”
“How’s your dad?” he asks quietly.
I shrug. “He’s okay. Pretending that he’s fine and trying to worm his way out of there, of course. Oh, he told me that we should get married, though. Apparently I’m not going to get any better than you.”
Justin laughs, sending shivers down my spine even from hundreds of miles away.
“So I could be with you for the rest of my life,” I continue. “How depressing.”
“Don’t sound too pleased,” he teases.
“I’m not. Where are you?” I ask, clasping the phone to my ear and sitting down at the table with Cameron.
“We came home for a late lunch and Amber and Trace are still talking away, so I thought I’d give you a call. I found this and a million other numbers in your phone book. Do you know that have somebody called Horatio’s number?”
“Oh yeah. He was a stripper for my friend’s twenty first.”
“I’ll be scribbling out that name, then…”
Giggling, I stand up to get a carton of apple juice out for Cam. “How’s work?”
“It’s okay. We’ve got half of a song already, which is pretty cool for the first three days.”
“Good,” I reply, sticking a straw in for her. “Are there still cameramen hanging around you?”
“Yes,” he groans. “Even more, right on my doorstep. I almost flipped them off this morning.”
“Classy.”
“I was in a bad mood!” he moans, his whining voice tickling my ears. “Do you know how much it sucks not having you sleeping beside me?”
“I can only imagine.”
“Let’s make up for it…let’s have phone sex!” I giggle and hear the smile coming through in his voice. “Say something dirty.”
“Cameron just spilt her apple juice,” I reply with a broad grin, reaching over to get some towels to mop up the liquid.
“Ooh, that’s naughty.”
Laughing, I shake my head. “I’d better go. I can’t tie up Sophie’s line.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll call you later sweetheart.”
“Bye Justin. And Cameron says bye too,” I add, looking at the animated waving five year old.
He chuckles. “Bye to both of you beautiful ladies.”
Laughing, I hang up the phone and return it to its cradle, sighing contentedly as I sit back down with Cameron.
“Catty?”
“Yes?” I respond, turning away from gazing out of the window.
“Was that your special friend?”
A smile eases over my face. “You mean Justin, honey?” See the effect children have on me? I haven’t said honey for about three years, and it was presumably in reference to some bees’ product.
“Yeah,” she replies, frowning in concentration as she shades over the butterfly on the page. “Why isn’t he here?”
“He has to work, sweetie. Up in New York,” I reply, running a finger through her tight ringlets.
“Is he going to be your husband?”
Did Justin and I get engaged and I just forgot about it? Why is everyone buzzing about marriage that includes me and yet I have no clue about?
Then again, the thought of marrying Justin and having a dozen curly haired cherubs running about with high pitched voices is dangerously appealing. In fact, I can imagine nothing more pleasurable than being with Justin forever and ever and ever, until we’re both old and gray and talking about ‘the old days’.
Stop it Cat. You sound like one of those pathetic girls that daydreams about her wedding and picks the church before she’s even got a boyfriend. I must self impose a strict rule of never fantasizing about marrying Justin, no matter how appetizing it may be.
“I don’t know. Um…maybe,” I decide, an involuntary grin once again spreading across my face at the thought of me wearing a stunning Vera Wang creation dares to creep into my mind. “Yeah, maybe. But he would have to ask me first.”
“Are you going to have a baby with him?”
I laugh. “No, not yet.”
“If you have a baby, what will you call it?”
“Oh, I don’t know…” I smile, handing her the pink crayon she was reaching out for. “What do you think I should call it?”
She finishes the final flower with flourish. “Princess Cinderella.”
I stifle the snort and quickly nod. “Good idea. And if it’s a boy?”
She jumps down from her chair and potters over to a drawer, rooting around for some tape so she can stick her picture on the wall. “Usher. Aunt Dawn says he’s cool.”
I laugh and pick her up, her tiny chubby legs wrapping around my waist. “Oh really? And what does Aunt Dawn say about my Justin?”
Cameron smiles and shrugs, her fingers attacking the earrings that Trace gave me for my birthday. “She says he’s got a nice tummy.”
I laugh and spin her around a little, causing her to scream in delight. “So you think me and my special friend should have a baby?”
She nods quickly, the little blonde curls bouncing up and down. “A girl. ‘Cause girls are better than boys.”
“Oh, of course,” I agree, nodding. Smiling, I set her down on the ground and clasp her little hand in mine. “Tell you what…I’ll think about the baby, and we’ll go and get an ice cream. What do you say?”
She giggles and runs into the hall closet, picking out some sandals and trying to work the hook with great determination. Sighing, I bend down and do them for her, feeling her hand immediately returning to mine once I’m done.
“I’ve missed you lots and lots,” she says, standing on her tiptoes to open the front door.
Dropping a kiss on her forehead, I smile warmly. “I’ve missed you too.”
“And if you don’t marry Mr. Justin…can I?”
I laugh at pull out my sunglasses, shielding my eyes from the harsh glare of the sun as we walk along to the ice cream parlor. “Sure.”
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