Page 11 of Secret Triplets, Second Chances
LARA
“ I could totally lead a safari,” Zachery says.
He sits at the breakfast bar, his elbows against the counter, while I cut cantaloupe into little stars. I should have prepped my fruit shapes at the start of the week, but I was too busy studying for my pediatrics development final.
It’s early in the morning, much earlier than Zachery would normally be awake, but he got here yesterday and isn’t back on US time just yet.
Even with his recent red-eye flight, he looks amazing — bright, tight skin, smiling, his hands moving animatedly along with his descriptions.
His hair is bright blue now, but he’s talking about doing a split die.
And he hasn’t even had a cup of coffee yet.
“You could,” I say, though I’m only halfway invested in the conversation.
Since arriving yesterday, Zachery has told me all about how nightclubs differ in other countries, how difficult it is to work as a tour guide when everyone just wants to film you the entire time and, more specifically, how he was recently rejected for a safari guide position.
“He said he didn’t think I’d be levelheaded under pressure .” Zachery looks at me with a bugged-out expression that says, isn’t that stupid ? and I nod while secretly agreeing with the interviewer. Zachery is not good under pressure.
It’s best that he’s not trying to direct a group in the midst of a rhinoceros attack.
I’m thinking about what that would look like and listening to Zachery talk about his future plans in France, when my almost five-year-old son Aster comes stumbling into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing at his eyes.
Like always, when I see him, it makes my body light up, joy exploding out in my chest like a firework, stretching through to the rest of my limbs and gathering up at the ends of my fingertips.
“Hey, Aster,” Zachery says, reaching out and holding his fist out for a fist bump. Aster slowly raises his fist to Zachery’s, then turns to come to me. I watch the moment he realizes.
“Uncle Zach!” he says, turning, his eyes widening as he runs for his makeshift uncle, who crashes with us once or twice a year and always comes with gifts.
“Hey, buddy,” Zachery says, squeezing Aster in his arms and closing his eyes. I keep working on the fruit and watch them, thinking about the first time Zachery held Aster in his arms and how scared he had been to drop or hurt him. “You’re getting so big!”
Now, Zachery stands up, lifting Aster right up with him, so my son lets out a little squeal and laughs, his voice muffled against Zachery’s shoulder.
Another voice sounds from the doorway, “Zachery?”
We turn to see Chrys standing there, eyes wide like she’s found Santa Claus leaving presents under the tree. She says his name like Zach-ry , and holds a pink teddy bear loosely in her right hand, where it brushes against the skirt of her pink nightgown.
“Uncle Zach is here?” a little voice shouts from another room.
“Watch out!” Aster says to Zachery, laughing with delight as Daffy comes barreling into the room, wearing her green alligator pajamas and launching herself at Zachery with the iconic lack of consideration for personal space she’s had since she was an infant.
If someone was going to roll off a changing table or grab your boob for stability, it was Daffy, running gleefully through life without ever considering that she might trip. Not quite understanding that other bodies feel things, and still thinking hers capable of anything.
Zachery catches her in his arms and tosses her in the air once before letting her back down. She throws her arms around his thigh and squeezes, laughing as he tries to free himself from her grip.
“The whole gang is here,” Zachery says once the three of them are sitting at the table, each kicking their feet. I move quickly, depositing fruit and tiny pancakes for each, fetching little sausages from the microwave and adding them to their plates while they cheer.
There are many ways I’ve been lucky throughout the years, and one of them is that none of my babies are picky eaters.
Without thinking, I put a plate down in front of Zachery, too, and he laughs, shaking his head and diving, good-naturedly, into the tiny breakfast.
I take a moment to breathe and sip on my coffee before it’s time for brushing hair and teeth, washing faces, getting dressed.
Zachery helps, consulting with Chrys about which of her dresses she should wear and siding with me when I tell Daffy she can’t wear a dirty pair of overalls to daycare today.
“Mom?” Chrys asks from her booster seat behind me. I glance at her in the rearview mirror while Zachery finishes buckling Aster in behind the passenger seat.
“Yes, darling?” I start the SUV, get the air moving inside, and watch as Daffy’s sweaty little bangs start to move in the very back seat.
“When it’s our birthday…” she glances at the other two briefly, but Aster is focusing on the toy truck in his hand, and Daffy looks like she might fall back to sleep after the excitement of the morning.
Anxiety rises up inside me. Every time they talk about birthdays, I start to wonder if they’re going to ask me for a dad, or ask me why they don’t have one. I know the day is coming, and no matter how many times Zachery and I talk it through, I feel like I’m never going to get the moment right.
“When it’s our birthday,” Chrys repeats, giggling a bit to herself, “can we have a bouncy house?”
“I can make that happen,” Zachery says, sliding into the passenger seat, sweaty from wrestling with Aster’s buckle. “Remember that guy from Cleveland? He just started a party rentals company in Minneapolis.”
“Sure.” I smile at Chrys in the back seat, and we pull out of the driveway, somehow five minutes late despite the extra help this morning.
Chrys and Aster giggle together about something in the back seat, and Zachery practically melts into his, and I can’t stop myself from smiling.
No matter how hectic it feels in the mornings, I go to bed every night thinking it was completely worth it.
“Good morning!”
I jump and turn, seeing Ellie rushing toward me, her scrubs already on, a bright smile on her face.
We’re in the university’s journalism building today because the nursing building is under construction, so Ellie earns a few interested glances from the other students around her.
This building is newer and full of TVs, which play every news station, flickering through breaking stories and feature pieces as we walk past them. It makes me feel a little on edge, slightly dystopian.
“Good morning,” I reply, nodding and turning to walk with her. She and I have the kind of location-based friendship that never really leaves the bounds of where we work. We first met at the nursing school at the community college, and now we’re both here at the university.
“I’m so excited for clinicals today,” she says, letting out a breath of excitement. “Also, do you know that I met someone the other day who said they want to work in med-surge ?”
“LPN?” I ask, glancing at her, and she nods.
“Are you still going after the certificate?” Ellie asks after a second, and I nod, thinking about my upcoming test for the obstetrics certification, and a flutter of nervousness travels through me.
“I am.” We push through the doors of the classroom together, and I glance over at her scrubs. “You know Reynolds is going to give you shit for your scrubs, right?”
“I know,” she chirps, moving to sit in a seat by the aisle. “But I don’t have any time between class today and my clinicals slot. So, I’m wearing this, and Reynolds can suck my?—”
She cuts herself off but mimes a gesture to me, and I laugh, shaking my head at her. We’re twenty minutes early for class, and the massive screen at the front of the space is turned to an amalgamation of news stories, journalists, reporters, and weather screens.
In the top left corner is a face I’ve seen before and continue to see in my dreams sometimes. A man I only search on the internet when I’m sure my kids aren’t around and when I have a glass of wine ready so I can feel sorry for myself.
Jake Bradson.
Ellie continues going through her options for specialties, brings up listings for RVs and starts talking about becoming a traveling nurse, but I can only half listen to her.
On the screen, Jake is in his hockey gear — some team in California — and he’s leaning down, grabbing another player by the front of their jersey, driving his fist into the man’s face.
My first instinct is that this guy must have done something to deserve it, that Jake wouldn’t hit someone like that for no reason. My second instinct is to remind myself that it’s been five years, that I don’t know him anymore.
Even as I followed him through his college career, and even as I cheered privately when he won awards and helped his team win big games, I didn’t really know him.
I lost the privilege of knowing him.
“Hello, earth to Lara?”
When I blink, an expensive RV comes into focus in front of me.
“I mean,” Ellie says, giggling, “it has a jacuzzi! It doesn’t get better than a traveling jacuzzi.”
I resist the urge to glance back at the screen again, to find out more information about this fight, which seems like a bigger deal than the usual hockey fights.
“Yeah,” I say, hoping Ellie can’t hear how half-hearted my answer is. “You probably can’t.”