Page 25 of The Single Dad's Guide to Recreation

“She’s still with us, just not her old self.” That’s as much information as I usually share. My mom’s pretty private about her diagnosis. But something makes me add, “She has chronic COVID.”

If I hadn’t been living with them, I doubt they would’ve figured out that it wasn’t just menopause slowing my mom down. If I didn’t have such a flexible schedule, where I could drive my mom to Hudson, and then Albany as we tried to figure out what was causing her extreme fatigue and depression, it would’ve been even harder to get the diagnosis, or what passes for one since there’s no real test. At least she’s eligible for disability, but it doesn’t make living with the condition any less tricky.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I knew several people with it back in the city. It’s a tough thing to live with.”

“It is,” I agree, thinking how, even now, it’s hard to tell if her anxiety is a result of long-haul COVID or the fact that she can’t do all the things she used to. “My dad lives with chronic pain, so there were times I’d come home from work to find them both still in bed.”

“So you live with your parents too?”

“I do. They need the help and I’m the only one of my siblings left in town.” His wording takes a moment to hit home. “Are you saying that you live with your parents?” He’s so accomplished and put together, it’s hard to imagine him moving back home.

“For me, it’s becauseIneed the help. I couldn’t have gone back to work full time without them.” He clears his throat. “So your camp. It sounds perfect for Mabel. When can she start?”

I spend the rest of the week and the entire weekend berating myself for the pickle I’ve gotten myself into. I may have successfully fixed his daughter’s day camp problem, but neither he nor I managed to bring up his plans for CPR programming. Not to mention that possibly fateful kiss. Considering the number of times I replayed the encounter over the weekend, I doubt I’ll ever be able to talk to him about anything in person without wanting to kiss him again, as unprofessional as that is.

What can I say? The bell made me do it?

Monday morning, I’m trying this argument on for size when my office phone rings. It takes me a moment to shake off the lust haze enough to answer. “This is Avery.”

“Ms. Mills?”

Nobody calls me Ms. Mills. Even the kids call me Miss Avery. And I don’t recognize the older male voice. “This is she.”

“I’m so sorry to bother you. This is Bert Harmon. Josh's dad?”

“Oh, hello. How are you?”

“Well, I’ve been better. Again, I’m so sorry to call you like this but we don’t know many people in town yet and we’ve got a small problem.”

“No worries. How can I help?”

“Well, Frieda—that’s my wife—has broken her ankle.”

“Oh my goodness. Is she okay?”

“She’ll survive.” Something crashes in the background. “Percy’s with us at Urgent Care, and you can imagine how that’s going.”

As if on cue, I hear a familiar squeaky voice shout out, “Pussy!”

“Yep, that’s you buddy,” Mr. Harmon says. “So, the other part of the problem is, Josh is in New York for the day, and I haven’t been able to get him on the phone. Even if I do, it’s at least a couple hours on the train to get back here.”

“Do you want me to come get Percy?”

“I know you’re probably at work and it’s an imposition but?—”

“It’s no problem. I’m just doing paperwork. I can swing by and pick him up and he can hang out here for the rest of the afternoon. You probably know that Mabel started camp here last week.”

“It actually might be more than just the afternoon.” As he talks, I shut down my computer and scrawl aBe Back Soonnote, which I pin to my door. “The break is bad enough that the doctor here thinks she needs surgery, which means we’ve got to drive to the hospital in Albany.”

“Oh, dear. That sounds awful.” Grabbing my keys and my bag, I pull my office door shut and head for my car.

“They gave her something for the pain and the ankle is stabilized but she’s pretty uncomfortable.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. You just take care of Mrs. Harmon.”

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Harmon and I have moved the car seats from his car to mine and I’ve got Percy buckled in with one of those cheap little toys they hand out at doctors’ offices, a squishy ball already covered in drool. “Looks like somebody’s teething.”

“He is. There are some little drops in the side pocket if he gets fussy.” Mr. Harmon sets a large diaper bag on the front seat. “I hope I’ll be back before dinner, but just in case, keys to the house and the address are also in there.”

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