Page 17 of Adrift

“Oh, wow,” she moans, her eyes closed as she chews around her first bite. When she finally opens them back up, they lock on to mine–chocolate pools glittering under lashes and brows so thick, you’d wonder if they were painted or glued on. They don’t seem to be. “This is so good, Darian! Did you make it?”

I force my eyes back to my plate. “I don’t cook much, but I can grill and make pretty decent salads. My mom brought over the lavash earlier.”

It wasn’t an easy conversation to have with my mom this weekend. She made me feel like an asshole for taking her time with her grandson away, but thankfully, between me, my brothers, and my dad, we all managed to get it through her head that this was the best thing for her. So, she reluctantly booked her first physical therapy session today with a place that specializes in working with osteoporosis patients.

“Mmm.” Rani hums around another mouthful of food, and I remind myself to focus on my food, though it feels almost unpalatable on my tongue.

Rani coos at my son, pointing to the spoon sitting on his tray, not that he’ll use it. The kid likes to dig in with his hands and make a mess of his tray and his bib. She gets up to give him a kiss on his cheek, even though he’s covered in cheese, making him giggle while causing the dull, ever-present ache between my ribs to intensify.

A part of me wonders if I’m doing the right thing by employing someone I know he’ll get attached to, only for her to leave at the end of summer. Will he look for her everywhere once she’s gone? Will he wonder where she went and if she’ll ever come back?

But what alternative do I have? Any unrelated nanny could leave just the same. At least with his aunt, Arman gets that unconditional, unadulterated love he deserves. The kind of love that perhaps comes second only to that of his own mom . . ..

Fuck.

An image of Sonia comes to the forefront of my brain, and I feel a boulder settle between my ribs. Even after all this time, I can’t wrap my head around the abruptness of it all. How she was there one minute and gone the next.

How everything changed in the matter of an instant.

I stab my fork into the last bit of salad on my plate, thinking about the past couple of years before she died. It felt like nothing I did made Sonia happy. She was either always pissed off or completely withdrawn, and I remember the hopelessness that would settle into my chest as soon as I laid down next to her at night–with her back turned to me–and again when I awoke the next morning.

She was a ghost of herself, physically there, but never present.

Unlike now, where she’s physically gone, but her ghost is ever-present.

Sonia blamed all our problems on me working too much–and maybe she was right–but I certainly felt her pull away even when I was home. Even when I tried to bring her to bed . . . to make her happy.

It was in the heat of an overblown argument about how I forgot to turn on the fucking dishwasher before bed one night that I suggested we start seeing a therapist. Enough was enough, and I knew we needed help or we weren’t going to survive.

I suppose we didn’t survive in the end, anyway.

Sonia opened up about issues during those conversations that I didn’t even know we had. I swear, there were times I recall gaping at her like she’d grown another head because what she would tell the therapist was so out of left field for me. Like how she felt trapped in our marriage or that she felt unfulfilled.

Trapped?

Unfulfilled?

What the fuck was she talking about? How could I have lived with someone all that time and not have known the basics–the fucking fundamentals–about her wants and needs? Had my head really been stuck that far deep in the sand?

The therapist gave us some methods to help us communicate better–to understand each other’s ‘emotional calls,’ as she had termed it–and for a while, they seemed to work. Things between us, including our sex life, were heading in the right direction.

So when Sonia told me that she was pregnant, I was ecstatic. Hopeful.

She’d often be withdrawn and in her own world during the pregnancy, but I occasionally saw a glimmer of hope in her eyes. I hoped that it–and the baby–was enough to save us.

But I suppose I’ll never know.

I clear my throat, putting my fork down and watch Rani finish eating. “I had my mom type up Arman’s schedule–nap times, meal times, etc. When he hits growth spurts, all that goes flying out the window, but for the most part, the schedule should help you get into a rhythm with him.”

“Oh, that’ll be really helpful!” She smiles, tearing off a piece of the bread. “I can always message your mom if I need anything.”

“You can message me, too. And please don’t feel like you need to take care of him over the weekends. I have it worked out with my staff so I’m usually home during the weekends, unless we’re short-staffed, like we were this past Saturday.” I eye the brace still on her hand. When she texted me yesterday to confirm she’d be coming, she told me her hand was already feeling a lot better.

She looks over at my son and smiles again. “Well, I’d be happy to help any time you need, but okay, I’ll take the weekends off and go check out that nursing home I passed by on my drive here.”

My brows furrow. “Nursing home?”

She nods before chewing on her bottom lip, as if she’s wondering why she even said anything. “Yeah. I, uh . . .. It all started as a journalism project I did in high school. I interviewed elderly people at various nursing homes and asked them to recount the stories of the greatest love of their lives. Sometimes it was their spouse, and other times it was someone they’d pined for but for whatever reason, couldn’t be with. I posted their accounts–with their permission, of course–on a blog I called, The Soulmate Spiel.” She shrugs. “I’ve kept it going ever since, and whenever I have a bit of time, I volunteer at a couple of local nursing homes and interview anyone who is interested.”

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