One True Theory of Love (20 page)

“No, you may not.” Meg felt like knocking her head against the steering wheel. How thick in the head was this kid?
Who
was this kid?

“Why not?” Henry said.

“Because I said so.”

“I hate when you say that.”

“And I hate saying it,” she snapped. “So when I say no, that’s it. End of discussion.”

“Can I later?”

Meg gripped the steering wheel to keep from screaming at him. “I’m not talking to you right now.”

She jerked to a stop at the sign on Third and Treat streets and started up again with a whiplash-worthy acceleration. A woman coming in the opposite direction on Treat in a green Mercedes station wagon made a slow-down gesture at her and Meg’s first impulse was to flip her off, even though she knew perfectly well the woman was right.

“Mom,” Henry said.

“Not now, Henry.”

“But why—”

Meg yanked the steering wheel to the right and came to a fast stop on the side of the road. She twisted to look Henry dead in the eye. “Enough with the questions. Let me ask
you
one. What in God’s name possessed you to call your father, and where did you get his number?”

Henry shrank back in his seat. “That’s actually two questions.”

Meg glared at him. “I
actually
have never been so mad at you in my entire life as I am right now.”

“I won’t talk anymore.” Henry’s voice was a squeak. “I won’t say another word all the way home.”

“Thank you,” Meg said. “We will drive in silence, and when we get home, we will talk.”

“Okay,” Henry said and then added, “Oops.”

Meg faced forward, closed her eyes and tried to summon her place of central calm. But Jonathan’s face popped into her mind and then Ahmed’s appeared right next to it, and when
Henry’s
face popped in between them, Meg knew the pursuit of calm was useless. She inched Coop back onto the road and drove five miles below the speed limit for the final few blocks.

Once home, they walked in silence from the parking lot to their apartment, Henry behind Meg, head down. Her little soccer star was drooping, and sympathy tugged at Meg’s heart-strings. It was so easy to get mad at him, yet so hard to stay that way. He clearly had no idea about the can of worms he’d opened—of the unintended consequences, of which Meg was sure there’d be many. After she unlocked the door, she turned and gruffly kissed his sweaty scalp.

Henry went directly to the living room couch, sank down onto it and began unlacing his soccer cleats. Meg poured him a glass of lemonade and set it on the end table nearest him and went to her favorite armchair. Sitting down, she felt dissatisfied. They were supposed to be cuddled together on Ahmed’s couch, drinking hot chocolate, and Meg was supposed to be getting off on the softness of Ahmed’s flannel shirt. Instead, here she and Henry were, about to embark on their most difficult discussion to date.

“Okay, Henry, I love you. Let’s start there,” she began. “It’s obvious I’m angry. I don’t know what’s going on with you that you felt you needed to call Jonathan. I simply don’t understand. Tell me what was going through your mind.”

Henry pulled off his shoes and stripped off his shin guards and long socks as if he hadn’t heard her. Meg watched him, expressionless, until he met her eyes.

“What did he tell you?” he said.

“All we’re going to talk about right now is why you felt the need to call him.” Meg’s voice was even-tempered, but her anger bubbled beneath the surface because once again, unsurprisingly, Henry was pulling a Henry. He just sat and looked at her, rock-dumb.

“Speak,” she said, “or I will begin to yell.”

“Why should I?” he said. “You’re just going to get mad at me.”

“I’m already mad at you,” Meg said. “Trust me, you’ve got nowhere to go but up.”

“Did he tell you that I called him? Is that how you know?”

“How else would I know, Henry?”

“Did he tell you
when
I called him?”

“Henry,” she warned.

“Did he tell you
why
I called him?”

“Henry, you’ve got less than one second to start explaining.”

Henry stood, defiant. “If you want to know, call him back and ask him.” As if frightened by his own audacity, he sprint-walked to his bedroom and slipped inside. Meg heard the soft click of the lock and decided not to go after him.

E
ventually, Meg’s maternal instinct kicked in and she grew worried about the silence in Henry’s room. She knew he was in there—he’d promised her once that he’d never run away, and so far, he’d never broken a promise to her. But he was an antsy kid, not one to sit still, not one to take naps, not one to read a book for this long.

She went to his room and tapped on the door. “Henry?” She made her voice soft, loving, and then tried the knob, which was still locked. “Open up, please.”

She heard the covers on his bed rustle, and seconds later, he unlocked the door and opened it. Meg’s heart broke a little when she saw his pale, drained face, complete with raccoon circles under his eyes, which he only got when he had a headache. Or, possibly, when he’d cried his guts out. Meg followed him back to his unmade bed, and when he lay down, she sat next to him and put her cool palm against his warm forehead. He relaxed instantly.

“Let’s talk,” she said. “And let’s remember we’re on the same side. Okay?”

Henry sighed and gave the slightest of nods.

“I thought you liked Ahmed,” she said softly.

Henry abruptly sat up. “I do!”

“Don’t you see how calling Jonathan and asking him to get involved in our lives can threaten what we’ve got with Ahmed?” Meg asked. “Calling him just wasn’t very smart.”

“You said you wouldn’t marry Ahmed!”

“Shh. Shh.”
She brushed his bangs off his forehead. “First off, it’s not like Ahmed has even asked me to marry him. He hasn’t. But no matter what, I’m not going to get back with Jonathan. That’s
never
going to happen.”

“I know that!” Henry said. “That’s not why I called him.”

“Well, then, why did you? Do you want a relationship with him? Is that what this is about?” Meg shuddered, unable to help it.

“Can we not talk about this anymore?” Henry begged.
“Please.”

“You can’t make life difficult for me and then expect me to go easy on you. You see how that’s not fair, right?” Meg asked. “Your calling Jonathan has raised a whole host of problems. How do you think Ahmed’s going to feel? He coaches your soccer team. Plays chess with you. Helps you feel better when you’re sad. Takes you to work with him. Your calling Jonathan—when you’ve never before expressed even the slightest interest to get to know him—sends the message that none of what Ahmed has done for or with you means anything to you.”

Henry’s eyes brimmed with fresh tears. “But it does,” he whispered. Meg brushed his bangs off his forehead to soothe him.

“I don’t mean to make you feel bad,” she said. “And I don’t want you to think I’ll keep you away from your father if you have some intense need to meet him or something. But you come to me. Okay? You don’t go behind my back, ever. You come to me for everything.”

“But, Mom.” Henry put his hand on her knee. “Mom, Mom, Mommy. Sometimes you’re not enough.”

That trumped all the hurtful things Jonathan had ever said to her. It trumped
everything.

Meg lay in bed that night and mentally catalogued the times and ways she’d been there for Henry. Year by year, from the croup he’d had as a toddler to the ear infections too numerous to mention, to helping him face his fear of the dark, to teaching him to swim, to watching Harry Potter ten thousand times. They laughed all the time! Took great summer vacations together!

How could he say she wasn’t enough?

It was only after she’d gotten up at about two in the morning and warmed a glass of milk and honey—something her father had done for her at bedtime when she was young—and lit a candle and curled up on the couch with a blanket and sipped the drink, thinking of pretty much nothing, that the answer came to her.
You’ve been enough, Magpie, but he’s getting older and his needs are changing.

It was her father’s voice coming to her in her hour of need. And his words made perfect sense.

After she finished her glass of honeyed milk, Meg took her blanket and crawled into Henry’s bed to sleep next to him. “I’ll get you what you need,” she whispered. “Whether it’s me or Ahmed or Jonathan or all three of us, I’ll make sure you get what you need.”

Remembering the peace sign he’d flashed at her during the soccer game earlier in the day, Meg made the sign back at him, and when she closed her eyes this time, sleep came easily.

 

 

 

The next morning, Meg sat at Amy’s breakfast bar and drank a mimosa while Amy prepared a salad. Henry, Kelly and Maggie were in the backyard playing some sort of Wiffle Ball game. David had been sent to the grocery store for half-and-half to prevent Clarabelle from throwing a small fit. Their father would not be coming. Meg had spoken with him the previous day and he’d sublet a condo a few miles east of his office. He’d seemed to be in good spirits.

“Have you talked to Mom yet today?” Meg asked Amy.

“She called to say she’s bringing brownies for dessert,” Amy said. “She didn’t mention a word about Dad.”

“I suppose that’s good,” Meg said. “I’d rather she not talk about him than complain about him.”

“Whose side are we on?” Amy peered at her. “And why do you look so tired? Are you okay?”

“We’re not taking sides.” Meg ignored Amy’s other questions, not wanting to talk about anything involving Jonathan quite yet, if ever. “We’re just helping them both move forward in the best way possible.”

“You can’t not take a side with Mom,” Amy said. “You’re either for her or against her.”

“Who knows?” Meg said. “Maybe she’ll surprise us for a change.”

She did. It began with a toot of the horn as Clarabelle pulled into Amy’s driveway. Henry ran inside. “Mom! Mom, come quick! Come see Grandma’s new car!”

“Oh, shit,” said Amy.

Together, they went out front and found Clarabelle sitting proudly behind the wheel of a shiny blue Ford Mustang convertible, wearing a Jackie O scarf and sunglasses.

“Nice car, Mom,” Meg said. Amy walked around the vehicle, inspecting it from all sides.

“I’ve never had a new car before,” Clarabelle said. “Your father always talked me out of it. ‘A new car loses ten percent of its value the instant you drive it off the lot,’ or some such crap.”

“It’s true,” Amy said.

“I really don’t care.” Clarabelle caressed the car’s steering wheel, in no hurry to get out from behind it. “I worked hard for thirty years. I
should
have a new car once in my life. I deserve one.”

Meg and Amy exchanged looks.

“Does Dad know?” Meg said.

Clarabelle smiled. “He will soon enough.”

“Ooh,” Meg said. “Ouch.”

“He hasn’t even called since he left,” Clarabelle said. “Does he really think I’m going to sit home waiting around for him to come back? If he does, he’s got another think coming. This girl’s gone shopping!”

“Very responsible, Mom,” Amy said. “Not.”

“She can afford it,” Meg said. Clarabelle had a decent pension and their house was long since paid off. Phillip might be cheap, but he was good with money. A new car wouldn’t hurt anybody and it just might help her mother heal. “But, Mom—he rented a condo. I don’t think he’s coming back.”

Clarabelle lowered her sunglasses and smiled coquettishly. “Does the color of the car match my eyes?”

“It does.” Meg was glad to see her mother’s eyes were no longer bloodshot. No tears today, at least not yet. “It’s a very sexy car.”