Chapter Text
November 15th, 2007
It was suggested I start a diary. I didn’t intend to do therapy but Duke insisted upon it. Therapist herself said there may be some deeper stuff going on with me we can get into, which is silly. I don’t want Lex to think I’m a hypocrite, though, so. I’ll humor it for a bit.
Just picked her up from school. She was excited to see Hannah, but she usually is. We had pizza.
*
November 22nd, 2007
Already forgetting about this thing. Oops! Did laundry today. Saw Bill; Alice and Lex played together. Or rather, next to each other. Hannah tried to eat Play Doh.
*
November 23rd, 2007
So apparently, I'm not doing the whole journaling thing right. That's what the therapist says. How can someone journal incorrectly? She may be a quack. (Note: don't tell her about this entry)
Lex is going once a week like I am. It’s too early to see if it’s working so—withholding judgments! Hopefully Hannah will never need any of this when she gets bigger, but I guess we'll have to see how badly I botch the whole parenting thing.
Ted was Ted today, which is to say annoying. Any time I bring up the girls he has a laugh with himself over how funny it is that the one time I have a one night stand I somehow garner two children. It made me realize how much I bring them up in conversation. Will need to shake past me for all the times I used to internally roll my eyes at Bill's baby Alice stories. Or was it regular roll my eyes. Sometimes it was regular.
Lex had a half day today, so she joined me for lunch. I made her PB&J with potato chips in it. Hannah tried a Capri Sun and hated it. She's very picky. I think she gets that from me.
*
November 25th, 2007
I never explained how I was doing this wrong. I'm supposed to be talking about my emotions. So, I'm fine. I've checked in with myself every day and it's the same. "How are you today, Paul?" "Fine." Same answer I give to coworkers, and it's the truth. I'm just... fine. Which is good, right? So it doesn't make much sense to talk about it.
That’s why the therapy is putting me off, I guess. I have a few instances of being not fine and somehow that warrants mental health help.
I do think therapy works—for the right people. People with lots of feelings. I have the regular amount of them.
Kids have big feelings. You learn this being a dad with a sensitive baby. Hannah has always been very responsive to stimuli, and it's hard to soothe her sometimes. Over little things, too. Textures, temperature, new places and faces. I don't always know how to best deal with it. It may look like I do, but I don’t. Normally my solution is just to give her space and after a few minutes she calms down. Sometimes it’s the opposite and she needs a comforting hug. I try not to talk during the worst of it, only in lulls of quiet and I usually just say “I’m here”. She doesn't talk yet, but she can understand what I'm saying when I'm calming her.
Here's an emotion for the journal, you happy? It's concern.
The doctors say not to worry too much. She's progressing in everything else at a normal pace. A “late talker” or something like that. In most cases the kids who were silent just start talking all at once. Maybe that'll be the case. I’ve been signing to her for a few months. Basic stuff—‘Milk’, ‘Water’, ‘More’, ‘Sleep’. No idea if that will yield quicker results. After writing this whole entry I’m realizing I should probably be signing emotions to her too. Right? I don’t know. That should be the slogan for all of parenthood: ‘I don’t know.’
Lex is interesting with her emotions. It's like she feels them but they're behind a screen door. I’m wondering if I’m the same.
It’s only been a week and change since this became a residence of three. When I brought her to the apartment that first day she was extra quiet. I don't know what she's thinking. I don’t know what she’s feeling. I'm not sure how to ask.
*
December 5th, 2007
Bebe’s first words! This is not a drill!
After months of signing with her with no progress, I’d started to get discouraged. Then, out of the blue, she waves to get my attention.
The sippy cup nearly slips out of Paul’s grasp at the signing of, ‘Dad’, Hannah’s five little fingers splayed and a tap of her thumb to her forehead. Then, that hand is balled into a loose fist and moves in a circular motion at her chest. ‘Sorry.’
Paul can only bother registering the first word, which she signs again. Once more, the second ‘sorry’ goes ignored, and he says, “Oh my God.” Then he laughs. Onto the counter the sippy cup goes so he can swoop Hannah out of her high chair. “Bebe, did you really just do that? Did you say what I think you said? Oh, here.”
Hannah expresses more interest in her juice than the milestone. Paul hands her the cup to calm her whining. She sips, unbothered. He thinks he may be the odd man out amongst other parents, because nothing endears him more than her nonchalance about these things. He kisses her cheek over and over. This doesn’t bother Hannah’s juice drinking, so she lets him.
“Mwah, mwah, mwah. This is a prodigy. Mwah. This is a polyglot in the making, the best there’s ever been. Great, great job, Han.” He plants one last overexaggerated smooch and she finally giggles and wipes her face on her shoulder. Giddiness the likes of which he hasn't felt since her first steps has him indulge in behaviors he wouldn't dream of exhibiting in front of anyone else.
“You rub off my kisses? Hm? You’re a big shot, big talker, and you’re too good for kisses now? Silly girl. My silly, funny—” He tries not to startle at Lex’s sudden presence. Sheepishness bleeds through his now subdued, more casual demeanor. “Oh hey, Lex. Ha."
"Hi," she says with an odd look about her. He waits for her to say more and she doesn't. Paul clears his throat.
"Was I being too loud in here?”
“What happened?” she asks instead of answering. Paul extends his arms in a presentation similar to Simba in The Lion King.
“Little Miss Hannah Matthews just signed her very first word. Words, plural.”
Lex lets the mask of neutrality fall away. She comes over to coo at Hannah. “Nana, I’m so proud! Show me what you said!”
“Go on, Han,” Paul says. Hannah is put on the floor. “Show your big sis.”
She goes to Lex, one grabby hand reaching out for her. Lex holds that hand and guides it back to Hannah’s signing space. Defiant, Hannah grabs Lex’s hand again more firmly and leads her to the play pen with a determined waddle.
“You sure she said something?” Lex asks Paul.
“She definitely did,” he says. Lex plops down and attempts to get her attention. She merely holds out her sippy cup for Lex to hold while she stumbles around for toys to play with. Paul kneels by the pen where puzzle blocks are placed at Lex’s feet. “She did it twice. C’mon, kid, you’re making me look like a liar.”
“It’s okay,” Lex says, laughter in her voice the more blocks and miscellaneous toys are placed in her lap. “She’s just being shy now. What were the words?” He repeats the words and she makes a curious face. “'Sorry’?”
He posits a fabricated story about her spilling her Cheerios so he doesn’t have to admit that he doesn’t know. By the evening he is second guessing if she did actually sign or if he was just grasping for straws. But Hannah, predictably unpredictable as she is to him, does it again at bedtime. He tucks her in and shakes his head with a smile.
“Of course you would,” he says, then signs, Why is Bebe sorry?
She points to the small wooden cubby behind him with his arsenal of bedtime books. He sighs and chooses a handful for her to pick from.
“Well, guess it doesn’t make sense asking you to answer that." A bedside drawer opening and closing tells Paul that Lex has returned from brushing her teeth. He’s grown used to her joining in and waits for her to cozy beside Hannah once she’s chosen her book. "Step-by-step, right? You did good today, Bebe. My sweetie.”
Moving aside her fluffy bangs, he provides another, softer bout of small kisses to her forehead. The day has left him feeling unusually affectionate in the way he has so often internally mocked other parents for behaving. Perhaps it’s less so the act of affection than it is the excess. There’s no urge to constantly coddle for a crayon drawing or a finished meal or a perfect naptime. Those are all things Hannah is well capable of. She knows it as well as Paul. But times like this, and though he tries, it’s difficult to withhold the swell of paternal urges to pamper, rarely accessible and even rarer identified as paternal. But Paul worked hard to empower her communication, and she worked even harder. A little coddling is warranted for the big milestones.
Lex eyes this interaction, her stare not unlike the one from earlier. Like before, Paul returns to his typical mode and reads their story. Paul and Lex collaborate on 'Frog and Toad Are Friends'. Her first day in the apartment she enthused over this addition to Hannah's collection of books, it being of the few she remembers well enough that reading through wasn't so difficult a task. He doesn't tell her the reason it's in Hannah's collection at all is because of her past comments, back during the summer reading days, about frequently checking it out of the library.
There’s noticeably less heart to Lex's performance tonight in the role of ‘Frog’. Paul doesn’t comment on it, and upon Hannah’s drift into sleep, thinks to leave Lex with his typical ‘goodnight’ from the doorway. She stops him with a tug on his sleeve.
“I think my hair has knots.” She shows him the brush in her other hand. “I can’t get ‘em. Would you…” She mumbles the rest of her request with a look downward. Paul, too busy digesting the new request, must take too long. The brush is hidden behind her back. “Never mind, it’s okay.”
“No, no it’s—” He winces at his panicked volume increase but Hannah doesn’t stir. Hushed, he says, “No, I can brush it out no problem. Come on.”
At her bedside Paul is handed the small brush. Her head's turned away and his hands hang suspended by her hair, then pull back. It’s natural to account for the variables. She could shatter like porcelain, topple like Jenga, with one errant move.
He commits anyway, because it's what she asked of him. He runs the brush through her hair easily. Following strokes downward are more of the same. Smooth, meeting no resistance.
"Good news," Paul says, pausing his motions. "No knots to be found."
"... Could you still brush it, please?"
A request from Lex always sounds the same. Paul has no clue how she manages to shoulder the tremendous weight she's assigned to every one of them, no matter how much—or how little—she's truly asking for.
"Yeah," Paul says weakly. "Yeah, I can do that."
He brushes her hair. Neither speak for some time.
“I braid it at night when it’s not tangled,” Lex says eventually. “Not the French ones. I’ve tried but those are too hard.”
“Want me to try?” Paul offers. She turns her head to acknowledge him in her periphery. “I’m still an amateur, but I’ve been studying up for when Han's hair gets long enough.”
There’s a long pause. Then, a very, very small, “Okay.”
He takes his time. Uses extra delicacy when tucking her hair behind her ears so he can brush it back and up with the rest of the gathering braid. It’s tied off and reflects his current skillfulness in its uneven, lopsided appearance. He tells her as such in case she doesn’t want it anymore.
“Don’t need perfect,” she whispers and faces him with a hand assessing the braid from her crown to the nape of her neck. “Thank you, Paul.”
“Anything,” Paul says, then clears his throat and corrects, “Anytime. Anytime you need.”
With one more parting goodnight, Paul himself finishes his own nightly routine. A wandering thought passes in and out, asking when the last time was that Lex was hugged. Stronger than that thought is his gratitude for Hannah’s magical power to break through walls Paul can't pass through yet, not fully.
A sister to hug, and a Paul to braid her hair. They don’t need perfect.
“THE PERSON YOU ARE TRYING TO REACH IS NOT AVAILABLE. AT THE TONE, PLEASE RECORD YOUR MESSAGE."
*beep*
“Paul. It's me.
"... Could you pick up? I know it’s early as shit but pick up. Please, this is important.
“It’s about Mom.”
December 7th, 2007
I was encouraged by my therapist to write more about what we went over during today’s session. I’m not usually given assignments. She just recommends what would be a good thing to expand on with my thoughts on paper. My eyes only. Sometimes I follow those suggestions. What we talk about in there I don’t feel like dragging outside of our session so oftentimes I don’t. Today I’m following her suggestion.
My mom was forty-eight, going on forty-nine when she had me.
It felt weird being the kids at school with the “old parents”. But other than that, we were a normal family. Your average hobbies, routine outings for family dinners, game nights. Olive was already a big surprise. They figured they’d missed their window, but then comes along a miracle baby. Surely a freak occurrence, yes? The chance of it happening again so soon was astronomically low, yes?
“We assume what’s written in the stars, and the stars laugh.” That’s what good ol’ Eileen and Dennis Matthews always said to us about plans. Always sounded more like fate to me, and I’m not a fate-believer, but I get what they meant.
We hadn’t been in the plan anymore (fifteen years too late) but for them it was a blessing. Or so they told us. It’s not that I didn’t believe them. It’s just that blessing doesn’t always equal understanding. My mom did her best to understand me, but she thought my RARE freak-outs were purposeful. Out of spite even. Well, it wasn’t, and they weren’t. I was little. The world was loud and noisy. Sue me.
Her relationship with Olive too is—well, that’s way too much to get into.
Best I can say in short form: I don’t know how hers and my sister’s relationship morphed over the years. If it got better or worse while she and Richie lived with Mom after Dad’s passing. I know for me, it kind of just, stopped. She wasn’t interested in babysitting her grandkids, which I thought was strange. And hurtful. I’d call and go visit her, but she wasn’t a reliable resource. With how much Hannah’s temperament compares to what I was told I was like through babyhood to toddlerhood, that gave me pause, too. Was that a deterrent, dealing with another ‘me’ a second time? I don’t know, I thought she was more compassionate than that. How could we live in the same town but be so distant?
Nothing to do about it now. I’m helping Olive plan a funeral.
I got the call from her yesterday. I knew they’d caught a brain tumor too late, but I really thought there’d be more time. Now there’s hospital bills to confront and funeral expenses to worry about and a will to go over.
I can’t believe Lex’s first family gathering with us is going to be at a wake. The stars laugh.
*
December 13th, 2007
Wake was today, funeral tomorrow. Lex is being a trooper. Olive adores her and was excited to see Hannah again for the first time in a long time. Likewise me with Richie. He’s 4 years old now. Talks a lot. Says things I don’t understand. Was given a crash course by sis on Naruto and now I understand even less.
*
December 14th, 2007
Three-hit combo is done. Final viewing, burial, repass. This week's taught me I have a lot more opinions on funerals than I realized. Olive does, too. She has opinions on a lot of things.
"So fucking bizarre."
Olive comments this under her breath. He looks over both shoulders to make sure no one heard, and remembers they're both grown adults who are more than allowed to curse at their own mother's funeral. He associates these places with younger days where his sister's potty mouth invariably got them both a scolding.
It was a modest turn-up. According to Olive, their mother attended quite a few wakes for her own friends, explaining the fewer visitors than expected. Any who would've come have already gone. That's what happens at that age. He doesn't think about these things for a reason.
"Yeah," Paul says. "Death."
"What?" Her internal monologue found its way outside; a common occurrence. She squints her eyes at him anyway; still excellent at treating (what he considers) his part in conversational give-and-take as foreign. "No, I'm talking about this."
Paul follows her gesture back to the coffin mere feet away. He admires the silk cushioning on the open lid and thinks of questions to ask Olive about fabric, or sewing caskets, or something. He looks no further downward.
"Why," Olive continues, "why are people in our parents' age group so obsessed with putting themselves up for display? If anyone ever goes against my wishes and gives me an open casket funeral, please do me a solid and slam the damn thing shut. I give you pre-afterlife clearance."
"Likewise," Paul says.
"You're not allowed to go before me," she says immediately. "Get that clearance from the younger generation."
The siblings turn in their seats to see all the kids as they left them earlier: causing muted commotion in the lobby. It was made clear that they were not required to approach the casket. That's saved only for the luckiest, such as them. Front row seats included.
Lex had stood on her tiptoes before their dismissal from the viewing room to catch a glimpse, then went on her merry way with Hannah and Richie. Paul can't blame her for being curious. Lex's current attention is on the Gameboy Richie all but shoved in her face. Olive exhales a weak laugh through her nose.
"I'm hoping he's still small enough that he won't remember this," Olive says. "He loved Granny, but, y'know. The whole 'death' thing hasn't clicked yet." Her gaze then wanders to the tallest of the kids. "New kiddo on the block is taking it all in stride."
"Not surprised. She's already dealt with a lot."
"... So are you gonna tell me the whole story yet there, or?"
"There's nothing much else to tell. I don't want to get into it." Paul discreetly fiddles with his hands.
"Okay, we can sit here in silence, then, and keep staring at a dead body."
"Olive, come on," he huffs. "Look. Long and short of it: she's Hannah's big sister. Her home life before wasn't great, and her mother wasn't doing much to 'wow' the social worker. It was a matter of time before she'd be somewhere else. Who knows? They could've carted her off to a foster home in Clivesdale."
"Fuckin' Clivesdale," Olive mutters reflexively. "I dunno, Paulie, I just wouldn't have expected..." She looks up thoughtfully. "I wouldn't have thought..." She lightly slaps the sides of her face, searching for her intended phrasing. The longer she takes, the more agitation Paul feels brewing inside of him. "I think. That was huge of you.”
“And apparently, wildly shocking,” Paul says in a low voice.
She has the nerve to look stern. “You know what I mean. It’s not an everyday circumstance." He stands abruptly and rebuttons the overcoat he never bothered taking off. "Hey! Not a bad circumstance. I’m plus one niece now. That rocks. So don't get all offended over nothing."
"I'm taking a step outside," he says, and doesn't wait for a response. He passes by the kids, monitored by Bill and Winnie. Bill manages to catch him, a hand around his arm and a quick, questioning look. You good? is what it reads as. Paul puts a hand over Bills and squeezes it.
"Fresh air," he explains, and is let go with a sympathetic nod.
The slap of December air is more painful than refreshing, to Paul's dismay. Better than nothing. He leans back against a pillar and lets the sensation of cold cobblestone on the back of his head keep him present, steady. He takes a deep inhale—and swiftly regrets it, grimacing at the smell of tobacco.
"Since when did you take up smoking?" Paul asks Charlotte. She looks at him like a deer in headlights. The cigarette is flicked onto the ground, and she lifts her long, black skirt to stomp it out with sensible flats.
"S-sorry," she says with a half-hearted chuckle. "Guess long enough ago for it to become a habit. Didn't even realize."
"That's not good," Paul says frankly.
"Probably not, no." She leans against the pillar on the opposite side and her eyes go distant. "Just that work's been pressing. More than usual. A-and same for Sam. You know, the fellow I've been seeing?"
"Uh-huh," Paul lies.
"He's, ha, he's very enveloped in his work. But CCRP is no slouch either, you know? Just because we're not working in a precinct doesn't mean it's not real work. It's a real nine to five. And it can be intensive, and ripe with—" Her eyes widen at Paul's cough to get her attention. She returns the new cigarette that found its way from the carton to her hand. "Distractions," she finishes lamely.
Paul breathes out his mouth and watches the exhalation’s warmth intermingle with the weather. It’s an apt enough equivalent of whatever high people like Charlotte and Olive appear to get from the act of smoking. He’s never had an addiction. Healthy substitutions to nonexistent vices are the best he can manage. Feign relatability. Induce an elusive empathy.
He feels her eyes on him. They don’t talk much, outside of the office. Still, he worries if she can see him. No feeling in life is more detestable than the fear of how much of himself is on display—without his permission.
“Oh, but look at me, rambling about my silly problems,” she self-reprimands. “I’m sorry, Paul. This must all sound so small in comparison to what you’re going through.”
“It’s okay,” Paul says. “I don’t mind the distraction of problems that aren’t mine right now, to be honest.” Charlotte pats him on the arm and goes back to fretting in her own head. They look out to a small, poorly designed parking lot afforded two whole spaces with faded divider lines. He breaks up their slightly uncomfortable stretch of introspection. “Always been such a weird phrase,” he says. “’Going through it.’”
She cocks her head, inquisitive. “Think so?”
“Yeah. ’Going through’ implies there’s a way out. Like once you’re done going, it ends and the problem gets left behind.”
“But it does, Paul! You have to believe it does.” She opens and closes her carton of Newport’s. “Otherwise it’s all too much to carry.”
“Parents get older and they die. Me and my sister knew it was coming. After the funeral, that’s all there is.” He gently plucks the carton from her hands to her quiet protests, and puts it in his coat’s pocket. “There’s nothing to go through,” he says, “so there’s nothing to carry.”
Paul makes his way back inside. He turns on the stairs once, to see a sliver of Charlotte’s outline, and her slow, intentional puff of breath, visible from the day’s chill.
Olive: IDK if I thanked you yet for taking the reins with all the funeral planning
-
Paul: Welcome. You spent all that time taking care of her. Only fair I do my part.
-
Olive: Thank you.
-
All over now. We got through it <3
-
Paul: Yeah, we did.
December 26th, 2007
I’m not much of a crier. The last two years have been outliers so it’s not a bull statement. In the B.C. times (Before Children) I’d found the perfect balance for minimizing stressors in my life. No major decisions to make, no attachments. It’s how I liked it. Going straight into guardianship, then funeral planning/Matthews sibling reunion, THEN holiday obligations in the span of a month beat the shit out of me.
I was stone for everything we had to do for mom. Through the whole wake, the funeral, even going through some of her old stuff and the will. It was an excellent streak. Yesterday’s Christmas festivities were small and simple but it was nice; brief visit to Bill’s shindig in the afternoon, then dinner and holiday specials at mine with the girls, Olive, and Richie. Was a little awkward because Olive and I haven’t done holidays as a unit in… ever. Still it was nice. Gotta start somewhere.
Olive and Rich left, girls went to bed, and I did some straightening up. I noticed a missing ornament so I crouched down and there it had fallen, onto the tree skirt. When I went to reach for it I was hit with a very specific memory of me as a kid in a similar position, laughing, because my mom was crouched on the other side playing peekaboo while we hung ornaments.
Yeah, not much cleaning got done after that.
His mother had come to visit them—him and Hannah—a few times in the old apartment. Twice solo, once with Olive. She cooed at her, spoke to her lovingly, but was reluctant to hold her. Paul, that first conversation with Olive's warnings in mind, never pushed.
He and Olive had come to visit their mother a few times at the hospital. He’d never go solo.
There was too much going on at the time anyway. The move, the check-ins, the preparation for Lex’s arrival. The new apartment needed to feel like home, though Paul knew it likely wouldn’t for quite a while, still. And he was right; it hasn’t yet. Holding the stray ornament in his hand, Paul understands for the very first time there is no Mom to see the place he's so painstakingly making home. She won't be here for an apartment tour. She isn't there to peek at him beneath the tree.
Red sparkles rub off and onto his thumb, sliding up and down the ornament. He lets the other hand, free of festive debris, press tight against his mouth, and sits hunched against the couch. He waits for the sobs to subside. They don’t. He tries stilling his shoulders. They continue to heave. It’s all very inconvenient.
His body is allowed a hard reset at Hannah's behest. He startles and clutches at his chest. When his heart is finished jumping, he ungracefully wipes that hand covered in tears and saliva against his sweater. He doubts Hannah will care.
“Scared the shit out of me,” he says. “Pardon the language.”
She waddles closer and reaches for the ornament. Paul places it in his lap and gently pushes her hands away.
Sorry for the crying, Paul signs. Bebe goes to bed.
She stares. He rests his head against the arm of the couch, despondent, face burning hot and wet with tears. The only lights in the apartment this late are the ones wrapped around the Christmas tree. Hannah’s lit golden by its soft glow. Paul watches her clumsily pat the ornament with the palm of her hand.
Sorry, Daddy, she signs.
At that, Paul wipes the glitter off on the side of his sweater, accepting it will forever be vaguely sparkly in a way the washer just can’t seem to get rid of, and replaces the ornament in his lap with Hannah. She snuggles into his shoulder.
“You always know what to say,” Paul croaks. “Sorry you keep seeing me in this state. It’s been a hell of a year. Thanks for helping me get through the rough parts.”
He cradles her face. She mimics it and Paul exhales a small laugh, that invasion of the saccharine making its comeback. “Oh, my Bebe,” he whispers. He withdraws his hand to sign, I love you.
Her voice and her hands remain quiet in response, but she doesn’t break eye contact. A buttery gold reflects in her pupils.
“Yeah, you know.” He hoists her up and brings her back to bed. He doesn’t soon leave, even after she’s fallen back asleep.
It feels familiar, of course it does; he only stopped hovering by her bedside a month ago. Unlike before, it's not out of paranoia. He's rewiring in real time. This visual, a little girl he didn’t intend, replacing a visual of wicked nostalgia. It won’t pull him down. He remains here, in the now. It’s easier. There's nothing to carry that way.
I need this imbalance to flip to the other side soon. There’s a reason I dislike when feeling outweighs the fine. It tends to hurt.