recovered, he was moved to the base. He was made security. He sees Emmy all the time, enjoys the designation of uncle—less than father but still, a name, access to her love. Foster is blanketed by Lev’s forgiveness.
It keeps the two of them separate from each other.
When Emmy celebrated her first birthday, they’d given her cake. Bea had delighted, from the far side of the room, as Emmy sat in her high chair and got it all over her face and hands in that perfect way babies mess. When Casey swooped in to clean Emmy’s chubby little fingers and face with a damp cloth, Emmy reached for her. Wanted for her. It bore a hurt so visceral in Bea—her child, reaching for another woman—that she thought she would die. She slipped from the room and found a quiet corner of the house to cry in and that was where Foster found her. When she felt his hand on her shoulder, her heart thrummed wildly inside her.
Are you all right? he’d asked and she jerked away from him, wondering if Lev had sent him, if this was some kind of test. Then, taking in her tearstained and devastated face, he’d asked, Is this the right thing? Have we done the right thing?
And she was sure that it was.
Who are you to question Lev?
Foster had stepped back, stunned, and she was not rewarded for her obedience and now she no longer knows what the truth of that moment was.
She thinks of it now, on Emmy’s third birthday, watching from the back of the room as everyone surrounds her and sings her the song. She blows out the candle and spits all over the cake. Tears well in Bea’s eyes, but she stays because she doesn’t want to lose another of Emmy’s milestones to her pain; she’s lost enough already. Her eyes meet Foster’s across the room. Later, she stands in that same quiet corner he’d found her in two years before, hoping he’ll find her this time, ask those same questions again. He doesn’t.
MARCH 2018
When I wake Emmy in the morning, she reaches for me.
She buries her head in my neck, sleepy-eyed and content, as I carry her into the kitchen. I’m still not totally used to the full force of her need, her affection. I always reciprocate after a moment’s wonder—the wonder of her small body in my arms, the feel of the fast beat of her tiny heart against my chest.
I can’t understand Bea walking away from this.
I set her on the floor to play and get to work flexing culinary muscles I never saw much use for when the meals I was making were only for myself. Everything Emmy eats has to complement ketchup—her favorite “food”—so it’s home fries and scrambled eggs. If I’m lucky, a few of those things will find their way into her belly after she’s licked them clean.
“Where’s Daddy?” she asks as the food sizzles in the pan. I move to pour myself a coffee, but Emmy is underfoot, and I narrowly avoid knocking her down and spilling hot coffee all over her head. “Shit!” I say, and she covers her mouth in shock, and then I tell her never to say that word. She smiles impishly. I’ve watched Foster do this a hundred times, navigating every part of the space she takes up without incident, and wonder if I could trust myself enough to get that good at just existing with her.
“Where’s Daddy?” she asks again.
“He’s talking to Casey and Uncle Foster about important things. After you eat, we can go see him.” I put my hand on her shoulder and move her back when one of the potatoes crackles and spits grease. “Careful of the stove, Emmy.”
She clasps her hands behind her in who me? fashion. It reminds me so much of Bea.
When breakfast is ready, I put her in her booster seat and then I plate up, dousing the food in Heinz before placing it in front of her. She says, hmm! as she inspects her meal. The tiny fork does not meet her approval and she decides her hands better suit her purposes. I pick at what’s left in the pans while she eats and tells me a halting, mashed-up story of what I think might be a few different TV shows. I try to follow along as she struggles to eat and explain this fabulous world she’s pieced together.
Soon, she’s raising her ketchup-stained hands to be let out of her