I willfully pushed Jillian out of my mind, even though I’d been dying to call her ever since I got the word from the doctors that Scotty had had a febrile seizure. From what I’d learned at the hospital, this kind of seizure was not harmful in the long-term, and he’d mostly need only rest and the usual care. But was that the truth? Were they not telling me everything? Jillian would be honest—she was good at that. And she was good at reassuring me.
But I didn’t call her.
Instead I went downstairs, where my mother was putting together some dinner for us, although I wasn’t hungry.
“Is he asleep?” she asked, glancing over at me.
“Yes.” I sighed and sank into a chair at the island, rubbing a hand over my beard. Jillian, I wish you were here. As soon as I had the thought I was mad at myself.
“And how are you?”
“Miserable.”
“Why?”
“Because I wasn’t here,” I snapped, taking my anger out on her. “Don’t you want to scold me about that?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because my son was sick and I left him here to go see my girlfriend. You even said on your voicemail that I should have given you Jillian’s number. And I should have. I also should have taken my phone into her house with me. Actually, I shouldn’t have even been away from the house! But I fucked up. Again. And my child had a seizure.”
She stopped what she was doing and put a hand over mine. “Levi, darling, you’re being too hard on yourself. Scotty would have had the seizure whether you’d been here or not. He had a high fever. And even if you’d given me Jillian’s number, I don’t think you’d have gotten to the hospital any quicker. You were there only about twenty minutes after we were.”
I gritted my teeth. “I still should have been here. A good father would have been here.”
“For heaven’s sake, Levi,” she said, going back to her stir-fry on the stove. “Being a good father doesn’t mean never doing anything for yourself. What are you teaching Scotty that way? That being a good parent means you sacrifice your own happiness for someone else’s? That you can’t have a personal life? That you can’t be a whole person with your own needs?”
“Well, doesn’t it?” I asked, feeling like I was right back where I started with her, and everything I did was wrong.
“No,” she said firmly. “Being a good father does not come at the expense of being a happy, well-adjusted person.”
“Well, I don’t know how to do that,” I said bitterly. “I never have.”
“Nonsense,” said my mother. She didn’t even look at me. “You’re just stubborn as a mule and don’t want to let anyone help you. You said you have a girlfriend?” she went on before I could argue back. “Where is she? Who is she? Not only do I not have her number, I don’t know a damn thing about her. Does she even exist?” She looked at me over one shoulder, arching a brow. “Are you gay?”
“For fuck’s sake, Mom.”
She threw up one hand and shook the pan with the other. “What? There’s nothing wrong with it. Betsy Hillerman’s son is gay, you know. The attractive one. The dermatologist. I could introduce you.”
“Mom. I’m not gay.”
“Well, you can’t blame me for wondering. You’re thirty-two, Levi. And you haven’t had a companion to speak of since Scotty was born. That’s not healthy. Either you’re gay, you’re not human, or you’re lonely and suffering and telling yourself you deserve it.” She looked back at me again. “And I think we both know which one it is.”
I rubbed my eyes, exhausted all of a sudden. “I give up. I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, I don’t either,” she said, turning off the heat under the pan. “But if you want the gay dermatologist’s number, let me know. He’s very attractive.”
I sighed. Heavily. “You mentioned that.”
• • •
Later that night, after a lot of arguing with myself, I called her. I half-expected it to go to voicemail—I wouldn’t want to talk to me if I were her—but she answered. That’s because she’s not a fucking six-foot-four chicken like you are.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi.”
“I’m really sorry about today.”
Nothing.
“I feel bad about the way I left.”
Nothing.
Can you blame her? You’re not adding anything new to the conversation. You’re not offering her anything. Tell her what’s going on with you. And be honest, asshole.
“I…it’s been a rough night. Scotty had a seizure while I was at your place.”
She gasped. “Oh my God! Is he OK?”
“He’s fine.”
“A febrile seizure?”
“Yes.”
“Did he go to the ER?”
“Yes. My mom couldn’t reach me because my phone was in the car, and she didn’t have your number—which I feel horribly guilty about—but she called an ambulance. When I got to my car, I heard the message.”
“I’m so sorry, Levi. That can be scary.”
“It was. But he’s home sleeping now.”
“Good.”
Silence.
I opened my mouth.
Silence.
I closed my eyes.
Silence.