Just a Memory

Better Late Than Never

22

I hated fighting with Reece. When we were dating, it never seemed to happen because we were perfectly happy with one another and honestly, when you're a teenager, there isn't much to fight about.

Now we fought every day about the dumbest things. Who would drive C.J. to daycare, what we were eating for dinner, who would drop off the check at the post office -it never ended.

The completely arbitrary fighting would draw to an end at some point, and Reece and I would have the most mind-blowing makeup sex someone could possibly imagine. But the second either of us brought up something even remotely related to one of our previous fights, the cycle would start all over again.

I opened the medicine cabinet in our bathroom while I brushed my teeth, only to find yet another empty medication bottle. The label on the side read: Reece McLaughlin Oct. 7; a good two months ago.

I stormed into C.J.'s bedroom, where Reece was putting on C.J.'s shoes.

"Daddy," C.J. called out, her arms outstretched. I held up a hand to her, hoping she was old enough to understand the gesture. "One second, sweetie," I said.

I tossed the bottle to Reece. She caught it, alarmed. "What the hell is that?" I demanded.

Reece swore under her breath, much more subtle than I was. "I forgot," was her pathetic excuse. "I meant to get it, and things kept coming up."

"Mommy forgot, mommy forgot," C.J. sang, happily untying her shoes.

"Things kept coming up for two months?" I accused.

"Yes, important things at work and-"

"Reece, do you know how long it takes to drive, or even walk , down to the drugstore and pick up your medication?" I started. "Not even fifteen minutes! You're seriously telling me that you couldn't find fifteen minutes in two months to go down and get your pills?"

Reece shook her head. She exited the room. "I'll go now," she said. I heard the familiar jingle of car keys before the front door slammed shut.

I picked up C.J. "I guess Daddy is driving you to daycare today," I said, leading her outside. I substituted the shoes she had on for Velcro -smartest decision any parent of a toddler would've made- and opened the door.

"Why was Mommy crying?" C.J. asked, playing with the collar of my sports jacket. I spun her around. Reece hadn't been crying back there. "Mommy wasn't crying," I said. "She's a little confused because she forgot something today."

"Not today," she said. "Yesterday."

I didn't remember Reece crying, as I had only seen her cry a few times my entire life -when she found out she was pregnant, when I yelled at her for cheating on me and when she was giving birth to C.J. two years ago.

"She wasn't sad yesterday," I said, stepping into the elevator, C.J. in one hand and my briefcase in the other.

"Yes she was," my daughter protested. "She was crying. She said she wasn't good for you."

I raised an eyebrow. "Mommy said what?"

"She was crying," C.J. repeated.

"Daddy knows that, darling," I said, frustrated. "Now what did Mommy say when she was crying?"

C.J. spotted some of her classmates in her daycare and ran ahead. "Camille Jamie McLaughlin!" I called to her. I realized how much I sounded like my own mother.

"Yes Daddy?"

"What did Mommy say yesterday? Tell me exactly what she said," I instructed. My daughter stared at her feet. "Mommy said I wasn't supposed to tell you."