Jack Who?

CHAPTER 23

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NOT KNOWING HOW to field that one, Jack looked to Marissa. Tristan’s rapt gaze did not waver, so Marissa gave it a go. “Well, she knows your–” Quickly, she clamped her mouth closed before resuming, “Jack. She knows Jack. I guess she thought it would be funny. But don’t you write on anybody’s shirt!” With a wink and a warning, she looked to Jack to see if he noticed the slip she had almost made. ‘...she knows your father…’

     Jack swooped in to the rescue, changing the subject before the tiny boy could ask any more questions. “I was thinking you and I would go out today and look at guitars. Did you still want to learn to play?”

     Tristan bobbed his head eagerly rattling off enthusiastic words, and Marissa skeptically entered the conversation. “A guitar? Isn’t he young yet?”

     “What?” Jack teased, and she grew warm and fuzzy when those dark eyes held hers with something other than anger. “Old enough for drums and the karaoke machine but not guitar?”

     It did sound silly, and she curved a relenting smile as she wondered, “How old were you when you got your first guitar?”

     Tristan babbled continuously about what he wanted to wear to the ‘song store,’ and they quietly spoke between themselves as they traipsed behind him to his room.

     Jack shrugged. “No idea. I was too young to have a memory of it. It was probably in my crib.” A short laugh and the dimple punctuated this remark. “My dad is a musician too. So, I guess that’s why.” Lingering in the doorway to the race car theme room, he turned in concern. “Do you think it’s pushing him? I mean, I just wanted to show him some easy songs. Not force him into anything.”

     A little surprised that they were having a normal conversation when her vow just yesterday was silence for the rest of his stay, she curiously inquired, “Did you feel pushed?”

     “No. As far back as I do remember, I loved it.”

     “There you go then. Get him a guitar.” Looking to Tristan, she found him dressed in his red guitar shirt. She was sure she had not done a load of laundry since grabbing the item in a dirty clothing sweep just yesterday.

     While they went, she stayed at the house, unable to commit to a day with Jack– not that he had invited her. There was still an underlying tension between them despite the relaxed conversation. She cleaned the house and called work, making arrangements to take two weeks personal leave. Vacation time would end at the end of this week, and although Tristan was getting around better than ever, she did not want to miss seeing the progress he was making. The extra days would not be paid leave, but she had a feeling her money problems were over when it concerned Tristan.

     Olivia came by, and abandoning the vacuum cleaner in the middle of the den, Marissa shared Tristan’s therapy milestone. In Olivia’s excitement, she asked a dozen questions while unpacking two chef salads from a takeout bag. An order of chicken strips and fries, Tristan’s favorite, was set aside. Tristan being away from the house, without either of them, was an oddity, and Olivia had not known he would be absent from the meal.

     “So, he just showed up this morning, like nothing happened?” Squeezing a packet of ranch dressing, Olivia drizzled her salad as she spoke of Jack.

     Picking up one of the packets, Marissa did the same. “No. It’s definitely like something happened. He barely looks at me, and when something does get us talking, it’s awkward at first.”

     “Here’s what I think. And I spent a long time thinking on it after you called last night.” Waving her plastic fork around, Olivia stared into space, and Marissa knew that she was such a good friend that she had been kept awake by this most recent turn of events. “I think there’s a good possibility that you took everything he said wrong.”

     Chewing a cherry tomato, Marissa looked longingly at the chicken strips. “How could any of that,” roughly she referred to the custody dispute, “be taken any other way?”

     “From what you told me, it’s open to interpretation.”

     The smell of Tristan’s meal was getting to Olivia too. Or, maybe the carbohydrate lust in Marissa’s eyes was contagious. Her friend’s eyes also continually strayed to the chicken meal.

     Hearing Olivia’s view of the fight with Jack shed some hope in her heart. As she tried to remember the exact conversation, her eyes landed for the dozenth time on the chicken. “Jack and Tristan will eat somewhere, I know it. Jack can’t go two hours without eating.”

     “Jack, Jack, Jack,” Olivia teased.

     “Shut up if you want some of these!” Losing the carb battle, Marissa broke up a couple of the fried chicken strips into her salad and scooped a few fries into her mouth.

     “So, what you need to do is write down what he said and read it to yourself.” Olivia tossed a strip onto the lettuce in her box and, with perfect etiquette, cut it into cubes using her plastic knife and fork.

     Considering Olivia’s words, Marissa was amazed that her friend could be so wise with advice these days, when for years, she had spouted reckless ideas. Obligingly, Marissa pulled a pen from the plastic peanut butter jar that Tristan had used stickers and glitter glue to make into a pencil holder. Letting her mind drift to the hurtful afternoon, she jotted the conversation as recalled on the back of a junk mail envelope.

     Just as she began to examine the words, Bally’s deafening barking spree signaled Jack and Tristan’s return. Guiltily, Marissa shoved the envelope beneath her purse on the bar, hid the empty chicken and fries container inside the microwave, and hastily rolled up the cord to the vacuum that was a tripping hazard to Tristan.

     Tristan was glowing with happy excitement, and careful of his crutches, Marissa wrapped him in a hug of greeting. “Did you eat, sweetheart?”

     “Jack had two hamburgers, and I had chicken,” he announced. “Then we had ice cream, and I told him you didn’t eat ice cream, but he brought you some anyway.”

     “I bet she eats ice cream today,” Olivia murmured beneath her breath. Marissa jerked around, finding her friend salivating, not over the ice cream Jack set on the bar, but over Jack himself.

     “Olivia! Seriously!” Grounding out the reprimand, Marissa ignored the sundae in question and shoo’d Bally outside. The dog knew enough not to knock Tristan down in welcome, but was jumping all around Jack, who was carrying in his other hand a kid-sized red Fender. A shopping bag hung on the crook of his elbow.

     “Why today, Mom?”

     It was the first time her little boy had ever called her anything except Momma, and dismayed, she searched his tiny face. Finally, remembering the source of his question, she narrowed her eyes again at Olivia.

     “Because ice cream is good. But, you are right. I don’t want any right now.” When Olivia quietly sniggered again, Marissa shot her a pointed look and crossed the room, bending slightly to snatch the plastic container. “I will put it in the freezer for later.” Olivia made another sound, and Marissa ignored it this time.

     Jack paused to give Marissa an entirely different pointed look. One that seemed hot and hungry, yet dispassionate at the same time– as if she were some random girl who caught his fancy for a few seconds. When Marissa came out of this strange reverie, Jack and Olivia were in the process of introducing themselves, and she felt silly. Maybe a hint to a polite introduction was all that had been behind his look.

     Olivia picked up her handbag in preparation to leave. Not wanting to be alone with Jack, Marissa strongly hinted for her to stay, and hearing this, Tristan added his pleas.

     “Please stay, Aunt Liv. We got an Xbox and a race car game!”

     Pivoting around, Marissa saw him hopping around as the console was unpacked from the sack, and her accusatory gaze went to Jack. “An Xbox?”

     “Mom, wait till you see! It’s so dope!”

     Again, if her look could have slashed, a certain metal god would be bleeding. Jack seemed likewise startled at new slang from the four-year old. Olivia wisely backed away from the altercation, and, once out of proximity, turned on her heels to run out the door.

     “You can play first, Mom,” Tristan offered his eyes trained on Jack, who was now loading the game controllers with batteries. Jack looked up at this, and whatever he saw in her face put a defiant glint in his dark gaze.

     Pulling in a calming breath, she exclaimed aloud, making sure to match her exhilaration with Tristan’s mood as she viewed his new guitar. Reaching for it, she lightly strummed the strings without hooking it into its mini amp. Her father owned a few acoustics, and throughout her childhood, had taught her and her siblings various chords and keys.

     In stunned surprise, Jack eyed her ability to create a short riff. Laying the instrument aside and smiling at Tristan’s offer, she shook her head. “You and Jack play. I might later.”

     Without a word to Jack, she sequestered herself in the bedroom for an uncharacteristic nap. Tristan was not in pain, and without Tylenol, she doubted he would nap. Until this surgery, he hadn’t napped in over a year.

     Once, she heard the heavier footsteps of Jack advancing and then the click of the bedroom door easing completely closed. With the happy shrieks of Tristan and husky exclamations of Jack now muffled as they gamed, she dozed.

     Dully, over supper, she watched father and son. She continued to produce stiff smiles in response to Jack’s stiff smiles as they both kept up a semblance of appearance for Tristan. The shopping trip today was her newest internal objection. Never had she been able to wow her son with much more than the Hot Wheels miniature cars and latest track craze for them. Jack doing so much lately had her wary and jealous.

     Is this what joint custody, or God forbid, full custody would entail? Everything Tristan would ever want? Was that a bad thing after everything he had been through? He had such a good heart that it was hard to fathom the possibility of him becoming a spoiled brat.

     Again, Jack left that night with barely a goodbye, and it was daunting to think of another four days and nights of this routine.

     To make matters worse, her brother, who resided in Florida, inboxed her on Facebook to relate that their mother was not happy with the way Marissa had “cast her aside.” While on the social network, she clicked over to Jack’s private page. They had friended while sitting in the hospital room among empty blizzard cups.

     Jack’s status read, ‘Chillin on the downlow.’ There were several comments beneath it inquiring where he was vacationing, but he had yet to answer, at least not on his newsfeed.

     Curiously, she clicked through his pictures, and halted, engrossed, on one of him wearing only swim trunks, posed on a beach with a female version of him. The picture was in an album that appeared to be family, and she scrutinized each person that Tristan would soon know as well as Aunt Liv, or her parents, or even her distant siblings.

     Stopping on an older version of Jack, she studied the man and the equally attractive woman his arm curved around—a couple who Tristan would soon call grandparents. Suddenly, she felt guilty for leaving her parents out of the loop and resolved to call her mother the next day.

     She fell asleep on the couch and woke to the race game. Bally lay stretched out beside her. Only one of Tristan’s crutches lay in the floor area around him, and lifting her head, she looked, finding the other near the television. Every day he was getting stronger, less dependent on them. Carefully, she carried him to bed.

     The next morning Jack showed up with breakfast burritos, and she hungrily inhaled hers before going into the spare room to work it off.

     Music was pounding in her earbuds, keeping her immersed in an isolated world, when the prickle began. Hitching her chin, she found Jack malingering in the doorway, his eyes keenly attuned to her every movement.

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