How to Save a Life

“What’s this?”

“Cream. It’s a dairy product derived from cow’s milk. Some people like to cook with it, some people put it in their coffee––”

He’s not amused, his face remains a block of ice. “Didn’t we talk about buying only organic?”

Is that his damage? For heaven’s sake…

“We did.” That’s my cream I should tell him. I don’t give it to Maisie. But I can’t bring myself to soothe his tortured soul. His overreactions have been like this for three weeks. I’ve learned to save my energy.

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say? I explained to you why it’s important for Maisie to eat organic––”

I blame the lack of coffee. I haven’t had my second cup yet and the thoughts in my head accidentally slip out. “Dear Diary, the nanny was bad again today…”

For this I get a blink and a hard stare.

I get off the stool and grab the cream out of his hand. “This is for my coffee.” Then I grab the fresh pot, pour two mugs, splash some cream in mine, and hand him the black one––how he likes it. I know, shocker.

I take my seat at the kitchen counter again and Jordan slides the sugar jar closer to me.

“That goes for you as well,” he says softly. He sounds a little remorseful. So maybe miracles do happen. “You shouldn’t consume anything that’s not organic. It’s not healthy.”

Should I tell him my mother would forget to feed me some days after my father died?

“I was on the national school lunch program for a few years, Jordan. That ship has sailed.” Taking a sip of my coffee, I avert my eyes. I don’t want to see the reaction to my overshare right now. “I thought Maisie and I would visit the Museum of Natural History today.”

Maisie’s ditched the new doll and is having a grand time with her old blocks.

“Let me know what you decide. I’ll be home in time for dinner.”

With that, he finishes his coffee and grabs the jacket off the stool. Taking his empty cup and mine, I rinse them off, place them in one of his two dishwashers, and he leaves.

We’ve settled into a comfortable routine. When I arrive at seven a.m., he has Maisie dressed and fed already. I handle the child care for the day, feed her dinner––sometimes he’s here to help, sometimes not. Then I give her a bath and put her to sleep and he takes over parenting duties for the night.

It’s a cozy, well-orchestrated home life, an odd counterfeit of the real thing. Not to mention that I still don’t know anything about the events that led to Maisie coming to live with him, and he doesn’t make it easy to ask.

Half an hour after lunch, Maisie and I take an Uber across town to the museum. It was the perfect call, her little face lights up with wonder the moment we step inside and she sees the blue whale hanging over us.

Grim: How’s the museum?

The text comes in when we’re standing by the woolly mammoth skeleton. How is she? She’s freaking out in her stroller, excited to get out to get closer.

Me: *sends a picture of Maisie with a huge grin on her face and her grabby hands reaching for it*

Grim: she’s not scared.

Big statement. No, she’s not. He could take a few lessons.

Me: not much scares her. Nothing so far.

The subtext is obvious. I understand being protective and cautious, but his concern runs deep and dark and manifests as a little bit nutty.

Grim: …

Grim: How long will you be there?

I don’t know if I should be scared or pleased. This could go either way with him. Regardless of what I think, a subtle warm feeling spreads in my chest. Maybe he’s not a cadaver after all. Maybe he’s on life support and needs something to fight for. And even stranger, I want him to fight for it. Jordan’s a good guy––anyone that sees him with Maisie would agree––he’s just…hard to be around. Being in his company is like crashing up against a brick wall all the time. It’s easier to avoid him.

Me: enough time for u to join us. let me know when u get here.

When Jordan doesn’t text back, I take it as a positive sign. He would’ve shut me down if he had no intention of meeting us here.

In the meantime, we hit the food court. I get Maisie’s organic yogurt and fruit cup out of my bag and buy myself an ice cream cone. Then I find an open table and park the stroller in front of me. Problem is, today is the day Maisie decides the yogurt no longer pleases her. She keeps pushing the spoon away.

“No,” little Miss Demanding insists. Reaching out toward my hazelnut gelato cone, her chubby hands make a grabby motion so I do what seems natural. Despite the supreme leader’s wishes, I give her a taste.