“Tell him someone left this behind and use it to pay for his purchase, and then give it to him. Tell him you can’t tell him how much is on it but he can call that number on the back.” And she just continues to stare at me. “Okay?” I ask, a little annoyed at her ineptitude.
“You don’t want me to tell him it’s from you?” she asks, finally catching on. I shake my head no.
“My name is Officer Bradley Patrick, so I urge you to take this seriously. Make sure he leaves with that card.” I walk off, hoping she does as I ask. I’d hate to have to come back with my badge, not that it can really do anything.
In my car, I watch and wait for Joe to leave the store. He looks lighter, relieved. His eyes scan the parking lot looking for me, but I’m without my truck so he doesn’t find me. I know he knows the gift card is from me. A genuine smile crosses his face and he walks home, I hope feeling just a little better about his day.
I think about Joe and the other kids at the Boys & Girls Club whom I’ve met over the years. Colleen used to volunteer as a big sister before she started at the firm and got too busy for all of us from the neighborhood. She used to be really something special, she still is, but I hadn’t seen it in a while. If there’s one positive outcome to this marriage it’s that my old Colleen is coming back little by little. I remember the day she told me she was going to Harvard. I didn’t understand. She’d spent two years at the community college and then got into state and from there, Harvard for grad school. I didn’t really understand why she would want to be a lawyer, but then she told me, and I couldn’t help but support her. She wanted to be able to help kids like Joe, like all of them at the club. She wanted to work in family law. I don’t know when things changed, but they did. She became more concerned with the almighty dollar and her reputation and appearance than she was actually helping people.
James, Colleen and I started volunteering back in high school. Our dads always made sure we knew how lucky we are. My time with the kids has dropped dramatically since the Vegas trip as I’ve been distracted with the old lady; and work hasn’t been easy, either. Those stupid college kids and their “study aids” have been keeping me pretty busy. Just as I walk into the house, I resolve to spend more time at the center. I wonder if Colleen will come with me or if she hasn’t come back to herself as much as I think she has.
Upstairs, Colleen is sitting in the center of our bed, chewing her bottom lip right off. She’s wearing one of my old t-shirts-- her favorite night wear-- and her long blonde hair is down and damp. She picks up a water bottle, takes a gulp and then squirms in place. I chuckle at the sight. What in the hell is she doing?
“Oh, thank God!” she exclaims, tosses the capped water bottle to the side and jumps up. She grabs the small plastic bag from my hand and rush to the bathroom. In a matter of seconds, I hear the bag crinkle, the box opens, and plastic being ripped apart.
“Took you long enough!” she shouts. I round the corner to find the bathroom door wide open and Colleen peeing on the stick. I walk over to her and pick up the directions as she continues to pee.
“Did you even read how to work this thing?” I ask, trying to make sense of the directions. I find the spot that tells me not to pee on the stick for too long. And Colleen keeps right on peeing. God, I hope she’s peeing on the right fucking end. I don’t want to have to go back out.
“Uh, babe,” I say, “I don’t think you’re supposed to pee on it for that long.”
“I can’t help it!” she whines and continues to pee.
“Seriously?” I stare down at her. “You can keep peeing but remove the damn stick!”
“What am I supposed to do with it?” she asks.
“Hell if I know,” I say, shrugging. I’ve never been in this position before. Her confusion leads me to believe that neither has she. I breathe a sigh of comfort, allowing myself to imagine that I’m the only man she’s ever been with. Unfortunately, I can’t pretend that I’m the only person, as I’ve seen firsthand that I’m not.
Pinching the end of the stick daintily with the tips of two fingers, she plops the stick on the counter, leaving a trail in her wake. This is a pretty gross process to be honest. Messy, too. With all the fancy shit scientists can do nowadays and they still haven’t figured out a way to tell a lady if she’s knocked up without her peeing on her hand? Either way, her piss, her problem. I am not cleaning that off the counter.
Looking at the directions, it says to check the stick in five minutes, but not to trust results after ten minutes. I check my watch, it reads 11:05 p.m. “Okay, we got five minutes pretty girl,” I say, smiling down at her. She looks up at me and grins.