the twenty-first century ellinghams

chapter sixteen: real talk

~about eleven years ago~

     breakfast for dinner was the food of the gods. this is unanimously agreed upon between the two of them as pancakes and eggs and coffee and bacon is feasted on. stevie is trying not to stare at him. at the way his forehead has slightly wrinkled after decades of expressive eyebrows. at the way his college class ring has new small scratches and delicately tarnished from age. at the way his teeth have somehow remained perfectly straight and white. did he actually wear his retainer every night? who does that?
     "you're staring at me," he notes. he carves into the second pancake on the stack.
     "sorry," she replies.
     "don't be sorry."
      "well i am." a sip of her coffee. "so when do we ... real talk?" he pretends to consider, dramatically hmming.
     "i was thinking... never."
     "david."
     "i mean who needs to really talk?"
     "david."
     "i was perfectly content to just mouth words back and forth-"
     "david."
     "maybe we could take up sign language, then we could really never real talk, or perhaps even miming-"
     "oh my god, david."
     "what?" he says, laughing. her face flushes.
     "i'm serious," she says, unable to stifle a small laugh. damn her throat.
    "clearly," he replies. "we've real talked plenty. you've gotten more real talk out of me then possibly anyone in the history of forever. but fine. real talk. ask away?"
     "what are you doing here?" she asks before she can scare herself away from the question.
     "eating breakfast," he replies sarcastically.
     "david..." she warns.
     "all in due time, officer." he wags a fork in circles in the direction of her face. "we can play twenty questions later, but first, i would like to enjoy breakfast at my favorite girl's favorite place." she flushes bright red now.
     "god, you're such a flirt," she says.
     "i'll take that as a compliment. can i have a piece of your bacon?"
    

~present day~

stevie was to leave for the airport around three in the morning. the agreement was that she would say goodbye to the kids the night before, kissing them goodnight, and promising to be back soon, leaving the room with a quick flip of the light and delicate close of the door. she returns to her own bedroom, david attentively watching cnn on their tv.
     "what's the panel of experts arguing about today?" she asks.
     "i don't even know," he replies honestly. "world peace? or maybe carbon emissions. probably both." she regards the tv, finds that no conclusion will be made, and turns her way to the long dresser, pulling out a small bag. she then goes to the bathroom and begins placing items into her bag, shampoo and mascara, hairbrush and deodorant. packing has never been her thing.
     "did you ever learn what the case is about?" david asks from the bedroom, quieting the tv.
     "just the murder part," she replies, throwing in her toothbrush.
     "is that... normal?" he asks. "like protocol?"
     "i'm not sure. i really don't understand how my returning can follow any protocol. there's gotta be a law about it or something. i mean, i used to know about cases before shipping out, but that might have just been because i was an official member of the team."
     "being an official member of the team," david begins. he pauses, considering. she turns away from the sink and towards him. "is that something you think you want again?" it's clear that he's been thinking about this for some time. she zips up her toiletries bag and makes her way back into the bedroom, placing the bag on top of her open suitcase.
     "i don't know," she replies honestly. she begins zipping the suitcase. "i mean," she begins, the zipper getting stuck. she tugs and it doesn't budge. she sighs, deciding to leave it until tomorrow. she climbs into bed and covers herself with the comforter, her knees close to her chest. "i'd be lying if i said i hadn't thought about it. i don't know if they even want me back. what does it mean that they're asking me out of retirement? should i take it as simply flattery or do they really need me again or..." she sighs. no questions would be answered until she got there. a sad smile is on david's face. "what?" she asks.
"but what do you want?" he asks quietly. she sinks into the bed. her legs stretching out, and she turns towards him.
"i don't know." the tv was turned off, and then the lights, and then with whispered "good nights," the conversation.

when david woke up, stevie was gone. her suitcase was still on the floor, but it was empty. he turns to her side of the bed, a sticky note on her pillow. "hope you don't mind," it reads, "stole your suitcase. gotta fix that zipper. didn't want to wake you up by asking. see you next week. xx." he smiles to himself, turning the note over between his fingers. one week. or maybe ten days? easy.

by day four, okay, day three, the word "easy" became ironic. "easy" mocked him, haunted him in his sleep. two small children vs. one fully grown man and yet the fight wasn't even fair. over the past four days there had been five meltdowns, two from dana, two from henry, and to be honest, one from him. it wasn't his fault that the trader joe's cashier was out of lollipops, and can you guys please please stop crying. but would he admit any of this to stevie? ... no. look, he knew that he could always talk to her, but this was somehow different. he had something to prove, of course to no one but himself, but still. if stevie could be wonder mom, teaching and co-parenting, occasionally solo parenting, then he could be super dad. so phone conversations were quick and brief. how were things? perfect! and the kids? a breeze. easy (the worst word ever). day five, he calls in for backup.
     "janelle," he says, balancing a phone between his shoulder and ear, "you don't understand. my angel children have been possessed by some ancient demonic force. something has come over them." she sighs on the phone.
     "you know i don't have kids, right?"
     "yeah, yeah. but i assumed you knew a thing or two from all those after school programs." he picks up two boxes of pop tarts, debating. did they like the blueberry frosted kind or the strawberry frosted kind? one mistake would lead to another meltdown. he couldn't let that happen.
     "... fine," she replies after a moment. "try to get them to run around for a bit between school and home. then they'll be more worn out for bed and just being at home. oh! and no sugar. i mean some sugar, but nothing too sugary. processed sugars, corn syrup, avoid that."
     "so, like pop tarts would be..."
     "very bad." he puts the boxes back on the shelf.
     "of course. ok no sugar and wearing them out between school and home. thank you so much, janelle. seriously. i'd give you my firstborn, but stevie would kill me." she laughs.
     "of course."

     in the checkout lane, his phone begins to buzz again. he thinks it's janelle with another tip or something, but finds that it's an unknown number. he answers.
     "hello?" he asks.
     "is this david eastman?" a female voice asks.
     "this is he," he replies, placing a carton of milk on the conveyer.
     "oh good," the woman replies with a nervous laugh. "my name is sarah welker. i know you don't know that name, but uh, my father was larry welker. he used to be head of security at ellingham. i've been told that he had a particularly close relationship with your wife, stephanie-" a pause on the phone. "sorry, stevie. stevie bell."
     "um yes?" david replies. "is something wrong? is larry okay?"
     "im afraid not. one second." sounds of quick footsteps and the closing of a door. "sorry, i didn't want to say something to intense right next to him. mr. eastman, my father, he's," a few deep breathes. a nervous laugh. a sniffle. "he's not going to make it. you and your wife, you should, you should get down here."