Visitor

She saw his feet first. Shiny black shoes. Her eyes quickly traveled up the creased khakis, to the white button-down shirt across the broad chest, up the collared neck to the face. The hair on his head was thinning but hadn’t abandoned him altogether, yet. He hadn’t put on or lost any weight. He looked exactly as she remembered him. Cara stood there, waiting for some words to come together, form a comprehensible sentence; a greeting perhaps. Hi. Hello. No such luck. She finally stepped aside to let him in.

He stood taking in the airy living room, the attached kitchenette. There was a light scent of candles and fresh baked cookies. There were paintings up on the walls that were once bare and picture frames on the coffee tables. She had replaced the lanterns he had chosen with white expensive looking lamps. There was another bookshelf by the bay windows and a rocker with a pale blue cushion and a knitted throw. She'd hung drapes; white with navy embroidery. He turned around. The futon cover had been changed to a printed powder blue.

"You don't like red, anymore?" His first words were soft and tinged with a hint of accusation.

Cara half-smiled. "I like blue better." She folded her arms against her chest, conscious of her nipples pushing out against the thin white of her tank top. “Tea?"

"Sure."

Cara floated into the kitchen in a daze, grabbed the kettle, set it on a burner. Opening a cabinet, she froze. She had made an inventory once, a week after he'd left, when she finally pulled herself from the bed and stepped into the kitchen. She hadn't eaten in days, picking only from the box of chocolates on her nightstand. Tea; orange pekoe with pekoe cut black. A half empty box of Cheerios. Mustard. A two litre bottle of Minute Maid Lemonade. American cheese, butter top white bread, peanut butter, five jars of Goya’s Passion Fruit Jelly. Kraft’s Macaroni and Cheese. Fettuccini. Things she owned but no longer needed.

But for the next two months all she ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner was fettuccini, mac and cheese, and PB &Js. She washed them down with lemonade, sitting in front of the TV watching the Monday West Wing marathons. On Wednesdays, the show aired at 7 pm, and then again at 11. Thursdays at 7, Fridays at 7, Saturdays at 1 pm, as well as on Sundays. She didn't miss one episode of his favorite show. On Tuesdays, when the show wasn't on, she was restless and finally rented all the seasons of the show available at Blockbuster. But she would never tell him that. She never liked West Wing when he lived here.

She sat down next to him, a familiar nervous anxiety feeling forming in her belly, and looked straight ahead. "How've you been?"

"Ok,” he scratched the back of his head, looking down. “You?"

She shrugged, pursed her lips, and slowly tearing at a kleenex. He drummed his fingers on the glass top.

"What're you doing here?" she asked.

"I just… I've been thinking about you," he mumbled, not looking at her. "I thought-. I don't know. I'm sorry. I wanted to say I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," she snorted.

"I-"

"Changed your mind?" she completed for him.

"Are you seeing anyone?" He asked, trying to read her face.

"I don't have time," she said, when a child's voice humming in the bathroom made her jump. She returned from the bathroom with a little girl, wrapped in a towel too big for her. Blake looked at her, and then at the little girl with the black hair curling around her round chubby face.

"Hi," she said, twisting a curly strand into her mouth. Cara pulled it out.

"Hi," he got down on his knees and pulled his hand out to her tiny one.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Yaz, that's not nice!" Cara said.

Yasmin turned back to Blake, covering her face with her palms, so that her words were muffled and barely audible. Blake sat down on the carpet so Yasmin was eye to eye with him.

"This is mommy's friend, Blake," Cara said quickly. "Blake, this is Yasmin."

Yasmin self-consciously pulled the towel around herself tighter, which only succeeded in falling off her altogether. Red-faced and embarassed, eyes brimming with tears she turned to her mother. Cara took her to the bedroom where she grabbed a tiny pink robe and slipped it on Yaz, tying it around her waist. Cara knelt in front of her daughter, looking at her closely. Her dimples appeared on the same spot on the left cheek as Blake's. Her eyes weren't black but brown like his, and her curls were tighter than Cara's own. She ran her fingers through Yaz’s soft hair and tickled her until she pulled away squeeling and giggling.





In the living room, Blake sat with his head in his hands, looking up when Cara walked in. A cup of tea sat next to him on an old coaster. Her cup sat on a newer one.

"I thought-" he started.

"I didn't."

"But you left-" he started again, confused. He remembered taking her to the abortion clinic on that morning three years ago.

"Because I was angry,” she threw at him, the anger boiling in her eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

“I didn’t want you to feel like you had a responsibility towards her-“

“How could you not think I’d want to be involved?” his confusion turned into anger.

“You didn’t want kids. I didn’t want you to feel like you had to take care of her and be there for her.”

He shook his head. “What did you tell her?”

“That her father lived far away,” she said accusingly.

Blake scratched his goatee, rubbed his eyes. The carved wooden coaster under his teacup was a present from when his parents first visited Cara and him in Seattle. He had left the coasters, just as he had left the TV tables, the TV, the futon, the microwave. He didn’t care, didn’t want anything then. Now he really wanted this coaster. He wanted to set his tea on it again, watch the spills swim into the valleys of the carving. They would dry up, leaving dark stains in the wood. He would leave the stains there, wouldn’t wash them.

He had flown in from Providence this morning. Anxious about seeing Cara, he hadn’t even bothered to rest in his hotel room. He had showered, shaved, put on a cologne she had once liked. Worn his Dockers instead of his faded blue Levi’s, dress shoes instead of Nike’s. He didn’t know what he’d say, but he couldn’t wait to see her. Now all he wanted to do was fall into bed and close his eyes, wake up in his bedroom back home. He got up.

"I was right. Look at you. It took you three years to decide you wanted to commit to a marriage. How long will it take you to commit to being a father?" she said.

From the bedroom they could hear Yasmin talking to herself. Her little voice asking, “Would you like some tea? I have chocolate. Like some chocolate? This is Barbie. Barbie, say nice to meet you. Nice to meet you.”