These Impatient Hands

It is August 9th when I realize I am a parent. My child Charise Tessa Lyon was six months ago. Where is my mind? 

I don't recall because it's soaked in the heat of heavy traffic. It is taut with anger over a lost promotion at the ad agency. It is fraught with stress over dinner reservations. It is August 9th when I realize my child is named Charise. I think my wife is named Nakia and I believe she calls me-

“Deion, be still for a second and try this.” 

Nakia feeds me a spoonful of tomato soup and cherry-braised something else. It harkens back to summer days nursing a hangover in Miami. I can't yearn for the past because the present pays bills and… reserves a dinner table. Where is my mind? 

“I don't think anything can be cherry-braised” is not supposed to exit my mouth and yet, it does. If I receive a death stare from Nakia, I don't have the time. I think I kissed her and Charise on the way out. I think it's August 9th because the calendar reads “August 9th”. Better confirm with Nakia. 

“Is it August 9th?” 

Her exasperated sigh is the only response I hear before the inevitable click. Does that answer my question? Is my question solid enough to be answered in the first place? I swipe through my phone for a reminder and there are three as follows:

• It is August 9th
• Your daughter's name is Charise
• The restaurant is Fromage Visage 

Why didn't I scribble down the number? Speak of the devil, what's this number? I hope it's not work. I have to reserve the seats. 

“Your credit may be in danger.” 

I can't deal with a scam. I did not receive that promotion. That's the true scam. I have to call Fromage Visage and Nakia is right on cue.

“I'm about to call them.” 

I hear her pace and then a coo. Is that Charise? I apologize that Daddy is strapped for time. Does she understand that? If she can, does she care to understand? 

“The place is Fromage Visage, babe,” Nakia ekes out the words as if they're processing in real time. 

I recall the name or I don't. I swear it's on my phone though. What an awful habit/curse.

“What’s their number?” 

There is no sigh. There is Charise’s scattered laughter and nothing more. I need this moment to reconnect and then Nakia clears her throat. 

“Grab a pen and paper. I have to feed you and her at the same time.”

I tear open the glove compartment in front of the restaurant. Here is a hodgepodge of junk to sort through: sunglasses, ancient traffic infractions, sticky notes that tackle permitted small talk and one of them is blank. I shake the pen and the concierge (?) flags me down. It is August 9th when I realize the restaurant is here. Where is my mind?

It is in the back of a memory on how to construct an apology. It peruses through the memory to discover the night Charise is born. She clutches onto my finger in this memory. I remember to be sober for the occasion. After seven hours of painstaking childbirth, Nakia slip her fingers between mine and smiles. 

I think I reserved the night at Fromage Visage. I think I want a chilled beer and a sloppy burger but Nakia begged for this. Some faceless celebrity pulled his reservation due to “a stroke of unforeseen misfortune” and I secured the coveted spot. I needed the promotion to cover costs but she foots the bill tonight. Her salon expanded to its ninth location in Tennessee.

I think I recall the promotion belongs to a snot-nosed punk from Winter Park. She's fresh out of college and into porcupines. She calls me prickly when I'm passed over for the raise. I think she's close with Nakia and I hold my tongue in her presence. Nakia says her name is Lisa and I have to hold my tongue harder tonight because she is joining us. 

“I want to watch Charise tonight.” 

I massage the words in my mouth on the way back home. I mull over them while Nakia conjures up a response. I'm the incisive one yet she can pirouette around my words. They are not pointless but this is chess on a master's playing field. 

“That’s Dad’s job,” she announces as if it's a mistake to stew over.

I think her dad is named Pierre. I think Pierre wants me for a curmudgeon. I have no clue what that means but he is considerate and lonely. I confused him for stoic when we met because he was wordless. If my wife was crushed by a parade float, I wouldn't have a word either. Where is my mind? 

It is on Charise and my apology. When I race through the door, I slip my fingers between hers and manage a smile. She spits up on my suit and giggles. I think she accepts my apology. Nakia asks for my hand and kisses the back of it because mashed peas and carrots don't blend well with a velvet dress. 

I think the melodic knock on the door is Pierre. I whisk myself away to change into my actual suit and shake my head at the frozen hands on my watch. I think Pierre calls for me but I pretend to be engrossed in an imaginary rugby game. I close the sports app and descend the stairs fully dressed then Lisa is here. 

“Deion, you clean up well,” Pierre bellows and pats my spine halfway up my throat. That is how it comes across. 

“There's Prickly Pete,” Lisa grins in a chicken dance toward me while Nakia is breastfeeding Charise. Pierre's cackle triggers Charise to tears. I want to undo my use of the word “trigger”. In addition to that, I want a refund for this day. Who can honor that request? 

I think Pierre smirks at Lisa and she mirrors his smirk. I glower at Nakia who doesn't register anything but breastfeeding. She shoots Pierre the “silence around my child” gaze though. At least he got her attention. Why am I envious of that? 

“We gotta go, you two. Lisa, stop flirting with my dad. Y'all need a dam- get a room and some Jesus, please” Nakia struts and stuffs twenty dollars in Pierre's shirt pocket. 

I think Nakia drives cleaner or safer but either way, she's behind the wheel and Lisa takes the front passenger seat. She fiddles with the radio and cranks up some bluegrass. Nakia and I trade disappointed glances at a red light. I question this friendship. 

“What? Nobody bumps bluegrass?” Lisa is in a genuine state of disbelief and Nakia changes the station to jazz. 

I think I witnessed the city’s beautiful transformation in this instant. It sweeps the night into a natural glow it doesn't often possess. I don't wax poetic over scenery and neither does Nakia who wrestles Lisa over the radio. The other glow emits from Fromage Visage and now, dinner is at home. Where is my mind?

It is at home where we are in a matter of minutes. All the staff in the restaurant had vague answers for the fire that engulfed the establishment. There was a literal circle of finger pointing once the fire department arrived to quell the flames. The police received no answers and the news reports mangled the story. I think the owner fled to London and was arrested at Heathrow. 

I think Lisa can shovel enough food down her throat for two nuclear families with room for two rounds of dessert. Pierre scrapes apple pie slices the size of his chuckle onto fine china. Nakia is splayed across our couch with a glass of wine. I cobble together a commendable alfredo with pesto and pie. By the time I reach the food, I have scraps to my name. 

“Gotta be quicker than that, chef,” Pierre can slap my backbone into orbit with those hands. I think I need a brace one of these days. Nakia will not challenge it because wine wears her out as much as we do. The difference is, she endures no complaints from it. 

I think Lisa is coiled around Pierre and I sneak upstairs to spend time with Charise. These impatient hands don't know rest for the life of me and I need to slow down. Nakia stands up to stop me but stumbles backward onto the couch. I have to cradle Charise alone. Six months have passed without the chance and mine has to be now.

I creep into the bedroom and she cries awake. I hold her and improvise a tune. I don't know music enough to hum something recognizable but that's the beauty of imagination. I wonder if she forgives me or can express it. That is enough for me.