Every Fifteen Minutes (5 page)

“Aw, no, you're not a loser, honey.” Eric gathered her up in his arms and gave her a kiss. “Emily is a bully, and what do we know about bullies?”

“They have low self-steam.”

“Exactly right.” Eric smiled. “They have low self-steam. You know what they are? Knuckleheads.”

Hannah giggled, and they both turned at the sound of Caitlin's coming up the stairs.

“Hannah, you ready to go?” Caitlin called out, her tone falsely casual. “We don't want to be late.”

“Mommy, guess what?” Hannah called back, grinning. “Daddy said Emily is a knucklehead.”

Caitlin walked toward them with pursed lips. “Don't call names, Hannah. Emily's a nice girl.”

Eric stood up, resting his hand on Hannah's head, tousling her hair. Her head felt warm under his palm, a wonderful sensation. “Emily sounds mean to me. She called Hannah a name.”

“Two wrongs don't make a right,” Caitlin said coolly, then handed Eric her iPhone. “Here, Eric, take this. I have Daniel on the line and I think you should speak with him.”

“Great, thanks.” Eric took the phone, pressed End Call with his thumb, then handed it back. “Here you go. Tell Daniel I said hi, would you?”

“Fine.” Caitlin shot him a warning look, muted because they were in front of Hannah.

Hannah looked up at Eric, her giggle gone. “Daddy, can you come to my softball practice?”

“Sure,” Eric answered. “I'd love—”

“No, he can't,” Caitlin interjected, maintaining her ersatz politeness. “Tonight isn't a real game, it's just a practice, and Daddy has to mow the lawn and fix the fence. I'll make sure he has a schedule of your games, so he can go and watch you play.” Caitlin motioned to Hannah's bare feet. “Why aren't your socks and cleats on, honey? We have to get going.”

Hannah pushed up her glasses. “They're in my bedroom. The shoelaces are too long and they didn't put them in the holes and I tried but I don't know how to do it.”

Caitlin waved her down the hall. “Go get them and we'll put them on in the car. Hurry up, now.”

“Okay.” Hannah ran off down the hall to her room.

Eric waited until Hannah was out of earshot, then turned to Caitlin. “As I suspected, she's not excited about playing softball, but I have no problem with you giving it a try. I would've liked to go and see her practice, and I have every right to do so.”

“If you had taken Daniel's call, you would know that you don't have every right to do so.”

“As you say, ‘What possible objection can you have to my being there?'” Eric wasn't above throwing her own words back at her. “If softball is so great, why can't I watch my daughter enjoy it?”

“She won't enjoy it if you watch. She'll act like she doesn't like it so you'll feel sorry for her.”

“No, she won't.” Eric felt stung for Hannah. “She's just a little kid trying to deal with big emotions. We're supposed to help her do that, even if we don't want her to have those emotions. Even if those emotions are inconvenient for us.”

“Give it a rest, Freud. Why do you have to burden everything? Why is everything so
freighted
?”

“Actions have consequences, Caitlin. People are allowed to have emotional reactions to decisions, especially children.”

“Gimme a break.” Caitlin clenched her perfect teeth. “Kids play softball. Bad things happen and good things happen. People get divorced, and everybody has to learn to move on. Me, you, and Hannah.” Caitlin lowered her voice because Hannah was walking toward them, holding her socks and her cleats, trailing overlong shoelaces.

“Mommy, I got my shoes!”

“Can you walk faster?” Caitlin hurried toward Hannah and hustled her down the hallway to the stairwell, just as Eric's phone started ringing in his pocket. He slid it out quickly, a psychiatrist's reflex. He glanced at the screen, which read Susan Grimes, his lawyer, so he slid the phone back into his pocket and hurried after Caitlin and Hannah. He followed them downstairs, where Caitlin gave him the job of carrying shopping bags of healthy snacks to the car, while she laced Hannah's cleats. When it was time to go, Caitlin locked the front door, then she and Hannah piled into the car.

Eric waved good-bye as they reversed out of the driveway, turned right, and disappeared around the bend, out of sight. He realized that the
FOR SALE
sign was gone and assumed that Caitlin had removed it while he was upstairs. He turned away and headed to the garage, where he spotted the sign behind the beach chairs. He moved the chairs, retrieved the sign, and threw it in the trash can out back. He didn't bother thinking about it, he just did it, and it felt good and childish, both at once.

He went back to the garage, changed into the sweatshirt and jeans that he stowed in his workshop, then got his tools, carried them out to the back fence, and fixed the rail as it grew dark. He tried to ignore the tension tightening his chest. He reminded himself that it was just an overactive amygdala, the brain's emotional control center, which was hyperactive in those with anxiety. He pictured his neuroscience textbook, which showed thermal images of the brain, the amygdala hot with electrical activity, in vivid reds and orange flares, like sunspots.

Eric put the tools back, started the tractor, and mowed the lawn, finally calming down as he drove back and forth in strips as straight as wound tape, getting as close as possible to the trunks of the trees so he didn't have as much to weed-whack, tending a yard that his daughter would no longer play in, on a property he no longer owned, with a house that was no longer his home.

By the time the sun abandoned the sky, Eric barely noticed. Because he was already in darkness.

He didn't see the text until he got home.

 

Chapter Six

Eric opened his door into his entrance hall, set his keys and mail on the side table, then slid his iPhone from his pocket. The screen showed a text he must have missed. He hadn't felt the phone vibrate while he was mowing the lawn, and he'd started making calls almost as soon as he hit the car; first to his lawyer, whom he didn't reach, second to the Remax Realtor, whom he didn't reach either, and finally he returned calls to his private clients. Luckily, nothing had been pressing, just hands held, dosages tweaked, and pharmacies called, and then he was here, his new home.

He felt tired, sweaty, and hungry, covered with a fine yellow-green dusting of pollen. His T-shirt hung on his body, his jeans and sneakers were covered with grass clippings. He touched the text icon, and the text popped onto the screen. He didn't recognize the phone number but the text read:

U wanted 2 talk about Jacobs but I didn't C U before U left.

I'm free 2 meet 2 nite. Kristine

Eric blinked, surprised. It was from his medical student, Kristine Malin. He'd never gotten a text from her, or any other med student, before. He didn't know how she got his cell number, then he realized she would have password access to the online hospital directory. True, he had told her that he wanted to talk to her about Armand Jacobs, a seventy-something patient whose borderline personality disorder wasn't helped by a relapse into alcoholism, but that could wait until tomorrow. The matter had slipped Eric's mind and he'd left work from the ED, after talking with Laurie.

She has a lady boner for you.

Eric wondered if Kristine was asking him out and using the case for an excuse. He would never date anyone under his supervision, much less a medical student, but he was tempted. After all, his new place was empty, the silence practically echoing. He still hadn't furnished it completely because he'd been holding out hope that he and Caitlin would get back together, but that wasn't happening. The last time he had sex was eight months and about three weeks ago. Still, he didn't need a date, he needed a lawyer.

Eric thumbed to the phone function, scrolled through his contacts, and pressed Call, then wandered into the kitchen while the phone rang. “Susan?” he said, when the call was picked up. “Hi, did you get my message?”

“Yes, hello.” Susan's voice was hard to hear over some background noise. “I'm at my son's basketball game. Sorry I didn't get a chance to call you back.”

Eric thought of what Caitlin had said,
normal kids like sports
, but he pressed that thought away. “Do you have time to talk? It's important and I'm one of those clients now, who call at all hours.”

Susan laughed. “Go ahead. I understand from Daniel you had an issue at the house today. What happened?”

Eric filled her in as succinctly as possible. “But can she sell the house without asking me?”

“Unfortunately, yes. We agreed that you were giving her the house because it was the best thing for Hannah, but we didn't provide for that in the agreement. In my defense, the only thing I can say is that sort of thing is never in an agreement.”

“Damn it.” Eric went to the refrigerator and opened the door.

“The most I could have done is to try and get you the right of first refusal. My sense is that she knew she wanted to sell the house when she signed the agreement. I said as much to Daniel. He didn't deny it but he didn't confirm it either.”

“Can we change the agreement to put in the right of first refusal?” Eric scanned the refrigerator, which contained expired milk, a six of Bud Light, and leftovers from Chipotle, Saladworks, and Outback Steakhouse. He ate so much takeout that he saw tinfoil lids in his sleep.

“No. We can't amend it because they won't agree. They never would have.”

“I see.” Eric wasn't giving up. “But isn't there anything we can do to stop her?”

“Sorry, but no.”

“Can I buy the house back? I called the Realtor, but he hasn't returned it yet.”

“I have to advise against you doing that, Eric.”

“Why? If I'm crazy enough to buy my own house, why should anybody stop me?”

“If the house is under contract and you start making phone calls that disrupt that transaction, she could sue you.”

Eric scoffed, incredulous. “For what? Trying to buy a house I used to own?”

“It's called tortious interference with contract.”

“But what if it's for a higher number? She said she got the full asking price, but whatever it is, I can top it. How is that interfering with the contract?”

“Not so fast, I doubt you can top it. After I spoke with Daniel today, I called my cousin who's a Realtor at Berkshire Hathaway, and he did some digging for me. Caitlin got $510,000 for the house.”

“
What?
” Eric grabbed a Bud Light and closed the refrigerator door. “That's not possible. The estimator valued it at $450,000. How did she get that much?”

“My cousin thinks it's a foreign buyer.”

“What foreign buyer? This is the Philadelphia suburbs, not London.”

“He says that the houses in your neighborhood are getting snapped up for the executives, ever since Centennial Tech merged with that Japanese company. They paid way too much. Three bedrooms, two baths, for 510? On
that
parcel?”

Eric felt his heart wrench. He loved that parcel. “Well. That shuts me down. We both know I don't have $510,000 in cash lying around.”

“Especially since you let her buy you out for a hundred grand. She makes great money, and by all rights, she should've paid fully half.” Susan clucked. “I tried to warn you. No good deed, Eric.”

“It was my kid's house.” Eric tucked the phone under his ear, went to the silverware drawer, pulled out the church key, and pried the lid off his beer.

“Yes, it was, and Caitlin made herself a bundle.”

Eric couldn't say anything, trying to process the information. He didn't know how Caitlin could bring herself to sell the house, even for that much money. He didn't know how she could let him go. He loved her still, but she was gone and somehow she'd ended up with everything—Hannah, a windfall, and a perfectly mown lawn that didn't even need weed-whacking. He took a slug of beer, which tasted bitter.

“Eric, are you there?”

“Yes, but I'm suicidal. Luckily, I know a good shrink.”

Susan chuckled.

“Okay, let's switch gears. Talk to me about softball. Caitlin said I wasn't permitted to go to Hannah's practice. Was that right?”

“No, she was just trying to back you down, and so was Daniel. I'm glad you didn't take his call. He never should have talked to you. He knows you're represented. Anyway, softball practice is a public event. You're permitted to go.”

“Doesn't she have to ask me before she signs Hannah up for summer activities? Isn't that what legal custody means, that we decide major decisions together?”

“The term ‘shared legal decisions' are major things, like choice of religion or enrolling the child in a different school.”

“So what do we do about softball?”

“Nothing. If we went to a judge and asked him to restrain Caitlin from enrolling Hannah in a softball league, we would lose. It would look like you were overreaching. Micromanaging.”

“You make it sound like nothing, and it's not for a kid like Hannah. I told you, she's anxious and she doesn't want to play softball. She's not as good, and the other girls bully her. Couldn't we say that to the court?”

“No. A court doesn't want to be in the business of telling parents whether or not their kids should play softball. I know you think she has an anxiety disorder, but she hasn't been diagnosed with one.”

“I diagnose her as having one.”

“But the court would say that you weren't independent, and you're not. If you want me to get an evaluation of her psychological status, we can do that.”

“I don't want to stress her more, to prove a point to some judge.” Eric hated this whole legal process, asking a judge what was best for a child he knew better and loved more than life itself. “She's already under the stress of the separation, and now, a move.”