Chapter 2

Foster

“Feel good to be back home?” I ask Bowie Jane as I navigate the rental car through the streets of Atherton. Sandra is still living in the house we shared during our marriage, since I transferred ownership to her as part of our divorce settlement.

“Yes, but I’ll miss you.”

I glance over my shoulder to see her mouth drawn downward and doe eyes staring at me balefully.

“It’s okay, baby. I’ll visit every West Coast trip I make, plus we’ll have time at Christmas and before you know it, another fun summer.”

She doesn’t reply and I glance back again to see her staring out the window. My daughter isn’t the taciturn type but she’s been quiet most of our trip out here to California.

I’m not conceited enough to think that she had such an amazing time with me this summer that she doesn’t want to go home. In fact, I know she misses her mom terribly, but I think she’s confused about her homecoming. Sandra’s lack of diligent contact and failure to visit have weighed on Bowie Jane. I know this because I talk to my daughter and she’s open with me when something’s on her mind.

I’ve fielded questions from her all summer, like, “I wonder what Mom’s doing?”

Translation: Why hasn’t Mom called in three days?

“And,” I continue on, trying to stoke some excitement, “you’ve got your big school shopping trip with your mom tomorrow. Lots of new clothes but I know it’s all about school supplies for you.”

My kid is a school nerd and I love that she loves it so much. She’s excited about starting back next week.

That brightens her up a bit and she starts chattering about her best friend Alicia. They’ve been in the same class since pre-kindergarten and even had weekly FaceTime chats this summer.

I pull into Sandra’s driveway and don’t feel anything for the home I once lived in. It holds great memories of Bowie Jane but that’s about all it does for me.

There’s a Mercedes C class in the driveway, probably a few years old and with a small dent in the right rear corner.

“Friend of your mom’s?” I ask as I shut off the car.

“That’s Chet’s,” Bowie Jane says glumly.

I’m irritated he’s here. Sandra should want to have alone time with her daughter since she hasn’t seen her all summer.

We exit the vehicle and I pull her two suitcases out of the trunk. I don’t even bother to wheel them along the sidewalk but carry one in each hand. Bowie Jane precedes me up the porch steps and I expect Sandra to meet us there, bursting with excitement that her daughter is home, but… nothing.

Bowie Jane attempts to open the door but it’s locked. Without hesitation, she pushes the doorbell.

We both hear footsteps quickly moving toward us and then the door is open and Sandra is pulling Bowie Jane into a hard hug.

“Oh, sweet girl… I missed you so much.” There’s the enthusiasm I was looking for but Bowie Jane’s arms hang limply at her side. She doesn’t return the embrace and that’s when I see a tall blond man standing just inside the foyer.

Sandra releases our child and steps back to put an arm around who I assume is Chet. He looks like your typical LA actor with fake suntan, brilliant white teeth he flashes at Sandra, and shellacked hair. I’d place him in his early forties.

“Look who came to surprise you,” Sandra chirps as she squeezes Chet and beams at our daughter. “He’s going to take us out to a nice dinner tonight and then he’s going to take us both clothes shopping tomorrow.”

Bowie Jane doesn’t return her mom’s smile but glances back at me, and the expression on her face tears me up. She wants no part of this surprise so I decide to remove her temporarily from the mix.

“Hey, kiddo… let’s get your suitcases upstairs into your room and you can start unpacking. Okay?”

She nods almost gratefully and shoots up the stairs. Sandra and Chet step back to let me through the door and I do nothing more than nod at the man. Sandra doesn’t bother with an introduction but only because I quickly give them my back and follow Bowie Jane to her room.

I place the suitcases on her bed and unzip them. I helped her pack, so everything is clean and neatly folded. “You get started on this and I’ll come back and help. I want to talk to your mom for a minute.”

“Okay,” she says and starts pulling clothes out of the luggage.

Downstairs, I find Sandra and Chet in the kitchen, side by side at the island. They have glasses of white wine in front of them and she’s giggling at something he’s said as I enter.

He looks at me first and then Sandra turns, a sheepish grin on her face. “Oh, Foster… let me introduce you to my boyfriend, Chet Firestone.”

I put on a genial expression and step forward to shake his hand. He has no clue that I know that’s not his real name. A quick Google search revealed he’s a two-bit actor, born Robert Petersby in Des Moines. He’s had several TV roles over the years but nothing recurring. I’m assuming he thought Chet Firestone was a more marketable name, which… I get it.

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

He flashes those teeth and my eyes hurt. Turning to Sandra, I nod toward the back deck. “Mind if we talk privately?”

“No, not at all,” she says and pats Chet on the stomach. “I’ll be right back, pooky.”

I almost snort-laugh over the ridiculous endearment but hey… whatever makes them happy. I follow Sandra onto the back deck and when the door is closed behind us, I choose my words very carefully so as not to start a fight.

“Look,” I say, scrubbing my hand through my hair that I’ve let grow longer over the summer. “Bowie Jane was really looking forward to spending some time with you before she starts school next week.”

“And I’m looking forward to spending time with her,” she assures me, a plastic smile on her face.

Time for a more direct approach. “She’s not looking forward to spending time with your boyfriend.”

Sandra’s expression crumbles. “That’s ridiculous. Bowie Jane loves Chet. He buys her stuff all the time.”

“Christ, Sandra… try talking to your daughter for once and stop assuming. She doesn’t like him. And for that matter, she’s totally confused why you’ve been so silent all summer and didn’t come to see her. She’s already putting two and two together and it’s because you want to spend time with Chet, that you’re abandoning her.”

Sandra’s face flushes red and her lips peel back in a snarl. “I am in no way abandoning my daughter and how dare you suggest such a thing. You’re just jealous I have someone—”

“Stop,” I say, holding up a hand. “This isn’t about us. This is about you and Bowie Jane. I can’t make you do anything, but if you want to start making things right with your kid—because she’s very hurt by your absence this summer—then I suggest you send Chet along and you spend the weekend with just her. You two need to reconnect.”

Her mouth opens and closes as if she has something else to say but nothing forms. “I’m going to go help her unpack. I’ve got a little time before I have to head back to the airport.”

“You’re not visiting anyone while you’re here?” she asks.

“Nah. The few who I would have wanted to see are off traveling.” I keep in close contact with a few former teammates, but those bonds loosen when you move to another team. Then I stare at her pointedly. “Think about what I said, okay?”

Sandra nods and I walk back into the house, up the stairs and into Bowie Jane’s bedroom.

Her suitcases remain untouched as she clearly got sidetracked with a bracelet-making kit. She’s sitting at her little vanity, hooking together colorful rubber bands.

“Nice job on the unpacking,” I say, my slightly sarcastic tone earning a dimpled grin. My kid has a sense of humor that matches my own—dry and witty—and far beyond her ten years. If I had to pick one favorite character trait of my daughter’s—and there are so many to choose from because she’s one hundred percent awesome—it would be that she’s funny as hell.

She gives a coy shrug. “I was waiting for you to help me so we could have quality time together.”

“Mmm-hmm.” I use my dad voice. “Put the bracelet down and come help.”

Bowie Jane can be stubborn at times, but for the most part, she’s jovially amenable to tasks requested of her. She pops up from her little chair covered in pink velour and moves to the nearest suitcase.

We work silently for a few minutes, each of us emptying a piece of luggage, but then she asks the inevitable. “What did you talk to Mom about?”

I believe in full transparency with my kid when I can, but there are many times I cannot tell her the truth of conversations with her mom. Some of our fights had nothing to do with Bowie Jane, and others exposed opposition in parenting skills that I didn’t want to use as inadvertent means to pit her against either of us.

But in this instance, I can give her the full truth. “I told her that I didn’t think it was a good idea for Chet to hang with you guys this weekend. That you should just do mommy-daughter time since you’ve been apart for so long.”

Her voice is small and hesitant. “And what did she say?”

“Well,” I hedge, not wanting to throw Sandra under the bus. “I think your mom just wasn’t aware of how much you missed her and want some alone time.”

She turns her back to me, moves to her dresser and slides a stack of T-shirts into the drawer. “So, does that mean Chet is coming with us shopping?”

I wince internally that I can’t give her the reassurances she wants. “I don’t know, baby. But if he does, just try to concentrate on having a great time and how much you love clothes shopping, okay?”

Bowie Jane nods, the flat press of her mouth telling me this isn’t the answer she wanted. I drop the stack of clothes and squat before her, both hands going to her shoulders. “Your mom loves you very, very much and is so excited to have you home. I’m sure it’s hard for her to have a boyfriend, trying to figure out a balance. I’m also sure you’re afraid her attention will be taken away from you, but one thing I know for sure is that you will always be her first priority, just the way you’re my first priority.”

“But I don’t have to like Chet, do I?” she asks with a fierce knitting of her eyebrows.

Laughing, I pull her into a hug. “No, baby. You like who you want to like. You like who deserves to be liked. But maybe just realize that for whatever reason, your mom likes him, and I know you want her to be happy, right?”

She nods against my shoulder, little arms wrapping around me tight. I give her a squeeze before releasing. “Okay… let’s get this unpacking done and we can play a game or something before I leave.”

“Can I paint your nails?” she asks slyly as she pulls back to look me square in the face with hopeful eyes.

“Sure, why not?” I reply with good nature. Not the first time I’ve sported pink on them and I’m sure not the last. Bowie Jane gets a kick out of her big, burly hockey dad getting made fun of.

Doesn’t embarrass me though. Every sloppy stroke she puts on my fingernails is a memory I’ll always treasure.