Nicholas Sparks - Two by Two

“Of course,” I said, but even as I said the words, I thought about Spannerman and his relationship with Peters and found myself wondering who exactly Vivian had called for that final recommendation.

But she wouldn’t have done something like that, would she?

When London was four, a small bicycle with training wheels appeared under the Christmas tree. I’d been adamant about getting her a bicycle; some of my favorite childhood memories were of pedaling hard on my Schwinn, chasing my freedom on humid summer days. Granted, most of those memories occurred between the ages of eight and thirteen, but my thinking as the holidays approached was that London would learn to ride for a year or two before the training wheels finally came off, and in a few years, she would ride as well as I had.

Vivian, however, wasn’t thrilled with the idea. Though she’d owned a bicycle, she didn’t have the same joyful associations that I did. I remembered asking her if she’d bought the bicycle in the weeks leading up to Christmas and each time she put me off, telling me that she hadn’t had time. In the end, I’d dragged her to the store and bought it myself, spending hours assembling it like one of Santa’s elves after Vivian had gone to bed.

I couldn’t wait for London to give it a try, and as soon as she spotted it under the tree, she ran over and I helped her climb on. As I began to push her through the living room Vivian intervened, suggesting that we open some of her other gifts. As always, my first thought was that she received too many things: clothes and toys, finger-painting kits, a mannequin (to dress up), and a beaded jewelry-making kit. Then there were countless Barbie-related items; it took me an hour to dispose of the wrapping paper and ribbons strewn throughout the room. Vivian, meanwhile, spent that time with London and her toys and clothes, and it wasn’t until almost noon that I was finally able to get London outside.

Vivian had followed us, but it struck me that she seemed to view it more as a duty than a new and exciting adventure for London. She stood on the front steps with her arms crossed while I helped London onto the seat. Watching her breaths come out in little puffs, I walked hunched over beside her, holding the handlebars. I encouraged London to pedal as we rolled up and down the street, and after fifteen minutes, she told me she was done. Her cheeks were pink and I assured her she’d done a great job. I’m not sure why, but I assumed that we’d ride two or three more times before the day was done.

Instead, she spent the rest of Christmas Day playing with her Barbies or trying on her clothes while Vivian beamed; later, she finger painted and assembled a pair of beaded bracelets. I wasn’t dissuaded, however; I had the week off, and I made it a point to bring her out to ride at least once a day. Over the next few days, as she grew more coordinated and less wobbly, I would release the handlebars for periods of increasing duration. London giggled when I pretended she was going so fast that I couldn’t keep up. We stayed out longer each time, and when she finally announced that she was finished, I would hold her hand as we walked toward the front door. She would jabber on excitedly to Vivian, and I was certain that London had caught the same bicycle-riding bug that I had and would insist on riding every day while I was at work.

But that didn’t happen. Instead, when I came home from work-by then it would be dark and London would often be in her pajamas-and asked London if she rode, she always said that she hadn’t. Each time, Vivian had a reason for not bringing her out-it was raining, or they had errands to run, or London might be getting a cold, or even that London didn’t want to. Still, after work when I’d park in the garage, I’d see the little bicycle that made my daughter laugh, collecting dust in the corner. And every single time, I felt a faint ache in my heart. I must not know my daughter as well as I thought I did, or perhaps London and I simply liked different things. And though I’m not proud to admit it, I sometimes found myself wondering whether Vivian didn’t want London to ride her bike simply because it was something I wanted London to do.

In retrospect, I think I believed that quitting my job would be the most significant event of 2015 for my wife and me. I ended up being wrong, of course; striking out on my own was simply the first domino in a long line of dominoes that would begin to topple, with even larger dominoes to come later.

The following week was domino number two.

Because Vivian wanted to prep for her interviews on Monday, I came home from the office at noon. I cleaned the house and did the laundry while trying to keep London entertained, which wasn’t as easy as it sounded. On Tuesday afternoon, while Vivian interviewed, I brought London to a late lunch at Chuck E. Cheese, a place Vivian would never set foot in. After eating, she played some of the games in the arcade, hoping to win enough tickets to trade them for a pink teddy bear. We didn’t come close, and by my calculations, I could have simply purchased three of them for what I’d spent in game tokens.

On Wednesday, I opted for our usual Saturday morning routine of breakfast and the park, but it was impossible for me to ignore my growing anxiety concerning work. I kept imagining that potential clients were trying to reach me, or worse, standing outside an office that was obviously closed, but whenever I called the receptionist, I was informed there were no messages.

With my initial list of potential clients amounting to nothing, I started cold-calling businesses. Starting Wednesday afternoon and all day Thursday, I made more than a couple of hundred calls. I consistently heard the words not interested , but kept at it and eventually managed to line up five meetings the following week. The businesses weren’t the kind of clients that the Peters Group normally targeted-a family-owned restaurant, a sandwich shop, two chiropractors, and a day spa-and the fees would likely be low, but it was better than nothing.

At home, Vivian said little about her various interviews. She didn’t want to jinx them, she explained, but she seemed confident, and when I told her about my meetings the following week, her mind was clearly elsewhere. Looking back, I should have taken it as a sign.

On Friday morning, I’d just walked in the kitchen when I heard Vivian’s cell phone begin to ring. London was already at the table, eating a bowl of cereal. Vivian checked the incoming number and wandered to the back patio before answering. Thinking it was her mother-her mother was the only person I knew who would call that early-I poured myself a cup of coffee.

“Hi, sweetie,” I said to London.

“Hi, Daddy. Is zero a number?”

“Yes,” I answered. “Why?”

“Well, you know I’m five, right? And before that, I was four?”

“Yes.”

“What was I before I was one?”

“Before you were one, we would talk about your age in months. Like, you’re three months old, or six months old. And before you were a month old, your age was measured in weeks. Or even days.”

“And then I was zero right?”

“I guess you were. Why all the questions?”

“Because I’ll be six in October. But really, I’ll be seven.”

“You’ll be six, honey.”

She held up her hands and began counting, holding up a finger or thumb with every number she pronounced. “Zero. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.”

By then, she was holding up five fingers on one hand and two on the other. Seven in total.

“That’s not how it works,” I said.