Fight or Flight

“How do they expect you to get this stuff out of the carton?”, I thought as I ground the spoon through the hard- packed cube of ice cream in the cardboard container.  Aiming for the ribbon of peanut butter, my hand slipped off the spoon and straight into the box, coating my thumb and wrist in a wet, brown ooze of chocolate.  Cat like, I licked myself clean and resumed digging at the elusive smear of peanut butter slicing through the mass.  The phone rang, startling me so that my hand slipped again. After a brief fumble with the receiver, I answered the call.

“Hello?”

“Can I speak with Patrick?”

My heart jumped at his voice.  I instantly recognized it although I’d only heard it once before tonight. It was like a lightning strike to my spinal cord, sending jitters through my entire body.  As quick as they started, the jitters stopped and I was frozen in place. Fight or flight, fight or flight.

“You’re not supposed to be contacting us,” I responded with an even tone, forcing my voice to exude a sense of calm.  I could tell I caught him off guard as he was quiet for a moment and then sputtered a bit before continuing.

“Please, I’ve had another baby and I was hoping we could get together, with a legal person if that makes you more comfortable, so I can see my son. Please, I just want to see my son,” he pleaded. His voice was calm and respectful. For all I know he’s standing outside right now, watching me through the window as all the blood left my face and my body went weak.

“I’m happy for you that you’ve had another baby. Congratulations, but you are not supposed to contact us. We know how to contact you in the future if we ever need to.”

“I think you’re confused,” he protested, “there’s no rule or anything saying I can’t contact you. So I’m asking you to let me see my son.” He was assertive, yet still respectful. It doesn’t take much to tip him over the edge, I reminded myself.  Be careful.

“He is not emotionally ready for that and we are not willing to do that now,” I answered as my husband walked in the room. He heard that small snippet and instantly knew the situation.  He moved quickly to my side, his protective instincts kicking in immediately.

“Can we work towards that point?” he suggested. You’ve got to give him credit, I thought. He knows what to say and how to say it. Ask for what you want, don’t take no for an answer. Offer ideas and plans and alternatives. Bide your time and wear them down so they give an inch. Then steal the mile.  

“Don’t contact us again,” were my last words to him as I gently set the receiver in the cradle. Raising my arm to my head, I licked away the ice cream that was again dripping off my wrist, having a bit more trouble this time due to how badly I was shaking. My husband picked up the container off the floor. When had I dropped it?

The phone rang again.

“Hello,” I said, willing my voice to remain steady while cursing the old rotary phone that had no caller id capabilities. I placed my index finger on the plunger, ready to depress it the second I heard his voice, positive it was him again. My fingernail clacked repeatedly against the pink plastic base of the phone.  Damn it! I had to quit shaking. I couldn’t let the kids see me like this. The voice on the other end was female and energetic.  The foster mom of my adopted son’s little sister, her timing was unbelievable.

“Do you know who just called me?! Is that why you’re calling,” I grilled her. A short conversation later I hung up the phone and sat down at the kitchen table. My husband, who had left the room during the previous call, returned.  He set a piece of paper in front of me. I unfolded it and read quietly. It was a real estate agent’s flyer, offering to buy our home. I sighed.

“He’s never going to let go, is he?” I asked my husband, who simply looked at me in silence.

Fight or flight.