His expression grows weary with frustration, both at his powerlessness to help me and my insistence that he is. He knows he’s not. He knows he can’t.
We share one last hug, and he kisses the top of my head as we let this sink in.
I wonder how much of this our broken teacup can hold.
I follow him to the front door. We kiss, and he walks down the path to the driveway where he gets in his truck. I see the unmarked detail parked down the street. Our houses sit onquarter-acrelots. We all know when someone’s kid is home from college or someone else’sin-lawsare in town. And we all have garages and driveways. The street is usually clear. The cops stand out like a sore thumb.
I don’t linger. I go back inside and think that maybe I’ll make muffins for the girls to have after school, like I promised them. And that maybe I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee. And that I can’t do this now—worry about our marriage. It’s been four years, and I still react at the slightest provocation, anxiety taking over the rational part of my brain.
I take the coffee from the bag in the freezer. Close the door, turn to the counter and the coffee maker. A flash comes then. A memory of the conversation I had with Wade before he turned angry. Violent. When I was lost in the moment. The euphoric relief when he told me I did, in fact, save his life. That I did have to shoot Clay Lucas to save him. And then the frenetic outpouring from both of us about what we saw and felt that day and what it’s done to us since.
I told him things that went beyond the shooting and its aftermath—about sleeping on the sofa and how I hadn’t done that for four years and then Wade asked me, “Why were you sleeping on a sofa four years ago,” and my answer.
Fuck.
I stand now, paralyzed as I drag the memory from the place it wants to hide.
“Because my husband had an affair.”
What else? I force myself to remember.
“Her name was Briana... he was remodeling her house... his father had just died, and I had a baby and a toddler... I’ve forgiven him...”
And then, “Still, you must hateher.”
“Yes, sometimes...”
“Of course you do... that’s human... just like I hate Clay Lucas even though he wassick.”
“I don’t hate Clay Lucas... I hate the person who put that gun in his hands.”
The conversation plays as I stand in the silence. The things I told Wade, that I confessed because he mirrored those confessions, matched the vulnerability they created. I needed to relieve myself of them so desperately that I ignored the alarm bells. And he played on that need with an instinct that now seems predatory.
Suddenly, I hear another set of footsteps on the hallway upstairs. Fran racing to my room to see if I’m in my bed, if there’s still time to crawl under the covers for a morning cuddle against a warm body. My heart sinks, knowing she’ll be disappointed and now I realize I’ve also forgotten about the muffins.
I turn on the oven, pull out the mixing bowl and baking pan. I call out, my head turned to the opening that leads to the front hall and then the stairs to the second floor. “I’m in the kitchen!”
The feet move again, down the hall and then the stairs. I quickly pour flour, eggs, milk into the bowl. Sugar, butter, baking soda. I find a bag of chocolate chips. Despite the chaos in my mind, I follow the recipe I know by heart.
I see her in the doorway, a little bundle of crazy curls and sleepy eyes and pink pajamas. Her blanket is still clutched in her hand.
“Good morning!” I say, lifting her. She wraps her legs around my waist and her arms around my shoulders and presses her face into my neck. Intense pain shoots through the bruises on my hips.
“What’s this?” she asks me, feeling the silk against her cheek instead of my skin.
I put her down, remembering the bruise, remembering the back road. Remembering Wade.
“I thought I would look nice on my first day back.”
She is quickly distracted by the bag of chocolate chips. She claps and jumps up and down. “Are those for breakfast?” she says as she looks at the muffin tin.
“You wish!” I say. She sits at the table, and I bring her a bowl and a box of cereal. I get the milk from the fridge and some blueberries that will likely remain untouched. “They’re for the snack I promised to have ready for after school. Kelly will be here today, remember?”
She says okay and pours her cereal and watches me mix the batter. I need to wake Amy. The bus comes in half an hour, and she likes to take a quick shower, then carefully consider her wardrobe choices. And just as I have this thought, I hear my phone chime.
I stare at it on the counter. Fran stares at me.
“Mommy, your phone,” she says.
