I pass her car on my way up to Anna’s parents’ front door, tapping the taillight with an open palm as I go.
Knocking on the front door is awkward, but I do it anyhow. There was a time when I didn’t knock, when I was family and the Hampton’s told me knocking was for unexpected visitors and package deliveries.
And, apparently, soon-to-be ex-husbands.
The door opens and there she is. My wife.
It’s been two years since she climbed in that SUV and pointed it south toward Phoenix. She stayed gone for a solid six months, and after that we saw her every other weekend. I’d take the kids down to Phoenix where Anna was staying, and we’d visit. The kids knew we were separated, and nothing more. Eventually Anna began making the drive back to Sierra Grande when it was her weekend, and I’d drop the kids off at her parents’ home. Anna needs the safety net her parents provide. Personally, I’m not sure she needs it. Not anymore.
She looks good today. Every time I see her, I swear she looks better and better. Her cheeks are flushed a delicate pink, the same shade as the rosebush growing alongside the porch. She’s had a haircut recently. Blonde hair that previously fell to the middle of her back now barely skims her collarbone.
“Hi,” she says, her voice strong and supple, a melody to my ears. There was a time when she sounded hollow, or worse, when she said nothing at all. Days and days on end when she wouldn’t get out of bed, when I’d lie and tell everyone Anna suffered migraines.
I clear my throat, trying to shake the onslaught of memories, both good and bad. “Hi, Anna.”
She steps back, inviting me in. She’s wearing jeans, white Adidas sneakers, and a white V-neck tee. For a split second, she is the old Anna, the one I pulled behind the bleachers in high school for intense make out sessions while my hand drifted into her shirt.
Seeing her like this, looking healthier than she has in years, it’s almost enough to make me forget all that happened. But not quite.
The kids are in the backyard. I walk through the living room and kitchen, following their joyful yelling. Anna walks behind me. There was a time when it would feel like second nature to grab her hand and pull her alongside me, walking together like partners.
But that was before she needed help. Before she served me with divorce papers.
“Dad,” Peyton yells, waving when she spots me. Charlie pops out from behind a tree, and Anna’s parents look over.
“Sugarbear,” I say in greeting, waving at Peyton. She lets the term of endearment slide, because our audience is safe. If she were with her friends, I’d have kept the nickname to myself. I know the rules.
Charlie races to me. He’s ten, but he seems younger. He’s not yet too cool for me, like his thirteen-year-old sister. He has no qualms about leaping up and letting me catch him. That will soon change, though, a lesson taught to me by Peyton. I hug my son and indulge in a quick sniff of his head. He still smells like a baby, but it’s a thought I keep to myself. For Charlie, being likened to a baby is a fate worse than death.
“Brock.” I nod my head at Anna’s dad. “Hello, Susan,” I say to her mother. I used to be as comfortable in this home as my own, but it’s hard to maintain that when I’m in the middle of whatever the hell it is I’m doing with their daughter. There really isn’t a battle, yet lines have been drawn, invisible as they may be. By default, Brock and Susan must choose their daughter. I understand. I’ll always be on Peyton’s side.
“How’s your dad, Warner?” Brock gets up from his patio chair to shake my hand. I knew he’d ask this question. He always does.
“Refusing to slow down,” I answer, my tone lightly admonishing. Not of Brock, but of my dad. Brock was almost certainly expecting my response, because it’s the same one I always give. We stick to our scripts.
“Dad, guess what?” Charlie breaks in. “Mom says she’ll buy me the new PlayStation when it comes out.”
I smile down at him, bristling on the inside. “That sounds like a very nice gift, Charlie.”
I look up into Anna’s gaze and feel pleased when I see her guilt. She should feel guilty about staying in Phoenix. About not coming home when her treatment was finished. About blindsiding me with divorce papers.
Brock sits back down beside Susan, and Charlie runs to Peyton. Anna stands next to me, hips pressed to the back porch railing, watching our kids play. She doesn’t mention the papers. Not the fact she sent them, nor the fact that it’s been two months and I haven’t signed them.
Peyton growls like a monster, curled fingers tapping the air on either side of her cheeks like piano keys. She takes off after Charlie. He yells, probably from excitement and happiness his big sister is paying attention to him, and scrambles across the yard. He runs for the safety of the tree, glancing back at Peyton as he sprints.
I see what’s about to happen, and so does Anna. She moves sideways, foot poised to step into the yard, her hand raised and her mouth open with a warning that doesn’t make it in time.
Charlie’s forehead meets the edge of the ceramic bird feeder hanging from the tree, and he drops to the ground, screaming and holding his head.
Bright red blossoms immediately, pouring from the wound. Anna and I run for him, in step with each other, partners again.
Anna kneels beside him and I peel off my T-shirt, pressing it to his forehead to stop the bleeding. Charlie sobs and Anna soothes him while I stay quiet, applying pressure. When I think it’s safe, I pull away the ruined shirt and survey the cut.
Anna blinks up at me, eyes horrified. Charlie looks at me. Teardrops stick in his eyelashes. I wink at him, determined not to let on how deep the gash is. “You’ve got yourself a good one, buddy. We’re gonna get you fixed up, but I have a job for you, okay?”
Charlie nods, his lower lip quivering.
“Do you think you can keep this shirt pressed to your head? I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you could handle it, but if you think it’s too much, just say the word and I’ll ask Peyton for help.”
