Under the fluorescent light, specks of what looks like mica sparkle in the SUV’s gray paint. The Range Rover looks perfect from this side. My steps slow as I move around the front grille. Drips of bloody red paint begin to appear.
I stare at the words. Maybe this is about Erika. But the longer I stand here, the less any of this makes sense.
times up bc
It’s not yet Friday. I still have a day, but the defacement is looking more and more like Betsey Comarsh telling me it’s time to act.
33
I PULL THE DOOR CLOSED BEHIND MEas I enter the kitchen. The house is eerily quiet, as if even the refrigerator dares not hum in the aftermath of such upheaval. With the appliances on high alert, I hear no one wandering about. Erika has likely evaporated up into her room.
“Clint?” I call out as I place the rest of the white dishes, sticky with syrup, into the dishwasher and grab the reusable bamboo-fiber square from its hook. We now hide the paper towels. I run the replacement cloth with the twin pears under running water to soften it up and then scrub the counters. At first it felt good to be saving the planet one rip of the roll at a time; now it is somehow anticlimactic. I realize I miss the satisfaction of dropping the mess into the trash at the end, but I don’t miss it enough to endure the guilt of melting polar caps.
“I think we should go to the Poconos.”
I startle. “I thought you went upstairs.”
Clint grabs a length of paper towel from a roll stashed under the sink, wets a large corner of it, and attacks the table.
A bloom of jealousy erupts in my chest. I breathlessly watch as he then stomps on the trash pedal and drops the wad in the trash. My eyes shut tight. How can I have emotional bandwidth to waste on disposable cleaning supplies? I bite back a laugh and realize I want to laugh more. Maybe this trip to the Poconos is what we need. Maybe we can leave this all behind and just enjoy each other. Everything, everyone can wait. We need to get at the business of being a family. I need an escape.
“Maybe we can get checked in, and then I can come back tomorrow, or we all can, to pick up Reid.” Clint settles in the farthest kitchen chair pulled a couple feet back from the damp table.
I dry my hands on the blueberry tea towel hanging from the stove and take a chair opposite him. “With all that’s going on for us, I’m so thankful for our family.”
Clint cocks his head.
“Doesn’t it overwhelm you sometimes, the love? Especially today.”
Clint’s eyes, which are usually squinted with tiny lines in starburst formations, grow round. “You remembered.”
My heart clunks in my chest as I reach both arms across the table, ignoring the wetness.
He squeezes my hands.
“I don’t, but I want to,” I whisper. I decide in the moment to only speak full truths to this man I desperately love.
His fingers stiffen, but he doesn’t pull back. “Today’s my mom’s birthday and, uh, the day she passed.”
I yank back before I can stop myself. My hands shoot to my mouth. “Today is October fifth? Oh, Clint.”
Clint nods. “She’d have been eighty today. Sounds so old, especially since she was younger than you when she died.”
“Why didn’t you say something? What about Maine this weekend? We haven’t even talked about it.” I scramble to find the right thing to say.
“Seemed not the year. I thought I could move past it, but when you started talking about family, I thought maybe you... It’s strange being alone in the world.”
“How can you say that?” I jump up from my chair and go to him. Wrapping my arms around his shoulders, I lay my head on his. “You have me.”
“Do I?” His words are pure.
I yank the empty chair next to him and sit with our shoulders touching. I wiggle my fingers to interlace with his. “Tell me about her.” Even with everything going on at work and with Erika, this seems the most important thing to do right now—speak of the woman who both nurtured and damaged my husband.
“I’ve told you.”
“Tell me... tell me something that would make her laugh.” I squeeze his hand.
“Oh, Mer.”
