“Coming,” I call breathlessly back, wanting to show Will the washcloth, but unable to when Tate is there in the kitchen with him. I hear Tate’s voice asking for French toast. The washcloth will have to wait. I hide it for now in the laundry room, laying it flat beneath the washing machine where no one will find it. It’s stiff with blood and easily slides under.
I rise from the floor reluctantly and creep back into the kitchen, overcome with the urge to vomit. There is a killer living in my home with me.
“Where’ve you been?” Will asks at seeing me, and all I can tell him is “Laundry.” It comes out in one forced breath, and then again, the black specks appear, dancing before my eyes.
“Why?” he asks, and I tell him there was so much.
“You didn’t need to do that. I would have done it,” he says, reaching into the refrigerator for the milk and eggs. I know he would have done the laundry eventually. He always does.
“I was trying to help,” I say.
“You don’t look good,” he tells me as my hand holds tightly to the crown molding of the door so that I don’t fall. I want so much to tell him about the blood-soaked washcloth that someone left in the laundry basket. But I don’t because of Tate.
I hear Tate, beside him, ask, “What’s wrong with Mommy?”
“I don’t feel good. Stomach flu,” I force out. Will comes to me, presses a hand to my forehead. I’m not running a fever. But I feel hot and clammy nonetheless. “I need to go lie down,” I say, clutching my stomach as I leave. On the way upstairs, the bile inside me begins to rise and I find myself rushing to the bathroom.
MOUSE
Mouse froze. She waited for the sound of the bedroom door to open on the first floor, for Fake Mom to come for her. Mouse was scared, though it wasn’t Mouse’s fault she’d made noise. It’s not like a person can stop themselves from sneezing.
Her legs shook in fear. Her teeth began to chatter, though Mouse wasn’t cold.
How long she waited there on the stairs, Mouse didn’t know. She counted to nearly three hundred in her head, except she lost count twice and had to start all over again.
When Fake Mom didn’t come, Mouse thought maybe she hadn’t heard her. Maybe Fake Mom had slept right through that sneeze. She didn’t know how that was possible—the sneeze had been loud—but Mouse thanked her lucky stars if she had.
She continued on to her bedroom and climbed into bed. There, in her bed, she talked to her real mom, same as she always did. She told her what Fake Mom had done, how she had hurt Mouse and Mr. Bear. She told her real mom how she was scared and how she wanted her father to come home. She said it in her head. Mouse’s father always told her that she could talk to her real mom whenever she wanted to. He told her that wherever she was, her mom was listening. And so Mouse did. She talked to her all the time.
Though sometimes Mouse took it a step further than that and imagined what her real mom said back. Sometimes she imagined her real mom was in the very same room as her and they were having a conversation, like the kind of conversations Mouse had with her father, the kind where he talked back. But that was only pretend. Because there was no way to know what her mother said back, but it made Mouse feel less alone.
For a while Mouse felt satisfied knowing her stomach had food, though three butter cookies was hardly the same thing as dinner. Mouse knew those cookies wouldn’t hold her off for long. But for now, at least, she was content.
For now, she could sleep.
SADIE
“How are you feeling?” Will leans over me and asks.
“Not good,” I tell him, still tasting vomit in my mouth.
He tells me to sleep in, that he’ll call me in sick to work, and drive the boys to school. He sits on the edge of the bed, stroking my hair, and I want to tell him about the washcloth. But I can’t say anything to Will when the kids are just down the hall getting ready for school. Through our open door, I see them move in and out of the bedrooms, the bathroom.
But then a moment comes when they’re all in their bedrooms, out of earshot, and I think that I’ll come right out and say it.
“Will,” I say, the words on my lips, but then, just like that, Tate comes scampering into the bedroom, asking Will to help him find his favorite socks. Will grabs him by the hand, catches him before he has a chance to jump on the bed.
“What?” Will asks, turning toward me.
I shake my head, tell him, “Never mind.”
“You sure?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say.
Together Will and Tate go to leave, to head to Tate’s bedroom in search of the missing socks. Will glances over his shoulder as he leaves, tells me to sleep as long as I can. He pulls the door closed behind himself.
I’ll tell Will later.
