He stares past me, at the road beyond. “There’s evil out there,” he says, with the uncanny calmness of a child who barely understands what they’re saying. “Wolves and Indians and other souls who are bent on our spiritual destruction.”
A breeze rolls through. The leaves whisper overhead. I am staring at this boy, and I am thinking that the evilout thereis surely no match for the evil right here, standing in front of me, claiming to be my child.
“I’m your mother, and I am telling you it’s fine,” I say. “So come on now. Let’s go.”
Noah doesn’t move. Just looks at me with a face of plain skepticism.
“It’ll be fun,” I cajole, “an adventure!”
Nothing.
“Come,” I snap. “Come here.”
“No!” he shouts. He drops the stick and runs back up the road toward the house. I let out a wail as he sprints away, his boots kicking up little plumes of dirt along the path. He’s up the hill, and then at the top of the hill, and then he disappears into the barn.
One, two, three—Old Caleb comes crashing out.
Run.
I don’t, because I know it’s a glitch of a command, a neural instinct that no longer applies to my current situation. I cannot run. I cannot hide. And so I just stand there, leaning on my walking stick, practically humming with fear and sadness and fury while myhusband barrels toward me, his own face twisted with fury.There’s nothing to be ashamed of,I tell myself.You’re only going on a walk. Do not apologize for going on a walk.
And yet, right as he reaches me, a different kind of instinct takes hold: I drop my walking stick and fall to my knees, fingers clasped in prayer.
“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” I cry to his bloodied, dirt-smeared boots. “Forgive me, dear husband, and deliver me from evil—”
20
Dawn.
Wake to whiny snuffling. Fumble through the darkness until fingers wrap around cool wooden edge of crib. Change diaper. Breastfeed, breastfeed, breastfeed. Rock, rock, rock. Put baby back to sleep. Walk past snoring husband to guest bedroom down the hall, turn on light, sit down at desk, open laptop, and click on file labeled “CALEB_RESUME.” Tweak, tweak, tweak. Fudge, fudge, fudge: 3.4GPA, previously rounded up from 3.3, now rounded farther up to 3.5. Submit résumé to at least five job openings, optimizing for respectable but relatively unchallenging work. Look out the window. Watch the sun rise.
Pray.
Morning.
Walk downstairs to find Maria’s daily cappuccino waiting in the empty kitchen. Pick up mug right as baby starts to wail. Swallow the cappuccino whole in three scalding gulps and return upstairs. Change baby’s diaper. Breastfeed. Breastfeed. Breastfeed. Wonder why the baby drinks milk so slowly. Chastise self for thinking ill of His creation. Walk past still-snoring husband with baby; set baby down on the bathroom floor, then reach for toothbrush. Brush teeth while the baby runs her fingers around an outlet. Chastise the baby.Pick baby up and walk downstairs, waving to in-laws in the kitchen. Strap baby into stroller. Walk down the long driveway. Wave hello to the vineyard workers, already sweating and scattered throughout the fields.Hello, hello, hello!Oopsies—Hola, hola, hola!Pause the stroller occasionally so baby can sayholatoo. Thank the Lord for a beautiful day. Ask the Lord if He could please wake up snoring husband by the time the walk is over.
Pray.
Afternoon.
Spend nap time scrolling through job posting sites and highlighting potential listings for tomorrow’s five required applications. Keep face blank when husband ambles past. Make comment of support when he mentions going on a jog, or applying to some jobs, or looking at the jobs you’ve sent over, even though you know he will do none of these things.
Pray.
Evening.
Wake baby from nap. Change diaper. Breastfeed. Breastfeed. Breastfeed. Close eyes and count to ten over the sound of baby’s sudden, inexplicable wails. Swallow very strong instinct to slap the baby. Ask the baby in a cooing murmur what she wants.What do you want?Rock baby. Breastfeed baby. Consider shaking baby. Resist urge to shake baby. Strap baby to chest. Help mother-in-law with dinner. Steak or chicken or pork chops. Biscuits or sliced sourdough loaf or cornbread. Asparagus or broccolini. Hold hands. Pray. Spoon peach mush into baby’s mouth while father-in-law considers aloud, for the millionth time, a presidential run. Agree with mother-in-law when she says her line about him being the right man for the moment. Agree with father-in-law when he says his line about the need to return to traditional family values. Agree with husband when he says his line about the chicken being cooked perfectly. Give all the credit to your mother-in-law, even though she is riding highon a pharmaceutical steed and almost loaded the chicken into the oven when it was fully frozen. Smile. Smile. Smile. Smile. Smile. Smile.
Pray.
The days passed, but just barely. Like a deck of trick cards: so little variation.
One night, I was standing in the kitchen, swaying back and forth to keep Clementine asleep in the carrier, watching Amelia drown some stalks of broccolini in olive oil, when she set down the bottle and said, “You look tired.”
I didn’t know what to say. I was tired, of course I was tired, but Amelia and I did not share vulnerabilities with each other. I wasn’t even aware she had intimacies to provide. She was like a porcelain doll, that woman. If there were two kinds of Christian housewives, then my mother was the first kind—the kind who spends her whole life pursuing a work ethic so breathtakingly valiant in its refusal to account for basic necessities like sleep that mere secular mortals could only shake their heads and mutter some needlepoint idiom about these women finding hidden hours of the day—and Amelia was the second kind, the kind who floated through the dreary tapestry of domesticity via a steady cocktail of Chardonnay, painkillers, and practiced ambivalence. This, too, was hard work, but of a different sort.
Nothing rattled Amelia. Not her useless son, nor her power-hungry husband. I’d been living with her for the better part of a year, and I hadn’t seen so much as a shudder of pain or pleasure cross her painted smile—which is why it was so unnerving, to bear witness to her first genuine expression of concern, and to realize that the subject of concern was me.
