She rang the doorbell at her mother’s Ardsley Park house and then fumbled in her purse for the house key. The door swung open.
Marie stood in the hallway dressed in her bathrobe and slippers, which was unheard of. This was a woman who never left her bedroom unless she was dressed and perfectly groomed.
But there she stood with lank, unwashed hair. Her eyes were red-rimmed with dark circles beneath. She held a tissue to her nose.
“Mom!” Brooke shifted Henry from one hip to the other. “You look like death. What’s wrong?”
“Fever. Chills. Started an hour ago. You look nice,” her mother said, giving an approving nod to Brooke’s deep V-neck top and eyeliner. “I, on the other hand, feel like I’ve been run over by a dump truck.” Marie’s voice was a hoarse rasp.
“You should have called before I left home. I would have just canceled,” Brooke said. She stepped into the hallway and took Marie by the elbow. “Come on. I’ll fix you some tea with lemon and honey, then you need to get back to bed.”
“No,” Marie croaked. “Go. Just go. I’m going back to bed. But you need to go to the airport and see Pete. Go. Shoo.” She made shooing motions with her hands.
“And take Henry? Are you nuts? What’ll I say? What will he say?”
“You two will figure it out,” Marie said, turning her head aside to cough. “No matter what else happens, he’ll fall in love with Henry. Who wouldn’t? Promise me you’ll go. Promise me you won’t back out and run away again.”
Run away. Again.Like she had the weekend of her wedding. The words stung. Because they were true.
“All right,” Brooke said. “We’re going.”
***
Pete had neglected to tell her where he was flying in from, so she had no idea of his flight number or where they should meet. She’d been so keyed up about the meeting that she’d arrived at the airport thirty minutes early and had spent the past ten minutes pacing up and down the airport’s carpeted retail concourse. Her back ached from carrying the heavy toddler, so she finally put him down.
“Toy!” Henry cried, pointing to a gift shop where a giant stuffed Snoopy was perched in the front window. He set off at a run for the shop.
“Whoa there,” she said, following after, scooping him up just before the boy made it to his quarry. The back of his pants were damp. She held him aloft, sniffed, and gagged.
“Oh, Henry, nooooo. Not now.”
“I poop,” he said proudly.
“We poop in the potty, remember?”
“No potty,” Henry said.
She’d almost left his diaper bag in the car but at the last minute had shoved her purse inside and looped the bag over her shoulder. It was navy blue, quilted cotton with a pattern of elephants and tigers. Not nearly as cute as the black designer clutch she’d planned to carry. She hurried to the ladies’ room, breathing through her mouth while she stripped off the boy’s shorts on a drop-down changing table. “What we have here is a shituation,” she muttered, stuffing his soiled shorts, shirt, even his socks into a plastic sack she kept in the diaper bag for just such emergencies. She used half a bag of baby wipes cleaning him up, then dressed him in a fresh outfit.
Finally, she went to the sink to wash her hands and check her makeup. “Oh God,” she moaned, looking at the mirror. Her cute low-cut top had somehow come into contact with Henry’s soiled backside. Gagging, she scrubbed at the top with a wet paper towel. The quarter-sized damp spot grew to the size of a half-dollar, directly over her left nipple.
Brooke grabbed Henry’s hand and dragged him in the direction of the gift shop. Surely they sold a few items of women’s clothing, right?
She was in the process of paying for the only top she could find, a hideous bile-green tank top withSAVANNAHspelled out in sequins when Henry spied his heart’s desire. It was a board book featuring his favorite thing in the whole world, the hairless Canadian cartoon character, propped on a display next to the cash register.
“Caillou!” Henry crowed, grabbing for the book at the same moment Brooke was in the process of handing her credit card to the cashier.
Without thinking, Brooke snatched his chubby hand away from the book, which shared shelf space with dozens of tiny cheesy breakable souvenir trinkets. “Henry, no,” she said sharply. “You already have that book.”
Her son’s face crumpled into agony. “I want it!” he cried. “I want Caillou!”
“Anything else?” the cashier asked, her hands poised over the register. “Chips, gum, soft drinks, magazine?”
“Just the shirt, thanks,” Brooke said tersely, keeping an eye on the concourse. It was ten after ten, and a sudden wave of passengers had disembarked their flights and were passing by, laughing and talking.
“Please, Mommy,” Henry whined. “I want Caillou.”
“Can I have your email for your receipt?” the cashier asked.
