She rarely asks about work anymore. In fact, it’s a topic I avoid. Once upon a time, she was my go-to, the only person who knew what I was really doing. But now her memory is here one moment, gone the next; sometimes she starts talking like it’s twenty years ago, or fifty. In other words, her lucidity is highly unpredictable, and sometimes she thinks her caregivers—the nurses and CNAs around her—are her family. She’s mistaken an aide for my brother, Graham, because they are both tall with dark hair. She’s called a young woman who doles out meds by my mother’s name nearly every day. I have to be careful. Worst-case scenario, she thinks some doctor ismeand asks how the murdering is going.
Maybe the doctor would roll their eyes. Or maybe it would be the thing that tipped them off, that made themwonder…Or maybe I’m being paranoid. Either way, I’ve stopped sharing things about work with her whenever it can be helped.
“Work is…good.” I chew the cake, use my thumb to wipe off a smear of chocolate.
“You remind me of myself, you know.”
I look up. “I do?”
Gran licks her fork clean, grins, and springs into action, stabbing at the air viciously, like she’s a ninja, or maybe MichaelMyers. “Got that same spunk.” She chuckles and goes back to her cake as though she didn’t just mime killing someone.
It takes me a moment to process, to mutter, “Um, thanks,” and wonder, once again, if we’re not so different.
If she, too, has killed people.
If maybe she liked it.
Chapter Ten
I drag the girls toschool an hour early the next morning, which is particularly difficult after staying up late with Gran, eating chocolate cake until we felt sick, then sneaking her back to her room. She lost lucidity about twenty minutes in, and on my way out, I asked a nurse’s aide if she could please have the director call me. My grandmother breaking into the kitchen is fun so long as it’s for cake, but if she got ahold of one of those knives, it would be a different story. They need to keep a better eye on her.
“But Mommy—” Eliza’s shrill whine makes me clench my teeth as I put the car in park. At this rate, I’m going to need that night guard the dentist recommended.
“Honey, I know, I’m sorry. But Mommy is in the PTA, and I have to—”
“Mama, I eat cookie?” Evie waves a giant cookie around in the back of the van, then laughs—and farts—squeezing the pastry into bits all over the backseat.
“Oh, honey…”
Fuck, I mouth, which is the actual word that comes to mind.“Eliza, can you close the box of cookies? Evie, honey, you shouldn’t have—” The wordsthat much sugardie on my tongue as she shoves a handful of snickerdoodle in her mouth. “Okay.” I exhale, wish to god I’d spiked my coffee, and push the door open to retrieve the girls from the back.
Ten minutes later, we’re inside—all three of us, complete with their backpacks and four bakery boxes full of pastries.
“You’re here!” Megan croons as we enter the school’s foyer. It’s a big, stately room, with a high ceiling, paned windows, and heavy curtains, not unlike a university’s. The school has very high aspirations for teaching children under the age of twelve.
“Hello,” I manage through my still-clenched teeth. Megan’s cheerful demeanor is both calming and annoying—how can she be so happy this early?—but she immediately stoops down and greets the girls, distracting them long enough that I can set everything on the card tables she’s erected.
“Maybe we can do taco and margarita night next time,” I say, thinking seven p.m. sounds better than seven a.m. Not to mention, tequila.
“Right, like Mrs. Brown would allow that.” Megan laughs. “Butwecan certainly go. This weekend? Girls’ night?”
I open my mouth to deflect, my automatic reaction whenever anyone suggests we do anything that involves leaving the house and not killing someone, but my phone blares to life, saving me from having to respond. Three texts come in rapid-fire.
“Sorry, Megan, one sec.”
Brian:I just found out I have to leave town.
Brian:Headed home to pack up.
Brian:I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, hopefully no longer than a few days.
Reading the messages, I can’t help but feel smug. This is exactly what I meant last night—it’s easy forhimto say we should have another child because he’s not the one on duty 24/7. He can leave town at the drop of a hat—meanwhile, I’m left behind, parenting by myself.
Okay, I type back.Love you.
Across the staff lounge, Evie’s high on her cookie, spinning in circles and giggling. Eliza whispers to Megan’s daughter, Zoey, and they grin like they’ve just shared a very sneaky secret.
“Let’s do this,” I say to Megan, ready to fulfill my duty as a PTA mom and check off one more task that casts me asnormalandaverageandgoodin the eyes of the other parents. We get busy, arranging cookies and scones and muffins on platters. In the kitchen of the staff lounge, I start one pot of coffee after another. It’s staff appreciation week, and apparently the PTA always hosts a little event for them.
