She’s back. Mom is back.
They go through an evening ritual. Since dinner started late, it’s nearly bedtime now. First, she runs the bath for him and fills it with suds. She lets him play, crashing his toy plane into the water. But he doesn’t feel much like playing. He reads long chapter books now. His teacher says he’s an advanced reader. What other third grader reads whole Harry Potter books?
Soon, he’s toweling off with his mother’s help, and then, on his own, getting into his pajamas. She has him get in bed and promises she’ll be back to read some of his book with him.
But she never comes. He starts to read on his own. Part of him wants to call out to her, but he’s reluctant. She’s acting this way because Dad still isn’t home. Tom knows they’ve been having problems. Shouting, sometimes. Mom going off into her room and crying.
Dad is always working late. He said once that their marriage was a “sham.” Tom knows what a sham is. But he doesn’t know why his parents don’t love each other anymore. He can only suspect it has something to do with when his mother first started acting like an imposter. Like someone else was sharing her brain. Which was — hard to say for sure — maybe a year ago.
*
“How was she acting strange?” I ask.
Michael rolls over on the bed. He draws himself up into a fetal position and pulls one of the pillows to his chest. In a light voice, he replies, “She picked me up from Miss Diana’s one day and she was different.”
“Did she look different? Act differently?”
“She wore different clothes than usual. A dress. And she smelled like perfume.”
“Tell me what happened next. After she left your room . . .”
*
He’s in his bed, reading, when he hears a noise. A car engine. A moment later, the front door opens and closes.
It’s hard not to get out of bed and rush downstairs to see his father. But he holds fast — and a moment later, he hears voices. He’s pretty sure it’s his mother and his father.
At first, they’re normal — the deeper voice of his father vibrates through the floorboards. The higher pitch of his mother drifts up the stairs. She’s unhappy, and letting it be known.
I made dinner for us. Tom and I sat here and waited.
Tom guesses it’s what she’s saying. The shape of her words sound close, anyway.
I’m sorry, his dad replies, I told you I had to work late . . .
Tom wants to hear more clearly. He slips out of bed and creeps to his door, opens it quietly and props it ajar.
Their voices carry up the stairs.
“I don’t want to have the same argument,” his dad says.
“So don’t, David. Let’s just not talk at all. Just keep punishing me.”
“I’m not punishing you, Laura. You do that to yourself.”
“Oh, isn’t that convenient for you. So you’re passive-aggressively punishing me. Bravo.”
“Just let me eat.”
“Why don’t you divorce me?”
“You’re drunk, Laura.”
“I’m not drunk. Why don’t you? I think you’re afraid to. I think you’re afraid to be alone. You don’t love me, but you can’t bear to be alone. But really, what it is, it’s better for you to punish me. You like having something on me. Something you can feel superior about. This is right where you like to be. Because you’re mean, David. You’re—”
“Enough!”
His father’s bellow seems to shake the house. Tom hears David get up from the table and stride to the sink, dump in his dishes with a clatter. A moment later, he’s moving toward the stairs. Tom closes the door and hurries to his bed, diving back under the covers as his father’s heavy footfalls ascend the stairs.
They fade down the upstairs hallway. He must be going into his room to get changed. He probably still wears his suit and tie.
What are they fighting about? Why would Tom’s father want to punish his mother? What does that mean?
Tom lies there wondering, listening to the sounds of the house. His father running the water in the upstairs bathroom. His mother moving around in the kitchen. For a moment, he thinks she’s speaking. But to whom? Herself?
The tension between his parents forms a deep ache in his heart. A splitting in his mind. If his parents don’t love each other, what does that mean for him? They made him — they came together and made him; he knows that much. They loved each other, and he grew in his mother’s belly. Now that they don’t love each other, does he cease to exist? No, he’s still here. But what does it mean when he’s one part his father and one part his mother — and they’re so divided?
*
Michael’s eyes are wet. He lies on his side, holding the blanket.
He won’t talk for a long time. I have a hundred questions. And I want to press on, to go deeper into the night of the murder.
But I’m getting simultaneously pulled toward my own son. I need to call Paul and Joni and check in with them.
Just when I’m about to end the session, Michael speaks again.
“There’s someone else here.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
As Tom lies there worrying about his parents, he hears a familiar sound: a car engine. But Dad is already home. And this car doesn’t turn into the house driveway. Instead, it comes to a stop somewhere outside.
Tom dares to get out of bed and go to the windows. Below the windows is a radiator, wafting heat. He climbs atop it for a view down on the street.
The vehicle idles just beyond the light thrown by a streetlamp. A figure sits behind the wheel, and a white curl of smoke rises up from a slightly open window.
The bathroom water shuts off. Tom rushes back to bed as someone approaches his door. He’s just gotten the covers right when his door opens.
His father enters — Tom knows it’s his father by the smell of soap and the creaking of the floor beneath his weight. He keeps his eyes closed, feigning sleep. But when his father places a gentle hand on Tom’s chest, then kisses him on the forehead, Tom stirs.
“Dad?”
“Just me, buddy. Go back to sleep.”
“Everything okay?”
David opens his mouth, then closes it. He sits on the side of the bed. Tom feels his weight; the mattress sags toward his father, pulling Tom closer as his father asks, “Did you hear us? Talking?”
“Yeah. A little.”
“It’s all right, buddy. Every couple has arguments.”
“But you and Mom . . . for a long time . . .”
“We’ll work it out. How was your day?”
Tom describes some of school and day care, but he has a hard time taking his mind off his worries. Divorce? He knows a little about that. But he can’t bring himself to ask his father. David kisses his forehead again and wishes him a good night. At the door, he turns.
“I love you, Tom.”
And then he leaves.
*
“Tom?” I try to remain calm, but inside I’m filling up with anxiety, about to spill over. “Who is outside? Can you see him?”
“No.”
A name comes to mind, bright and clear. “Is it Doug Wiseman?”