In the Stillness

CHAPTER 2



Eric’s alarm goes off far too early, even for a workday. The boys are still sleeping—that’s how early.

“Are you kidding? What are you doing?” I groan, nudging his shoulder.

He sits up, his back to me. “I’ve got some things to check on at the lab and I need to get there early.” His shoulders stop moving as if they’re bracing themselves for my verbal attack.

I don’t give in. Well, not all the way in.

“Whatever. Just go, before the boys wake up and think they’ll get to spend five seconds with you today.” I roll over and pull the blanket over my head.

I hear him swallow and take a deep breath before getting out of bed and getting dressed. Before he leaves the bedroom, he pads over to my side of the bed. I pretend I’ve fallen back asleep. He leans forward and I can smell the Old Spice body wash he used last night before getting into bed.

He pulls the blanket down an inch, and after he presses his always-soft lips against my temple, he whispers, “I love you, Nat. Have a good day.” Then, he’s gone. Again.

By the time the boys wake up, I’m thrilled. It’s Wednesday—preschool day. Max and Oliver go to preschool three days a week. Three glorious days a week that I can pretend I’m someone else for a few hours. Why don’t I take a class or two toward the anthropology Ph.D. program I started before all of this started? Because, I’d be able to take a class while they were at school and then have precisely zero time to do any work, or research, or anything.

“Mommy. Mommy!” A tow-headed little boy bounces in my face as I tie his shoe.

“Yes, Ollie honey, what is it?” He points to a red line on my arm. “Where that boo-boo come from?”

“The silly kitty,” I lie effortlessly with a smile on my face.

“Bad kitty!” Ollie shouts in Mittens’ face.

“Bad kitty!” Max joins in, using an empty paper towel tube as a sword to shoo the cat away.

“All right, boys, in the car you go. It’s time for school!”

I swear I sound more excited about it than they do. Because I am. I usher them out the door before they can do any more damage to my fall-guy. Poor Mittens. I smile a little as the sun beams off their golden hair. I chuckle whenever I really stare at their hair. It’s so blonde, and both Eric and I have dark, black hair. They look adopted.

Can you return adopted children?

* * *

“Fluid Mechanics, huh?” I chanced the encounter that day.

“Yeah.” He grinned as he held up the book to give me a better look at the cover.

“What the hell is fluid mechanics?” I asked over the bike rack separating our two benches.

He laughed. And I was hooked. Right there, on the sidewalk bench across from Judie’s Restaurant, I was hooked.

“It’s nothing, just a required course.”

“That’s some heavy stuff for such a gorgeous day. Can you even concentrate with all of this going on?” I held out my hands to show him all the people around us.

Then, he stood up. He walked over to me, gestured to the empty space next to me and said, “Can I sit? I’m sure the rest of these people don’t want to hear about fluid mechanics.”

“You can sit, but I don’t want to hear about fluid mechanics, either. It sounds absolutely dreadful.”

“I’m getting my master’s degree in chemical engineering. Nothing I can do about these courses. I like to get outside once in a while,” he laughed, “I could stare at this book for hours in a library, but that’s probably not healthy.”

I turned my body toward his and let myself take him in. He was an oxymoron. I’d assumed it was just moron by his UMass t-shirt. Let me say, it isn’t really fair—UMass is a great school. And, I was enrolling there for graduate school. But, when you’re in Mount Holyoke land all year, you just come to think of everyone else as idiots. Either way, he didn’t look like any science doctoral student I’d come to expect. He was quite tall; his shoulders were a few inches above my 5’9” frame as we sat. His hair was as black as mine, but his eyes were a perfect honey brown that had darker flecks around the iris. They matched his well-tanned skin, whatever they were.

“Do you go to Amherst?” he asked.

“What, I can’t go to UMass?” I teased while tugging playfully at his t-shirt.

“With those clothes?” He smirked at my knee-length skirt and polo. No, I wasn’t wearing a mini skirt and Uggs, I suppose. “You’re Amherst material . . . or . . .” He looked at me with a cautious grin.

I chuckled. “Yep. Mount Holyoke. I’m Natalie, by the way.” I stuck out my hand. Apparently, we both had presumptions about students in the Five-College area.

“Eric Johnson.” He flashed me a huge smile as he tightly gripped my hand. “So, Mount Holyoke. When do you graduate?”

“Actually, next month.”

His smile seemed to fade for a second before he brightened with a follow-up question. “Plans for after?”

A foolish grin captivated me. I was suddenly even more excited to be attending UMass in the fall.

“Yeah,” I smiled wider, “I’m starting my master’s in anthropology in the fall.” I pointed in the direction of the massive campus behind his shoulder.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, smile still on his face. We were flirting. Eric was the first guy I’d flirted with since I broke up with Ryker.

No. Don’t ruin this. Don’t think about Ryker. Ever.

“Listen, Natalie with no last name, I’ve gotta get going. It was great meeting you. I’ll see you around.” He stuck out his hand, and we shook again before he turned and strutted down the sidewalk. It didn’t look like the strut was planned, but it was nice.

“Collins!” I stood and shouted without thinking.

Eric stopped dead in his tracks and turned on his heels.

“What?” He chuckled when he got back to the bench.

I smirked and spotted Tosha heading out of Starbucks out of the corner of my eye. “My last name is Collins.”

“Well, Natalie Collins, it was great to meet you.” And, just like that, he disappeared into the busy crowd down the sidewalk.

“Who was that?” Tosha asked, handing me her coffee so she could light a cigarette.

“Eric Johnson.” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep the foolish smile at bay.

“Fluid Mechanics boy is a looker, huh? Told you he was staring.” She took her coffee back and we headed the opposite direction from where Eric went.

* * *

Usually I wander around Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s when the boys are at preschool. I amble up and down the aisles and remember the days I could afford to exclusively shop here. I always buy something—a scone or a drink—just to feel like I still belong.

Today, however, I find myself back at our apartment. Just down from the Jones Library, we’re mere feet from where Eric and I first met. If I tilt my head just right in our bathroom I can see the sidewalk where we spoke and walked in different directions when we said goodbye. Sometimes I fight the urge to scream out the window at that girl—the one I once was—not to look over her shoulder. But she does, every time. And she always finds Eric running up the sidewalk toward her with his number in his hand.

Today in the bathroom, I ignore the window. I’m staring at a tampon box full of razors. I need to empty the trash. A frustrated growl escapes my throat as I dump the tampon box into the bin. You’re better than this. I tie off the bag and take it to the dumpster; the echo of the lid slamming against the metal sounds like the telltale heart. I’m suddenly thankful that tomorrow is garbage day, and I just have to make it through the night without thinking about those tiny metal teeth laying in waste at the bottom of the dumpster.

I race back up to our apartment and call Eric. Despite how I feel about him these days, his voice will remind me that this isn’t 2002, and I’m not about to make one of the biggest mistakes of my life.

“Hello? Everything okay?”

I never call Eric at work these days, it’s my fault he thinks something’s wrong.

“Just,” I clear my throat, “checking in to see what time you’ll be home tonight . . . since you went in so early.”

Silence.

“Eric?” I press.

“I’ll try to be home for dinner, Nat.”

“Jesus, Eric, you didn’t see the boys after breakfast yesterday and you haven’t seen them yet today. When do they get you?”

When do I get a break?

He sighs. “I’m sorry. You’re right, I’ll be home before dinner.”

“Thank you.”

“They’re at school this morning, right?” He says this like, why are you so stressed? You have four hours to yourself, lady.

“Yes, they are. Now I get to go grocery shopping and clean the apartment.” I hope he can hear my eye-roll. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Surprise me. You’re a great mom, you know that?” He says things like this when he feels bad that my entire identity has morphed into something he knows damn well I never wanted. He’s assuring me that I’m doing it well—this thing I hate doing.

Mom—the most four-letter three-letter word I know.