Caitlin didn’t know what to say to that. She couldn’t imagine Violet talking with Mrs. Branson after all these years. What had been said?
“Well, we could talk about Finn, how he was afterward,” Caitlin said, sounding as desperate as she felt. “Maribel’s mother wouldn’t know about that.”
Bear is here! She wanted to scream. I’ve got him for you!
“You know I love you, Cait, and I really hope and pray that Leo is okay, but even if I did want to leave Asheville, which I don’t, I’m not feeling ready to see you right now. I’m sorry. I kind of can’t believe I’m the one apologizing here, but I am sorry.”
“But just—”
“Call your husband, Cait. At least you know how to reach yours.” And the line went dead with a definitive click.
27
AUGUST 2016
It was all because of that damn nap.
Finn had never understood why Violet made such a fuss about them. She’d be nearly frantic if they ran late at the store, or if someone had the gall to invite them to anything that took place in the midafternoon. “He can’t miss his nap,” she’d moan. And then she’d go on and on, all the while Finn thinking, the kid will sleep if he’s tired. Or not. If he’s fussy later, we’ll put him to bed early. What’s the big deal? “Maybe he would fall asleep in the car on the way?” she’d say, wringing her hands. “Or maybe we could leave a little early so that when he does fall asleep in the car, we could drive around for a while so he could at least get a power nap in? Even twenty minutes would help ward off the hangry crankies…”
Hangry crankies was a term of her own devising that could just about send him over the edge with its redundancy. Hangry already reflected a blend of hungry and angry. There was no need for the addition of crankiness, which seemed to him to actually trivialize the implied fury of the hangry rather than emphasizing it. But hangry crankies she had dubbed them and so hangry crankies they had become in their household. Why argue about something so meaningless?
In truth, it was often better not to argue because she would turn out to be right. Bear did need the naps, for instance. Without one, he’d be so overtired by bedtime that he not only couldn’t manage to fall asleep but would aggressively battle any suggestion of it. She would meet Finn’s eyes as they worked together to wrestle pajama armholes and skinny cotton legs onto the human tantrum flailing on the ground between them with a raised eyebrow that said, What’s the big deal, huh? To her credit, she never said it aloud. To his, he started volunteering to do the afternoon nap duty.
Which was part of the plan on the day of no return. Essential to the plan, in fact. Violet would be soaking up the beach and Bear would be snuggled on the sofa bed of the hotel suite and Finn would be climbing into a taxi on his way to buy a one-way ticket to Not Home. It had actually seemed kinder to do it this way when he had conceived of it, though he was starting to doubt that once the moment was upon him—once he could picture her bouncing through the door, pink and happy from the sun, and stopping dead in her tracks at the sight of Bear here alone. Still, he could have left her in the midst of their messy life, bowls with milk-hardened O’s cemented to their sides lining the sink, dirty play clothes piling ever higher on the laundry room floor, plastic Mega Bloks carpeting the living room. Surely it was less depressing for his wife to be left in a tropical paradise, where the palms would shade her face, the pool would distract her son, and the brightness of it all would show her that things back home were sort of bleak anyway. This was where it had begun, and as it never should have gone any farther, this was where it would end. It would be cleaner for everyone to leave it full circle, rather than going wildly off the mark, as he knew things would if he didn’t have the grace to extract himself.
So Finn had insisted that Violet remain lounging in her beach chair, enjoying her book, soaking in the rays and listening to the waves, while he put Bear down for his nap. He’d even bought her a pineapple-encased pi?a colada from a pushcart vendor, though she claimed those drinks gave her bad memories of the day they’d met. She took it with a smile, and with one sip he could see that she wasn’t going anywhere.
Bear had been sleepy from the sun but also punch-drunk from the excitement of the sand and sea and wanted a story. As Finn read, Bear fell into this odd state that used to send them running for the camera when he was a baby, where his eyes appeared half open but he was actually sound asleep. Finn hadn’t seen Bear do it for months, maybe a whole year. But he did it now, and he conjured for Finn the memories of his earlier days as a father, when he’d still had hope that maybe he could work things out.
And so Finn sat holding him and looking into those slits of elsewhere eyes and brushing back the golden wisps of hair that fell into his face—Violet said she couldn’t bear to cut those curls, even though anyone could see they were driving the kid crazy—and thinking of newborn Bear, charmingly leaking milky drool onto Finn’s bare chest those first days home from the hospital. The newborn had grown into baby Bear, learning to sit with his pudgy little legs stretched out in front of him in a triumphant V, banging a plastic spoon into a colander with unabashed glee until he lost his balance, tumbled to the side, and then gave up and dozed off right there on the floor. Then had come mobile Bear, cruising from one piece of furniture to the next in clumsy but determined caveman steps, licking his first popsicle, pushing his little plastic mower along the bumpy sidewalk, and waving excitedly as Finn pulled into the driveway, home from work. These days, a swift runner and dangerously good climber, and already talking better than many older kids he knew, he was their Bear Cub. The nickname was so perfect you would have thought he and Violet had planned for it all along. Strong, cuddly yet fierce, learning to make his way through the forest.