“How did you—” I begin to ask—How did you get out of your car seat?—but I see her in my mind’s eye, her nimble fingers toiling away at the chest clip, a small thumb pressing hard on the release button as I stared through the window and into the home of Ms. Grey. An escape artist. My very own Houdini. I reach for her instinctively and tug her inside the bushes with me, and as she asks again for the dog, I whisper that the dog found its owner, that the dog lives here, that we don’t have to look for the dog anymore, and Maisie, ever-resourceful and quick, asks, “Then why are we hiding?”
It’s then that my indiscretions slap me in the face, the fact that I am hiding in the bushes, lying to my child, stalking a woman I don’t even know. The fact that even my four-year-old can see the stupidity in this is disgracing. What am I doing? I ask myself, staring at the dirt that clings to the soles of my shoes, the laurel leaves attaching themselves to my clothes.
What am I doing?
I force a smile. I try to think fast, to mollify Maisie, knowing we need to make a break for it and run away before we find ourselves in a world of trouble. “I don’t want the dog to follow us,” I say. “If the dog sees us, she might want to come live with us. And I don’t think Harriet would like that,” I claim.
“Another dog?” I ask, and Maisie shakes her head and agrees. Harriet would not like another dog in our home, she says, as I grab her by the hand and we duck and run, certain the aqua eyes track us through the lawn and to the car. I open the back seat and all but push her inside, quickly strapping the harness across her chest. I don’t bother taking the time to reprimand her for undoing her straps, for getting out of the seat. For leaving Felix alone. For crossing the street without holding an adult’s hand.
I’m far more guilty than she.
As I put the car in Drive, I peer cautiously one more time back at the home, certain to see Melinda Grey there on the concrete stoop, phone in hand, eyes glaring at me. My hands are sweaty and shaking, my head spins. Soon sirens will arrive, a whole police squadron to figure out why I’ve been trespassing on the Grey property, stalking Melinda. The blood rushes through my veins at an alarming rate, and as I turn skeptically, I’m half certain I’ll see a block full of neighbors on the Grey lawn with Melinda as the ringleader of the mob, pointing an angry finger at me. I put the car in Drive and my foot on the gas, ready to escape quickly if need be.
But instead this is all I see. A small shape in the window, illuminated by the living room light. A slender body standing upright on the windowsill, a single paw raised to the screen. Other than that, there is nothing. No angry mob, no police. No Melinda Grey. The house is quiet and still.
It isn’t until later when my heart has slowed and my head has stopped overthinking that I realize the aqua eyes I saw were that of a cat.
NICK
BEFORE
Sunday afternoon we get in the car and make the trip to Clara’s parents’ home, just a short drive from ours. She brings the same cinnamon crumb cake as always, one she buys from Costco because she knows it’s something her mother will eat. We’re still a good ten minutes from the house—a blah ranch in a retirement community just a few miles from our own home—but already Clara’s hands are shaking, her knees jiggling on the passenger’s seat beside me. On her lap, the cinnamon crumb cake rattles in her agitation, and I ask if she wants to set it down before she drops it. She says no.
In the car, on the drive to her parents’ house, Clara says to me, “We should have Connor over sometime. For dinner. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him,” and at the mention of his name I feel my arms and legs tense up and my face turn red. It’s a completely innocuous comment; it means nothing, but still, I have this sense that Clara can see right through me. I look to her and say sure, and okay, hoping she doesn’t see the obvious omission, how awkward and uncomfortable it would be to have Connor at my dining room table when, in the back of my mind, I’m wondering how and when to lay him off. I hear his arrogant voice in the back of my mind, egging me on. What are you going to do about this, Boss?
“When?” she asks, and I shrug my shoulders and say, “Maybe next week?”
“I’ll make tacos,” she says, and I say okay, though of course I have no plans to invite Connor to dinner.
Clara turns to Maisie and tells her how she wants her to say hi to her grandmother when we arrive. To make an effort to be friendly. “Give her a hug, or at the very least, say hello,” she says, but immediately Maisie begins to protest vehemently, screaming that she doesn’t want to.
“No, Mommy, no!” she demands, kicking hard at the back of the passenger’s seat where Clara sits. Louisa scares the daylights out of Maisie. I know this, and Clara knows this. I don’t blame Maisie for her fears. They’re with good reason, and yet I hate seeing Maisie so scared.
“It’s okay, Maisie,” I coax, reaching a hand into the back seat to pat her knee. “Grandma’s not trying to scare you,” I tell her. “Pinkie promise, she’s not. Grandma’s just a little bit sick,” I say. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation.
At Tom and Louisa’s home, we park the car and form a procession to the front door, me in the front, Clara in the rear, Maisie in between. Clara walks slowly, clutching that crumb cake, telling Maisie to be careful of her step and not to trip.
Tom yanks a baseball cap from his head as we step into the living room, eyes gaping wide at Louisa as she sits in her chair. Tom greets us all, and then bends down to Maisie’s level to whisper into her ear. We watch on as Maisie creeps to her grandmother’s side and waves flittingly, though her grandmother only stares. There is no whining, no crying, no begging and pleading, Nooo! Maisie simply does as she’s told, though Louisa says nothing. That doesn’t surprise me in the least bit, but what does surprise me, what has always surprised me, is this leverage Tom has on Maisie, not so much power but a pact. She’ll do whatever he asks because she worships him just that much. If Tom leaned down and whispered into her ear to jump off a cliff, she might just do that, too.
Louisa is dressed up nicely when we come, her hair well groomed. We all know Izzy—the in-home caregiver who works untiringly to care for Tom and Louisa—is to thank for this. She keeps Tom’s and Louisa’s lives on track in a way that Clara and I can’t; she tolerates Louisa’s dementia, the confusion and the memory loss, the anxiety and mood swings, the tremors, the bathroom accidents, the aimless wandering. What I know about Izzy is relatively small, but I know there’s a kid sister in college, and nearly every last cent Izzy makes goes to pay for tuition and housing at the U of I, while Izzy lives in a squalid apartment in one of the more crappy neighborhoods around town. Their parents died within a year of each other nearly a decade ago—the kind of tragedy that makes you stop for a minute to appreciate your own lot in life—and Izzy has since supported the sister, whose name I don’t know. Izzy is a nice girl, dependable, maybe even a little too selfless for her own good.