And my third thought was, hire me a nanny, chef, and housekeeper. . . and never leave me again.
I didn’t give voice to any of these thoughts. I was enjoying his nearness too much. The resultant combined warmth of our bodies wrapped around my limbs, heart, and mind, thawing the frigidity of loneliness.
While he was gone the bed was cold. Even in the summer, I would bring hot water bottles—three of them—into bed with me. I’d knitted them cozies. In a state of mild drunkenness one night, I’d sprayed the knitted cozies with his cologne.
Even though we were married, I had to admit the wool cozies that smelled like Greg were a little weird. I hadn’t told him about their existence. I wondered what, if anything, he did to battle the solitude.
“Momma?” Grace’s sad little voice pierced the blanket of warm silence that had fallen between us.
I lifted my head and waited. When she called out again, my head dropped back to the pillow and I sighed.
“I’ll get her.” Greg was already rolling away.
“She’s been having nightmares. I think she’s growing.”
He pulled on his boxers and grabbed his pajamas. “You think she’s having nightmares because she’s growing?”
“Yes.” I snuggled deeper into the bed, my hand gripping the sheet where he’d been laying, wishing I could grab and hold and keep the residual warmth of his body. “She gets emotional when she’s growing—temper tantrums, crying, nightmares—I think it’s low blood sugar. Give her a banana.”
“I got it.” Pajamas in place, Greg leaned forward and kissed my forehead. “Stay here and sleep. I’ll get the kids in the morning and keep them home from school.”
“No school today. It’s Saturday.” I stretched and yawned, thankful it was the weekend. Jack and Grace would go crazy if they thought Greg was at home without them. I reached for his pillow and hugged it.
Greg loitered at the edge of the bed, hesitating like he wanted to say something else. I stared at his greyish outline, blinking tiredly.
“Momma!” Grace’s urgent voice was closer than before. She must’ve left her bed.
“It’s good to be home,” he said finally. Reaching forward again, he cupped my cheek and brushed his thumb across my lips. “It’s good to touch you.”
Then he turned, pushing his fingers through his hair, and left the room. He closed the door with quiet carefulness. I pressed my face into his pillow and inhaled, because the weird wool cozies were paltry imposters in comparison to the lingering scent of him on his pillow.
***
I woke to the sound of the front door slamming, followed by Greg’s voice urging in a harsh whisper, “What did I tell you about slamming the door? Your mother needs her sleep cycles, otherwise she’ll keep malfunctioning and we’ll have to take her to the mechanic again.”
“Dad, Mommy is not a robot.” Jack sounded reluctantly amused.
“I never said she was a robot. I said she’s one-quarter robot. And as I’ve told you a hundred times, you’re one-sixteenth robot—why do you think you’re so good at math?”
“Dad . . .”
“It also explains why your grandmother has no soul. She’s one hundred percent robot.”
“Am I a robot?” Grace whispered her question; she must’ve been standing very close to our bedroom door.
“You have the same percentage as your brother,” Greg responded very gently, “and that’s why you don’t like baths.”
Relaxing into the pillows, I folded my hands behind my head and listened.
“But, Gracie, baths are good for you. They keep your circuitry working. And dirty robots can’t dance.”
“Can they do the robot?” Jack asked, his tone exceptionally dry. He’d been growing more and more sarcastic over the last few months.
“No. Dirty robots can’t even dance the robot, but they can do the skunk.”
“What’s the skunk?” Grace asked.
“It’s where you stand really, really still . . . and then you fart.”
Both children launched into a fit of hysterical laughter, with Grace exclaiming, “That’s not a dance!”
“It is so a dance. Here, watch me.”
“Dad, no!” I could almost see Jack roll his eyes.
“Jack, where’s your mute button? Or did you have it taken offline?”
“I don’t have a mute button.”
“What? Well then, we’ll need to have one installed as soon as possible . . .” Greg’s voice faded, as did Gracie’s giggles. I heard the front door open and close, then silence.
All at once I realized I was smiling; I also didn’t have a headache. I couldn’t remember the last time I woke up smiling. It was probably the last time Greg had been home.
I allowed myself another few moments of luxury—lying in bed, in the morning, surrounded by quiet—before I sat up and glanced at the alarm clock.
My mouth dropped open.
11:57 a.m.
I couldn’t believe it.
I’d slept for over twelve hours.
Greg was leaving for the airport at 1:00 p.m.