Greg hardly ever being home meant it was only me who was failing miserably at convincing my children personal hygiene was important.
Out of nowhere I was overwhelmed by a sense of longing for my husband, a need so visceral I had to stop for a second and lean against the wall, close my eyes to rein in my emotions. I wished Greg were home. I wished for him all the time.
I quickly banished the wish. He was where he needed to be. Doing good work, making a difference in the world, providing for his family. Wishing only served to make me sad. I didn’t have time to be sad.
I needed to stay focused.
“I don’t want a bath—”
“GRACE, GET IN THE BATH!”
“Fine,” she grumbled to my back. Then I heard her pathetic wail, “I hate baths!”
And I hated yelling at my children.
I inwardly cringed as I left the bathroom and jogged to the living room. I swallowed the lump of regret in my throat as I searched for my phone. My head was full of too many thoughts, none of which brought any clarity. The fire ants had been joined by bees. The bees brought their viscous honey, slowing all processes to a virtual halt.
Shell-shocked after what I’d discovered about Jack this afternoon, I’d ushered the kids out of the dance studio and gone through the motions of escorting the children home, making their dinner, and assisting with homework. As usual, I argued with Grace about taking her bath and I negotiated with Jack to a half hour of playing Minecraft, and only after reading one of his chapter books for a full hour.
It was a typical evening in the Archer household: Just the three of us, me tripping over little shoes, Grace preferring dirty to clean, and Jack complaining about the distressing lack of pizza on his plate.
Except my heart was heavy with worry and my head was pounding.
I swiped my thumb across the screen of my cell phone after identifying the caller as our babysitter; my worried heart sank further. “Hi Jennifer. What’s up?”
“Hi Fiona, this is Jennifer’s mom. I am so sorry but she can’t babysit tomorrow night or take the kids in the morning. We just got back from the doctor’s and she has strep throat.”
“Oh goodness!” I dropped to the couch, rubbing my forehead with my fingers, more worry rising in my throat. I would have to find an alternate babysitter for the next night. A member of my knitting group, my good friend Ashley Winston—nurse and book worm—was moving to Tennessee.
Our close-knit band of friends had planned a going-away party for her, scheduled for tomorrow night. I’d made the cake. I’d spent all morning on it, toasting mountains of coconut for the special meringue frosting. But the real issue was Jennifer had babysat two days prior. “Well, I hope she’s okay.”
“The antibiotics should do the trick. You might want to keep an eye on Grace and Jack. The doctor said she might have been contagious for the last few days.”
I nodded, her warning an echo to my thoughts. “I’ll do that.”
“Thanks. And about tomorrow morning, I am so sorry. I know this is bad timing.”
It was bad timing. Jennifer was supposed to wake the kids and take them to school so I could be at the hospital by 6:00 a.m. I had an early morning MRI scheduled, part of my once-every-two-years tumor screening. I was going on sixteen years in remission, but I’d been having headaches recently, headaches I hadn’t given myself permission to think about.
I had too many other things to think about.
“Don’t worry about it. I hope Jennifer feels better soon.”
After a few additional pleasantries, I ended the call as another of Grace’s wails sailed through the apartment. “Why can’t we live in the desert?”
I huffed a frustrated laugh and shook my head, collapsing back against the cushions. First things first, I needed to leave a message with the hospital about rescheduling my MRI. Then I would go through my list of alternate babysitters and try to find a replacement for Ashley’s going-away party. Then I would pour myself a Julia Child-sized glass of wine—so, the entire bottle—and wrangle my adorable children who I loved (I do, I love them, I love them . . . I do, truly) through their bedtime routine.
Then and only then would I sort out what to do about Jack’s miraculous musical acumen.
I dialed the hospital and was immediately placed on hold. While I waited, a knock on the front door pulled me from the classic rock wait music, specifically, “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.” But before I could stand from the sofa, Jack bolted from his room.
“I’ll get it!”
“No, you will not get it.” I was hot on his heels and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “What are you thinking? You don’t answer the door without asking first. You know that.”
“But it’s Professor Simmons.”
“How do you know it’s Professor Simmons?”
“Because he said he was going to bring me his space atlas.”
“When was this?” I stepped in front of Jack and peeked through the peephole. Sure enough, it was Professor Matthew Simmons.