He circles around me and glances out the open front door, sniffing the air. When I close it, he crosses to the living room window and looks outside, then looks at me and gives me a strident bark. Our usual morning routine.
“The kids are at school, Shadow,” I tell him. “Don’t worry. They’ll be home soon.”
He cocks his head to the side as if he doesn’t believe me. “They’re fine, I promise.” He barks again, then trots behind me as I go the kitchen.
I hand him a Milk-Bone, and he carries it to his bed and lies down to eat it.
I set my cell phone on the kitchen table next to my laptop, then boot up the computer. I have the impulse to text Sam about our possible date night but figure I should check with Ruth first. I pick up the cell and call her landline, knowing full well that if she’s home, she won’t answer her cell. When she doesn’t pick up, I try her mobile, and when she doesn’t answer that, I leave a message.
“Hi, Ruth, it’s me. Where the heck are you at eight thirty on a Friday morning? Anyway, give me a call back when you have a minute. Thanks, ’bye.”
Sam was good enough to leave some coffee behind. I grab my mug from the dish drain and pour myself a cup, cream and sugar it, and take it to the table. I spend the next thirty minutes checking my personal e-mails and the messages on my blog server. When I’m finished, I glance at my phone, surprised I haven’t heard back from Ruth yet. I shoot her a quick text, set my phone down, then open the folder on my desktop that has all my new blog posts for the coming week.
Halfway through the final polish on the third post, my cell phone rings. My sister’s face appears on the screen, and I chuckle, as I do every time she calls and I see her picture. Her expression is exasperation and mock disdain. She disapproved of my taking her picture to put into my contacts and would not give me a smile, no matter how much I pleaded with her. I took the pic anyway, and she was so mortified that this was the face I would see every time she called, she offered to smile for me. I refused. She called me a brat, and I stuck my tongue out at her. No matter that we’re in our thirties and forties—that sister thing never completely goes away.
“Hi, sis,” I say upon answering. “Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”
“It’s not even ten thirty yet, Rachel. ‘All morning’ is a bit of an exaggeration.”
I mouth the word whatever to myself.
“I had therapy this morning,” she tells me, as if I should have known.
“Sorry, Ruth. I thought that was Wednesday.”
“It is, usually. Dr. Moore had to switch it this week.”
“How was it?” I ask.
“Good,” she says. “I think we’re making progress.”
“I’m so glad,” I tell her, as I always do.
I know why Ruth sees a therapist, and I support her 100 percent. She’s had a tough time, what with Charlie leaving and starting a new family. I can’t imagine how that must have been for her, to be abandoned for another woman, and to know that woman stole her life, the life Ruth was supposed to have. My life, if I think about it, or one that closely resembles mine. When it first happened, I wanted to wring Charlie’s neck. He was like the big brother I never had, and it felt like he betrayed me, too. But my pain was nothing compared to my sister’s.
Ruth has been seeing this doctor for over a year now, but I haven’t noticed a discernible difference in her behavior or her actions. She still locks herself away in her apartment night after night, never goes out with friends, and she still hates all men on the face of the planet, including my husband and our father, who’s been dead for twenty-five years.
“So, what’s up?” she asks. “You called for a reason or just to say hello?”
“Both. Um, do you have plans tonight?”
“No. Just catching up on my TiVo, as usual. Is this an invitation or a babysitting request?”
“Babysitting request. Sam and I need some alone time. Do you mind?”
“Not at all. I’d love to,” she says, and I smile. I can always count on Ruth. “What time do you need me?”
“Let’s say six? And I’ll order you guys a pizza.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll bring a lasagna. I can make it this afternoon.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell her, even though my kids love her lasagna.
“I know, but I will. See you later.”
“Thanks, Ruth. I appreciate it.”
I hang up and immediately shoot a text to Sam. Fancy a date tonight? Ruth can sit for us.
I watch my screen, waiting for a reply. After a couple of minutes, I set the phone down. He’s probably in a meeting. I return my attention to the blog post, which is a review of a new eco-friendly fabric softener with no dyes and no artificial perfumes that doesn’t make your laundry smell like dirt, which I’m definitely in favor of. I’ve even agreed to highlight the product on the top banner of my webpage for a month—for a small advertising fee, of course.
As soon as I move on to the next post, my phone beeps. I swipe the screen and see a text from Sam.
Was going to call, babe. Carson wants to take a run out to the Hewitt project. He’s worried about the deadline. You know the drive. I could be pretty late. Rain check?
I feel myself deflate. I know I can’t be upset. This kind of thing happens in the life of an architect. He told me this morning that work was crazy, and I know that makes him stressed, and that’s probably all there is to him being a little off this week. His work pays the bulk of the bills and the mortgage, so what can I say, really?
Disappointed, but I understand. Drive safe. Want me to save dinner for you?
Again, I stare at the phone expectantly. He doesn’t text me back.
THIRTY-SIX
RUTH
I don’t like lying to my sister, but sometimes lying is a necessity.
I wasn’t at therapy when she called. My therapy was Wednesday morning, as always. But I couldn’t tell her where I was. She wouldn’t understand. I don’t even understand.
I have a new routine. It began last month with a random occurrence. I was at the pharmacy on Euclid, which I don’t frequent, but my usual pharmacy was out of my medication and sent me to their other branch downtown. The pharmacist could have had my prescription sent over, but I didn’t want to wait, was down to my last three pills, so to expedite things, I took the option of going myself.
As I was coming out of the store, I happened to look across the street and saw a group of young mothers pushing their strollers into the adjacent park. Charlie’s new wife was among them, although calling her his new wife is rather inappropriate, since they’ve been married for over a year. She was pushing a double stroller, and there was another woman who looked like a teenager pushing a single stroller beside her.