“You can answer it if you need to,” Greta says, even as I let the call go to voice mail.
I shake my head and look down at the concrete floor. “I should get home,” I tell her, forcing a tone of regret. She nods and smiles, not sadly, but knowingly, as though this night—here at the center, where she pressed her lips against mine in a cold, nondescript, unfinished room—this was only the first time, that there will be more stolen kisses, more covert rendezvous, that a series of secret liaisons lie ahead for us. That there is and will be an us. I don’t disabuse her of that fantasy, but a fantasy is what it is. I will never stray from my wife. I will never, in any way, put my family in jeopardy. I will not lose the amazing, blessed life I have.
The drive back is interminable. I can’t wait to get home.
FIFTY-THREE
RACHEL
The kids are asleep. Eden’s chest rises and falls; her eyelids flutter as though she is dreaming. I gently brush errant strands of hair off her face, then kiss her forehead. I close the door almost all the way, then walk to Jonah’s room. He snores lightly, and I smile at the familiar sound. Marco is tucked in the crook of Jonah’s neck, his long stuffed arm draped across Jonah’s middle. I move to the bed and repeat my ritual, smoothing Jonah’s curls and kissing him softly on his cheek.
As I retrace my steps to the door, my toe catches on something, and I stumble. I look down and see Jonah’s bug encyclopedia lying on the floor, open, pages fluttering from where my foot hit it. The pages come to rest. In the low light of Thomas the Train, I can barely make out a glossy picture of some horrendous creature. Jonah loves the book, a huge score for Ruth. She gave it to him for his last birthday, having chosen it without any help from me. She was delighted by his reaction.
I consider closing the book and returning it to the shelf, but I’m fairly certain that Jonah left it out for a reason. Probably, he wants it to be waiting for him when he jumps out of bed in the morning. Likely, he had it open to a particular page, but there’s nothing I can do about that, since I have no idea which disgusting bug he chose to greet him.
I leave his door open so that he can see the hall light if he wakes up, then I wander back downstairs. Shadow lies on his bed in the living room. His head is down, but he’s wide-awake and gazing at the front door.
“It’s okay, boy,” I tell him, and his ears flop toward me. “Daddy will be home soon.” I hope.
I take a minute to straighten the pillows on the couch, then shuffle into the kitchen. I check my phone to see whether or not Ruth has texted—she usually does to let me know she got home safely. There’s a text from her: Safe and sound. Thanks for tonight. See you in the morning.
There’s also a text from Sam: On my way. Home soon. Need anything? xxoo.
A sigh escapes me. I reread the message and feel my shoulders loosen for the first time since this morning. Sam’s text is the usual, nothing extraordinary about it. And its ordinariness gives me relief. Everything’s fine. Sam is fine. Sam is Sam, green eggs and ham. Maybe he’s a little stressed about work or his upcoming birthday or . . . whatever. But he’s okay. We’re okay.
I send him a quick response. Don’t need anything but you. xxoo
I’ve probably been paranoid these past few weeks, reading into every little thing he does, every one of his gestures, every word out of his mouth. With that kind of scrutiny, how could I not suspect something was going on? Our lives shift daily. Our moods, our outlooks. Mine do, for sure. If Sam looked a little too closely at me for a little too long, he might think I was schizophrenic. I don’t share with him all of the thoughts and feelings I have over the course of the day, how some mornings I wake up worried about my sagging boobs and widening ass, or obsessing about the trash island in the South Pacific, or wondering whether or not one of my children will turn out to be transgender. Sam doesn’t need to know these things, nor do I need to know every little thought or concern or dilemma he’s having every moment of every day.
As I move through the downstairs and turn off most of the lights, I make a decision to stop looking too closely at Sam and just be here for him when and if he needs me. He always comes to me when it’s important. Always.
“Good night, boy.” I pat Shadow on the head, then check to make sure the porch light is on, even though I know it is. I cross to the stairs and head up.
I get ready for bed, then put on my favorite cotton nightie, mint green with little blue daisies. It’s a bit old-lady-ish, but Sam swears he thinks it’s sexy on me. I pull back the covers and climb into bed, then reach for the novel on my nightstand.
For a few minutes, I just stare at the book cover and think about Ruth and her date tomorrow night. I send up a quick prayer that she has a good time with her neighbor. What I told her was true. She deserves to be happy. She deserves the attention of a nice man. It would also be nice not to have to worry about her as much as I do.
I open the novel to my bookmark and start to read. As much as I want to be awake when Sam gets home, I can barely keep my eyes open. How pathetic! I think with a laugh. In bed and exhausted by nine fifteen on a Friday night.
I suppress a yawn only to give in to another. I try to focus on the page, even though I doubt I’ll get to the end of the chapter. Still, I make a valiant effort.
I don’t want to waste the nightie.
FIFTY-FOUR
RUTH
I go about my nightly ablutions with the same enthusiasm as always, only tonight, I’m actually hoping the wrinkle erase and the firming cream and the whitening toothpaste will do their jobs. Laughable, really. I know in the morning I will look exactly the same as I do now.
I bend down and peer into the small four-times magnifying mirror on the vanity and inspect my eyebrows. I haven’t tweezed them in far too long, and I am starting to resemble Frida Kahlo. I decide to wait until just before my date tomorrow night so I won’t be surprised by any last-minute hair eruptions that might occur between now and then.
My date tomorrow night. My stomach tightens, although I’m not sure if I’m feeling dread or anticipation. Probably both.
I stand and look at my reflection, and for a brief moment, I wonder how Judd sees me, how he will look at me tomorrow night. I hope his lighting is soft. I’m not being negative, just practical. I am a middle-aged woman. Not unattractive. But not twenty-five.
The hair dye will help. I always feel better, younger, when the gray is banished.