Page 52 of Regretting Youu

“No. Jonah came and got him.”

She sidesteps around me. “Then we don’t need diapers.” She pulls the diaper money out of her pocket and sets it on the counter. She heads for the kitchen door, but I’ve been way too lenient on her. She’s sixteen. I have a right to know where she’s been.

I block her from leaving the kitchen. “Were you with that guy?”

“What guy?”

“The guy who got you high at your father’s funeral.”

“I thought we were past this. And no.”

She tries to step around me again, but I stay in front of her, still blocking the door. “You can’t see him anymore.”

“Uh. I’m not. And even if I were, he’s not a bad guy. Can I please go to my room now?”

“After you tell me where you’ve been.”

She throws her hands up in defeat. “I was cleaning Jonah’s house! Why do you automatically assume the worst?”

I feel like she’s lying to me. Why would she be cleaning Jonah’s house?

“Check the app if you don’t believe me. Call Jonah.” She squeezes past me and pushes open the kitchen door.

I guess I could have checked the app. I just feel like, even with the app, I don’t know what she’s up to. Her app said she was at the movie theater the day of Chris’s funeral, but it certainly didn’t tell me she was doing drugs while she was there. I feel like the app is useless at this point.

I should probably just cancel it because it costs money. But Chris is the one who subscribed us to the app, and Chris’s phone probably got smashed in the wreck. It wasn’t in the box of belongings they gave us from Jenny’s car.

I wouldn’t know the password to his phone even if I did find it. That should have been my first clue that he was hiding so many things from me. But who needs clues when you don’t even realize you’re supposed to be playing detective? I never even suspected anything was amiss.

Here I go again.

I kind of wish Elijah were still here. He kept my mind preoccupied. I didn’t have to think about what Jenny and Chris did when every minute was consumed by Elijah. Jonah is lucky in that regard. Elijah will probably keep him so busy and exhausted that his brain will have time for little else.

I’ll pour myself some wine. Maybe take a bubble bath. That might help.

Clara stormed out of here a good thirty seconds ago, but the kitchen door is still swinging back and forth. I hold it with my hand, then stare at the back of my hand, my palm pressed flat against the door. I fixate on my wedding ring. Chris gave me this one for our tenth wedding anniversary. It replaced the gold band he bought me when we were teenagers.

Jenny helped Chris pick this one out.

Was their affair happening way back then?

For the first time since the day I put on this ring, I feel the urge to get it off me. I slip it off my finger and throw it at the door. I don’t know where it lands, and I don’t care.

I push the kitchen door open and go to the garage in search of something that can take care of at least one problem in my life.

I really want a machete, or an ax, but all I find is a hammer. I take it back to the kitchen with me to take care of this damn door once and for all.

I swing the hammer at the door. It makes a nice dent.

I swing at it again, wondering why I didn’t just try to take the door off the hinges. Maybe I just really needed something to take out my aggression on.

I hit the door in the same spot, over and over, until the wood begins to chip. Eventually, a hole begins to form, and I can see from the kitchen into the living room. It feels good. That kind of worries me.

I keep hacking away, though. Every time I swing at the door, the door swings away from me. I swing again when it comes back. My hammer and I fall into a rhythm with the door until there’s at least a twelve-inch hole.

I put all my strength behind the next swing, but the hammer gets stuck in the wood and slips out of my hands. When the door swings back toward me, I stop it with my foot. I can see Clara through the hole in the door. She’s standing in the living room, staring at me.

She looks bewildered.

My hands are on my hips now. I’m breathing heavily from the physical exertion this hole took to make. I wipe sweat from my forehead.

“You have officially lost your mind,” Clara says. “I’d be better off as a homeless runaway.”

I push at the door, holding it open with my hand. If she really thinks it’s so bad, being here with me . . . “Run away, then, Clara,” I say flatly.

She shakes her head, as if I’m the disappointing one, then walks back to her bedroom.

“That’s not the way to the front door!” I yell.

She slams her bedroom door, and it only takes three seconds for me to regret yelling at her. If she’s anything like I was at that age—which she is—she’s probably packing a bag and is about to climb out her window.

I wasn’t serious. I’m just frustrated. I need to stop taking it out on her, but her attitude with me is making her an easy target.

I go to her bedroom and open her door. She’s not packing a bag. She’s just lying on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. Crying.

My heart clenches with guilt. I feel terrible for snapping at her. I sit down on her bed and run an apologetic hand over her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t really want you to run away.”

Clara rolls over dramatically and faces the other direction. She pulls a pillow to her chest. “Get some sleep, Mom. Please.”