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“This is what happens when you leave important events to fate,” I tell my wife.
Rose shoots me a hot glare, but I sense the words beneath, we’re leaving the greatest event of our lives to fate, Richard. Remember?
Of course I remember. I remember every day that this baby could be our last. I remember every day that I’d love one or two or even three more children. I remember that we made an agreement not to have more after Jane has a sister, and I won’t break what I promised.
I remember it all.
“I’m sure,” Jane tells her mother. “This is it!”
Rose peers over Jane’s head, reading the name, and the corners of her mouth curve upwards. “His name is Tom.”
Named after The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain.
And I say, “Tom Carraway Cobalt.”
Rose tries hard to restrain a pleased smile. Nick Carraway is a character from The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
“You love it,” I say the obvious.
“It’s okay.” She twists her hair on one shoulder, completely downplaying how much she loves the name. I love that compliments don’t come easily.
I’m about to reply, but Rose and I both watch Jane slip beneath the table. I duck with Rose to see where our daughter is going. Sadie is curled in a ball, napping, and Jane strokes her soft fur and whispers, “You’re the prettiest kitty, Sadie. The prettiest I’ve ever seen.”
Sadie stretches her paws and rolls to let Jane pet her belly.
“Told you so,” Rose says to me. I could comment on her kindergarten retort, but I let it pass this time.
“I never said she wouldn’t warm up to Jane.”
“You said Sadie wasn’t capable of loving anyone else but you.”
I truly thought she wasn’t. “Pets change,” I realize.
Just like people.
* * *
8:08 p.m.
Jane screams bloody murder from upstairs. I’m already off the couch, alarm rushing through me like fissured ice. Eliot, who’d been attempting to walk for the first time, tries to follow. He falls to his bottom and wails like the world is coming to a sudden end.
“Go!” Rose calls after me. She lifts her body off the couch as fast as she’s able. “I’ll meet you.”
I leave Eliot with Rose, and quickly, I run through the archway and into the foyer.
“DADDY! MOMMY!” Jane screams and screams.
“JANE!” I sprint up the marble staircase. I can’t draw irrational conclusions. I can’t anticipate what’s wrong before I see the facts. Even so, my blood is cold and my breath is locked in my throat.
“DADDY! DADDY!”
“JANE!” I reach the second floor in seconds, running down the long hallway. Her screams tunnel out of her bedroom. Jane decorated her door with construction paper and pink glitter to spell out her name Jane Eleanor across the front.
As soon as I slip inside the darkened room, lit only by a tiny nightlight, Jane—tear-streaked and grief-stricken—darts past her toddler bed and tea party table and then clings to my leg.
“Daddy,” she sobs.
I set my hand on her head, canvassing her body and her room hurriedly. “Are you hurt—what’s wrong?” I squat to her height.
She flings her arms around my shoulders, blubbering into my chest. I tenderly clutch the back of her head. In one breath, I crave to comfort my daughter. In the other, I remain vigilant and alert about the origins of her fear.
An illogical thought creeps into my head. Paparazzi broke into her room. It happened to Daisy, but that was before we moved into a gated neighborhood. That was before I fucked over Scott Van Wright.
Nothing like that can happen to my children. Not in this house.
Not with me here.
Jane sobs harder, her voice turning hoarse.
“Shhh,” I whisper in a soothing tone. “Mon cœur.” My heart.
I examine Jane, just to be certain she’s not physically hurt. Her teal cat-print nightgown isn’t torn. She didn’t limp and she hasn’t favored any of her limbs. I lift her brown hair off her shoulder and gently press her neck and along her spine. She doesn’t flinch.
She’s simply inconsolable.
Emotional. This is emotional pain.
Jane mumbles a few words that I can’t piece apart. My need for information heightens, and I lift her, using a hand to keep her propped against my side. She hugs me even stronger.
I step further into her bedroom.
Jane goes hysterical. “Nonono!” she screams.
“Shhhh.” I stroke the side of her hair and then whisper softly, “What’s wrong, Jane?” I can’t see anything out of place. Her pastel pink sheets and blankets are twisted and kicked to the edge of her bed, but Jane wiggles in her sleep—so this isn’t abnormal.
Jane raises her head and rubs her little fist against her cheeks.
I brush her tears away with my thumb. “Are you frightened?”
“Yes.”
“About what?”
She points to the double doors of her closet, partially opened. Enough for a body to squeeze through.
“Connor…? What is it…?” Rose pants and blows out a measured breath, just arriving. She rests her hand on her round abdomen and sets down Eliot who squirms against her side. Beckett and Charlie linger inquisitively by her legs.
I have four children, five including the impending one, and a wife as strong-willed and courageous as any person comes. I’d do anything to sustain this life with them. To keep them feeling safe and protected.
Love is power, and I can’t tell you why. It transcends every word I can conjure. In these catalytic moments, love surges through me like battalions made of fire and water. Made of ivory and rose.
I awaken and I know.
I come second.
I will always put them first.
Quickly, I go to Rose beside the door. “Something’s in the closet.” Before I even suggest it, Rose is already speaking.
“Boys, stay in the hallway.” She ushers Beckett and Charlie back, and then her eyes flame against mine. “Is it a squirrel?”
“It might be.”
Rose rubs Jane’s back and whispers something in her ear.
Jane nods and sniffs loudly.
I pry my daughter off my chest and set her beside her brothers, my heart remaining with them and with her…I watch Rose clasp the doorknob.
She inhales, hesitant for a second. “It’s most likely a rat or a roach…”
“That’s a possibility too.” I can’t be sure what it is until I at least hear it.
“Do you need a baseball bat?” she asks, her voice higher-pitched in concern for my safety. “Pepper spray, a knife—”
I kiss her on the lips and murmur against them, “Je t’aime.” I love you.
Rose is frozen for a moment, but then she re
ciprocates. Warmth floods me, and when we tear apart, she says, “If you need backup, I’ll be in there in less than a second.”
I know she would. “I’ll keep this in mind, darling.” I clutch the other knob, on the other side of the door. The last thing Rose sees is my mounting grin.
The last thing I see is her sweltering glare.
And we shut one another out. The door clicks closed, and I focus my attention on Jane’s closet. What’s wrong, Jane?
The irrational side still believes a person has broken into her room.
The rational side is telling that side to stay fucking quiet.
I’m confident about my approach to the closet. I’m empty-handed, but the situation calls for less than my fists. I flick on the closet lights and then clasp both door handles. Swiftly, I pull them apart. Jane’s dresses and shirts and skirts are hung neatly throughout the walk-in.
I see it.
Instantly, I see.
I bottle my sentiments. Regardless, I’m not entirely sure what I feel at the moment. I just stoically approach the large woolen pillow that Jane keeps tucked by the floor-length mirror, towards the back.
Then I set a knee on the floor and find myself sitting next to this white pillow, a ball of orange fur in the center. I rub my lips, my tabby cat curled up and lifeless beside me. I’ve met death one other time in my life, and the emotions I grapple with still warp me, confuse me—bear against me.
Once upon a time, as the way most tales are told, I found this abandoned kitten. Sadie has been with me through years and years’ worth of time, but here, right here, the tale ends.
I whisper, “Adieu.” Farewell.
In the mirror, I catch sight of my features. If my eyes weren’t reddened, you’d think nothing was different, that nothing had changed.
Jane must’ve found the cat like this.
Sadie was fifteen and weak enough that she was ready to go—and she chose Jane’s closet because, like people, animals seek comfort at the sight of their end.
She sought comfort near Jane.
I stand and by the time I swing the door open, Rose is already halfway doing the same. She nearly falls towards me, but I clasp her hip and hold her close. Our children are seated patiently, huddled around Jane as she flips through a photo-book of countries and their capitals. She still silently cries, and her brothers try to cheer her up by pointing to the book.
