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I’ve been practicing. I’ve been praying about it. There’s a method to my madness.
By the early afternoon, after I’ve packed and internet researched Vanessa’s problems, and Tom still isn’t home, I dig out his and June’s wedding album. He keeps it at the top of his closet. I flip through the photos just as I do most every day. This one is no different. I realize I want that. Then I pray. I breathe in and out. I do what they call meditation. Then I pause and pray some more. I tell myself, if I can love him for one minute, then I can make myself love him for two, and if I can love him for two, I can love him for three, and if I can love him for three, I can love him forever. I tell myself I can feel something. Something for real, something like love, and in this moment, even that seems insurmountable.
It goes like this: Me. A bottle. Ghosts. Reminders. Mementos. Truth. This is how the majority of my days unfold in this house, in this stupid neighborhood, on this stupid idyllic street. I shuffle my way through the wedding album. This causes me to pull from my secret stash of scotch. Sometimes I only go for wine. Scotch is what I reach for when I’m not messing around. This feels like the good old days. Then I get this itch, I can’t stop. It helps if I do another shot and then another. I keep trying to satisfy it, trying to make it go away. But eventually, it gets so bad I have to scratch it, and this is when I log in to June’s computer, still in its place, like so many other artifacts. I click on the icon she had on her desktop, the one with all their family photos. I don’t stop until I get to their wedding video. It looks nothing like ours. It’s like picking a scab. I never feel the pain. I just want it to scar so I have proof. This is why I keep going back.
Who am I kidding? Tom will never love me the way he loved you, I say to the screen. I say this to her, her in his heart, her with her eyes wide and full of glee. Her on the walls. Her everywhere. In the video, she throws her head back and laughs. She’s taunting me. She knows.
This makes me know too. I’ll be the first to admit, I don’t know my husband that well. But I know a few things. He could never have killed June himself. He wasn’t looking for a replacement when he found me— he was making a mistake. He was looking for a distraction.
I know enough to know that he’ll never love me like he should. He’ll never love me the way I want to love him.
By late afternoon, I’m passed out on the couch. I awaken to the robot vacuum powering itself on. I sit up slowly. My mouth is dry and I’m in proper need of a glass of water. Brushing the hair from my eyes, I glance out the front window, trying to assess how long I’ve been out. I notice there’s something in the street and then as I lean closer toward the window, I see it isn’t something, but rather someone. A little boy on a tricycle. In the middle of the street. Surely, his mother is nearby. I move toward the window. The street is mostly deserted. No one seems to notice there’s a child in the street. I realize I’m either still dreaming, or I’m more inebriated than I thought.
I force myself from the sofa and make my way to the door, where I pause to check my disheveled appearance in the mirror that hangs in the entryway. I know Tom asked me to stay in. But there’s the kid. I look terrible, and I can’t very well let the neighbors see me like this. I go back to the window to check again. The kid is still there. Damn it.
What if Tom hits him on his way in the drive? He’s low enough to the ground that he may not even see him. If this happens, we’ll have to cancel our trip. I walk to the door and place my hand on the knob. I check myself in the mirror once more, leaning in to wipe away the mascara that’s smudged under my eyes. I straighten my top. At least I’m wearing the workout gear Beth suggested. This way if I get to be on the news for saving a kid, she’ll be extra happy to see I’m promoting her favorite brand. I’m an influencer now, she says. If we want the other women of New Hope to look and feel their best, it’s up to us to set an example. God forbid, they should think for themselves.
Whatever. Maybe I could even get a good selfie with the kid and the sunset in the background. Everything is about lighting, Beth assures me. Imagine the likes I could get for saving someone’s life.
“Hey,” I call to the kid when I’m halfway across the yard. “You’re in the street.”
He looks at me, his big brown eyes wide.
“What’s your name?” I don’t recognize him. I ask where he lives. He points. His nose is snotty. “What’s your name?” I ask again.
This time he answers, but it’s gibberish. I assume this means he’s not old enough to talk. At least not coherently. I’m having a hard time myself. “How old are you?”
I shield my eyes from the sun. He holds up two fingers. Proudly.
“Where do you live?”
He looks one way and then another.
Finally, he points to a wooded area down the lane. “Deer,” he says.
He has no idea.
“Don't worry, kid,” I tell him. “You and I, we’re in the same boat.”
“Here,” I say lifting his tricycle and pointing it in the other direction. “Let’s get you out of the street.”
I ask him once again where he lives. He points. I ask him to take me there. “Take me to your toys,” I plead. I have a plane to catch and planes don’t wait. Tom will be home soon, and I know how much he hates tardiness. The last thing I want is to fight on vacation. So this has to work. If it doesn’t, I’m going to be forced to set him on someone’s doorstep, where I’ll ring the bell and run. Except everyone has cameras these days, and I can’t have the neighbors thinking I’m irresponsible. I don’t know much about kids, but I know he’s a male one and nothing stands between men and their toys. “Your toys, “I say. “Where are they?’
It takes forty-five minutes, but he finally proves my point when we find his home a block over. He waltzes right up and rings the bell. His father, or who I presume to be his father answers. Like mine, his hair is disheveled. The kid caught him by surprise too.
“You,” he says, rubbing his face. “How’d you get out there?”
“He was in the street,” I say and suddenly, I’m angry. His child was in the street, and he was sleeping. The boy could have been killed or kidnapped, and he was sleeping. Everyone knows parents don’t get to sleep. “You might want to keep an eye on your kid.”
The guy opens the door wider, and I watch as the little boy toddles in. His father looks at me, yawns and says, “thanks” before promptly slamming the door in my face.
I walk through the front door to find I have five missed calls from Tom, one from Beth, and two from an unknown number.
I set the phone down. I can’t deal with either of them right now. The search and rescue mission has worn me out. I fill a glass with water. The little boy’s face flashes in my mind. I have to admit, he was kind of cute. For a split second, I wonder what it would have been like to have kept him. You know, like finders, keepers. It must be the liquor talking. That or all of the family photos. It must be the nostalgia of Tom and June’s stupid memories that’s causing my sudden neediness. Whatever the case, his parents really should be more careful. If you ask me, it seems like a simple way of going about getting a kid. All you have to do is find one whose parents aren’t looking, and bam, just like that, you get to skip out on the whole morning sickness, weight gain, and pushing them out of your vagina part. Lucky for them, I am not in the market for a kid. Not today. Not ever.
Just the thought sobers me up. The phone rings. It’s Tom again. “You’ll never believe —”
“I’ve called six times.” I hear neatly concealed rage on the other end of the line.
