by Mark Rader
Her body is what usually lets her know whether she’s recovered from a shock or not, and after a time it tells her to scoot off the bed and stand up. Her hands are no longer cold; her head and neck still feel hot. She’s extremely thirsty, she realizes. Parched.
She moves lightly but with purpose. She feels nimble and bold. The hall is dark but for the tiny wedge of light coming from under Tim’s door. When her socked feet hit the linoleum in the kitchen, Maura resists the urge to turn on the light. The darkness in the room feels better. It makes her feel like she’s dreaming.
In a cupboard, she feels around for a glass, fills it at the sink, and drinks it down. Still thirsty, she drinks another. She feels better, but her face and ears are still very hot. Leaning forward, so her head hangs over the sink, she fills her cupped palm with faucet water until it spills over, then slaps and rubs it on one hot ear and then the other. She does this three times, until her skin tingles with the bracing cold. Then she fills up her hand again and pours water on the top of her head, feeling it trickle quickly down her hair and stream off her ears and onto her shoulders. She stands there very still, receiving every path.
Only when the last of the droplets have fallen off her earlobes, the water’s movement on her body complete, does she open her eyes. She finds a dish towel in a drawer and pats it along her neck and shoulders, rubs it around in her hair. When she’s done, she wets it with cold water and presses her face into it, before setting it on the counter. Then, thinking ahead to the evening, she fills her glass again and carries it out of the room and down the hall.
Beside her kids’ room, Maura pauses. She puts her hand on the knob for a moment, wondering if she should dare, then twists it and opens the door.
On the little bed, the children have switched positions: now Evan is on his side and Ella’s the one on her back. Through the slats of the blinds, a dusting of light falls on them, just enough to make out their forms. Their lips are slightly parted, as if about to blow bubbles.
Standing here unnoticed in this strange room, Maura feels like a thief. An intruder with dangerous intentions. How silly, she thinks, until she realizes it’s true.
There will be nights when they lie in bed, maybe in these same positions, crying over what she’s done. They won’t understand her choice so they’ll blame themselves, especially Evan. They’ll see how cruel life can be, before they’re ready.
And so her devotion to them will have to be as strong as her devotion to David. And not just until they all settle into a new arrangement, but for the rest of her life. Even when she’s not physically there, she’ll keep watch, as she’s doing now. Even if they can’t completely forgive her, they’ll always have her support and love. Looking at their sleeping faces, Maura promises them this.
Now, from below, a voice whispers, “What is it?”
It’s Harden, of course, lying flat on the floor on a comforter, head propped up by a pillow bent in half.
Quietly she clears her throat. “What’s that?” she says. Not that she didn’t hear him. She’s just buying time to think of an answer.
“What do you want?” he asks.
She doesn’t know how to respond. There’s too much to say. In the dark, she can barely make out his eyes.
“Nothing,” she finally replies, “I was just leaving.” And with one last glance at her children, Maura carefully closes the door.
Acknowledgments
There are so many people to thank.
Thanks to my friends near and far for your encouragement and love over the years—in particular, my Cornell, Chicago, and Ragdale writer-pals. It meant a lot.
To the cheap suburban hotels I wrote big chunks of this book in, especially the Extended Stay Holiday Inn in Skokie, thank you if not for the peace, at least the quiet.
Many thanks to Rob Roensch, Jerry Gabriel, and Shawn Currie for reading parts of this book and having such smart things to say about it; to my most excellent agent, Arielle Datz, who believed in this book way back when; to Chris Heiser and Olivia Smith at Unnamed Press for your faith and editorial guidance; to Dr. Helen Te and Jack Melloh for help in filling in important knowledge gaps; and to the Californian priest who candidly shared his experience as a gay man with me years ago.
Extra special thanks to the Vandermeer clan, especially Kitty Vandermeer for helping keep our household running when I was doing a residency at Ragdale; to my brother, Andy, for keeping me laughing and for the unflagging moral support; to my dad, for his enthusiasm for this project and indispensable insights about farm life, seminary life, and Rome in the sixties; and to my mom, a certified genius at loving people, for always being there, no matter what.
Lastly, thank you to my wonderful sons, Arlo and Emmett, who really wanted to be mentioned in the acknowledgments (’sup, guys), and to my wife, Maggie Vandermeer, who for more than a decade always gave me the space and time I needed to write this book and the most astute, helpful feedback. MV, you’re the best.
PHOTO BY CHRISTOPHER HILTZ
Mark Rader was born and raised in Green Bay, Wisconsin, educated at Tulane University and Cornell University, and now lives with his family outside of Chicago. His fiction has been published in Glimmer Train, Epoch, The Southern Review and shortlisted for an O. Henry Award, the Best American Non-Required Reading anthology, and a Pushcart Prize. He has taught creative writing at Cornell, Northeastern University, Grub Street, and the University of Chicago’s Graham School. The Wanting Life is his first novel.