Darkness Drops Again

by Melissa E Manning

  “Miss Yolanda, Declan and Seamus love it here at For Your Child. The teachers are all so friendly and kind. The boys arrive each morning with smiles on their faces and at night Dec can’t wait to tell me about the day’s activities. Unless you have any concerns, I think we can cut this conference short.”

  I presumptively begin to stand when Miss Yolanda responds, “Actually I do have some concerns I need to address with you.”

  I freeze mid-rise. Miss Yolanda’s face looks so grave that I find myself taking a shaky breath and sitting back down.

  Miss Yolanda continues. “As a daycare, we are sensitive to the demands placed on working parents. Most of our children at For Your Child have two working parents who are doing their best to balance the responsibilities of work and home. And for the most part, our parents seem to conduct this balancing act beautifully.” At this, Miss Yolanda pauses and takes a sip of her tea. She then focuses her gaze on me before delivering the verdict. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem that you and your husband are able to balance these demands as well as some others.”

  My stomach clenches as if I’ve been punched in the gut. Which I believe I have been in an emotional sense. I stammer, “Where is this coming from? I drop off the boys every day and pick them up every night. Just like every other parent here.”

  Miss Yolanda shakes her head sadly. “I’m just telling you what the boys are telling us. Well, Declan really. He says he only gets to see Daddy on the weekends and he misses him. He says you're always in a rush to get them to bed so you can get back to work.” Miss Yolanda pauses as if considering whether to add the next part. She ultimately decides it’s necessary to do so. “Declan also said, more than once, that he’s heard you crying at night.”

  I interrupt unconvinced. “When? When did he tell you these things? He hasn’t said anything like this to me.”

  Miss Yolanda shakes her head sadly. “You know we have a counselor on staff that we call Ms. Feelings, right? The children are free to go to her office at any time and talk about their big emotions. These can be issues with the other kids in school or issues at home. I’m sad to say, Ms. Feelings sees Declan daily. And even little Seamus is clingier and more emotional than the other kids his age.”

  I clasp a hand over my mouth and fold in half as the world crumbles around me. How have I allowed myself to become so wrapped up in a stupid job that Dec has to seek out a counselor to talk to about his loneliness? That Seamus has to cling to maternal stand-ins? Of all the things I set out to be, a good mother was at the absolute top of the list. And I’m failing. Failing miserably. My chest starts to constrict and my breathing becomes ragged. I have to get out of here. I rise so abruptly, I send the toddler seat tumbling behind me.

  “I need to leave,” I manage to squeak as I stride to the art room and yank open the door. Declan, Seamus and Miss Sarah are coloring pictures of The Incredibles. They all look up, startled at my aggressive entrance.

  “Boys, we have to go,” I pronounce shakily.

  Declan begins putting back the crayons as they’ve been taught, but my panic continues to rise. I can’t have a meltdown here. “Now, boys. We’re leaving now!”

  I pick Seamus up and we walk the block back to our house in silence, tears streaming down my face the entire way.

  Chapter 20

  As I wait for the water to hit the boiling point necessary to add the fusilli noodles, my mind is spinning. How do I fix this? How do I make this right? One thing I know for sure is that Patrick and I need to make some major life changes. We need to forget about our romantic complications and unite for the boys’ sake. We both need to slow down at work and be more present at home. I may be out of a job soon, so that shouldn’t be too hard on my end. But Patrick is going to need to talk to Ernst & Young about only being onsite three days a week or maybe every other week. The weekends aren’t enough. Clearly. The more I think about the necessary adjustments, the more I realize I need a face-to-face discussion with Patrick. And soon. But when will I have time with all the trial tasks?

  I put planning aside and sit down to actually share a meal with the boys. Most nights I sit the boys’ plates on one side of the kitchen island and return emails from the other side. I then eat the leftovers as I clean up. Tonight I get my own plate of pasta with steamed broccoli, leave my phone on the counter, and seat us all at the reclaimed wood dining room table. Declan tells me about the plastic eggs he helped fill with jelly beans in preparation for the daycare egg hunt in a few weeks. Seamus gets down from his booster seat and shows me how the bunny hops into the house each Easter. He even gets pretty close to saying “bunny” with “bunda.” Declan is excited about a new yoga program they’re offering at school. He already knows downward facing dog, tree, and happy baby poses. He laughs as I tell them about a yoga class I once took where a woman emitted a loud fart while attempting happy baby. Thank goodness for the lavender essential oil they diffused soon after that during savasana. As I feel the day’s tension begin to release with each minute I share with my boys, I admonish myself for ever missing out on moments like this.

  After getting them both into jammies and reading Where’s Baby’s Belly Button to Seamus, I give him a big squeeze and kiss on his forehead before laying him in his crib. I then walk with Declan to his room to read our chapter. When Wilbur laments that he’s not terrific but average for a pig, I can relate. Although according to Miss Yolanda, I’m not even batting average as a mom.

  With Dec in bed, I climb the stairs, laptop in hand, to put in a few more hours on this opening statement. But as the minutes tick by, I find myself unable to concentrate on anything other than my burning desire to talk things through with Patrick. And I know this is a conversation that needs to take place in person. The phone won’t substitute this time.

  How do I make this work? Let’s see. The murder squad is going to see Tammy on Thursday. And Tom wants a draft of this statement on Friday. But tomorrow Tom’s in an all-day mediation for one of his City of Chicago lawsuits, this one involving alleged bribery in exchange for jobs with the Department of Streets and Sanitation. Might not seem like an ideal job, but it comes with a City pension so it’s apparently in high demand. I open a new browser window and go to the Southwest Airlines site. There’s a five-thirty a.m. flight that would get me to Boston by eight-forty. Patrick usually takes calls from his hotel in the morning before heading into the office, so I should be able to catch him. I would just need to drop the boys off with his parents by four. I’ll tell Mary I had something come up and need to fly out for a one-day client visit. I can also work on the opening during my flights. This is perfect. It’s the only chance Patrick and I will really have to talk (sans kids) before the trial ends. I book the flight and call my amazing mother-in-law for a favor.

  As I lie in bed and try to force myself to get at least four hours of sleep, my mind starts to spin. Is this a smart move with all that’s going on at work? To be honest, it isn’t. If I want to keep my job, I should drop the boys off early and make sure Jabba sees me toiling away on Elizabeth’s brief for one of our top-paying clients. But I couldn’t care less about that now. My boys are more important than a promotion. The next question that plagues me is why I haven’t given Patrick a heads up about my trip. The truth to that one is harder to face. It’s because I want to see if he’s alone tomorrow morning. If I arrive and he’s with her, then I will finally admit that things are unfixable and I need to start planning for the next phase of my life with the boys and sans Patrick.

  ***

  My flight is on time and my cab pulls up to the Boston Marriott Long Wharf just after nine. I don’t know what room Patrick is in, so I stop by the front desk. I pulled on yoga pants, a long-sleeve running shirt, and sneakers for the flight. I just remove my jacket, drop it on a lobby chair, and am ready with a story.

  “Hi, I’m Maeve Shaw. I was on my way back to my room when I realized I left my room key on the treadmill. Could you give me a new one?”

  The petite red-head behi
nd the desk with the nameplate “Emma” punches some keys at her computer. She looks like a walking advertisement for Aer Lingus. “Maeve Shaw you say? I don’t see your reservation.”

  I laugh. “Of course. The reservation is under my husband’s name, Patrick.”

  More clicking at the keyboard. “Oh yes, here you are. Patrick Shaw. Platinum Member. Room 610.” Emma feeds a keycard into the magnetizing machine and hands it over to me.

  The elevator seems to be moving in slow motion and my palms begin to sweat. I try to put the image of walking in on Patrick’s face between Marcie’s legs out of my mind and instead focus on my reason for coming. As any good litigator would do, I try to anticipate Patrick’s reaction to hearing Miss Yolanda’s comments at the parent teacher conference. He has never been a huge fan of For Your Child. He had wanted to send the boys to a Montessori school farther north of the city, but the additional twenty-minute commute each way didn’t seem worth it to me. Still, I don’t see how he can dismiss her concerns entirely. If he’s dubious, I’ll offer to set up an appointment for us both with this counselor woman, Ms. Feelings. Given the extent of Declan’s visits with her, we should really make an appointment regardless of Patrick’s reaction. I need to hear if Dec has other worries he talks to her about beyond Patrick’s and my absence.

  I take a deep breath as I slide the key into the card slot and pull it back out. This isn’t going to be a fun conversation, but our boys need us to be adults. I say a final silent prayer that Patrick is indeed on his morning conference calls and not with Marcie and push the door open. Instant confusion. Is my mind playing tricks on me? Ethan is sitting on the edge of the bed, iPhone in hand, with just a towel around his waist.

  He looks up and starts to say, “Excuse me. Who the—” but then stops, shock written all over his face.

  My mind still can’t process the visual stimulation. Did Emma give me the wrong room? Why is Ethan staying at the Boston Marriott? Shouldn’t he be in Chicago working on the closing statement?

  “What are you doing here?” I manage to stutter.

  Just then Patrick comes out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist as well. He doesn’t see me. He walks straight to Ethan and lays a hand tenderly on his shoulder.

  “I called the office and told them I’m not feeling well. We have the whole day free. What time is your flight tonight?” I watch him lean down and kiss the top of Ethan’s head. All the while Ethan hasn’t taken his eyes off me.

  “What in the hell is going on here?” I blurt.

  Patrick sure notices me now. He drops his hand from Ethan’s shoulder, but remains mute. The fear in his eyes tells me all I need to know. All this time, Ethan was Marcie.

  “So what? Are you two together now? Are you a couple?” I ask. Even though I know the answer.

  Patrick regains the ability to speak but can only run his hands through his hair and mutter, “Shit, Maeve. I’m so sorry. You were never supposed to find out this way.”

  The shock and disbelief begins to dissipate and be replaced by pure unfiltered fury. “Look, I’m not stupid, Patrick. I knew you were cheating on me, but I assumed it was with some skank from work. Not one of my best friends.”

  Patrick shakes his head sadly, but doesn’t respond. I keep going. “And Ethan, how could you look me in the eye every day at work. Ask me out for shitty Chinese food. Push me to take on a pro bono case that is actively ruining my career. And then sext my husband each night? I trusted you!”

  Ethan does what he always does when he’s backed into a corner. He comes out swinging. “Cut the crap, Maeve. Don’t act like you’re innocent in this.”

  I find myself physically taking a step back in response to this outrageous accusation. “Wait. You think I’m somehow to blame for this? I turned my husband gay? I made you a backstabbing slut?”

  Ethan spits back, “You two don’t even know each other. You’ve remained blind to your husband’s sexuality for years even though it was immediately obvious to both me and your bestie.”

  Patrick, never one for confrontation, steps in between Ethan and me and tries to defuse the situation. “Hey, there’s no need for mean-spiritedness here. Let’s calm down and talk about this like adults.”

  I push Patrick aside with my forearm and get right in Ethan’s face. “Wait, you’ve talked to Zara about this?”

  Ethan laughs. “Oh yeah. Zara and I’ve had many conversations on the subject. Way before Patrick and I started sleeping together. It was like our running joke. We both wondered how long it would take for you to wake up. I knew you’d never admit it unless the proof was right in front of your face.”

  My voice is raised now and I can feel my face flush with anger. “What a couple of great friends you two turned out to be. You’re nothing but gossipy bitches. Instead of talking to me you decide it would be best just to screw him! Prove your point. Did you have money on this?”

  Patrick grabs my arm to pull me back from Ethan, but I whip it out of his hands and in doing so end up accidentally slapping Ethan in the face. He puts his hand to his cheek and his mouth hangs open. I’m just about to apologize when he spits, “It’s not like you’ve ever wanted to talk about hard things, Maeve. I mean, Jesus, Patrick didn’t even know about your parents’ murder-suicide until I told him.”

  Stunned silence. From the look on Ethan’s face, even he knows he’s gone too far.

  “Ethan, that was uncalled for,” Patrick says as he tries again to take my arm.

  I drop the key card and begin backing from the room. Ethan’s conscience seems to have awoken as I vaguely hear him say, “Shit, Maeve. I’m sorry.”

  I run to the elevator and jump in the first door that opens, not caring if it's going up or down. I just need to get away from them. Right as the elevator doors are about to close, I see Patrick standing two feet away, still in his towel. I think he says he’s sorry, but it’s too late.

  Chapter 21

  I turn left at the corner of Brookshire Parkway onto Spruce Drive. Only a quarter mile to my house to complete my three miles. I’m getting faster. When Nancy, my therapist, suggested I start exercising to reduce my anxiety, it took me a full thirty-five minutes to complete this loop. Today I should clock in at around twenty-eight. I’ll give it to Nancy, this half hour a day is when I feel my best. It hasn’t hurt that it’s been an unseasonably warm and dry spring. It’ll be harder to keep this habit up during the winter months in Chicago, but I’m determined not to gain the freshman fifteen.

  I slow down as the dark blue A-frame comes into view. When we had the house repainted a few years ago, I somehow convinced my parents to paint the front door yellow. It’s still my favorite feature of the house. Who wouldn’t want to knock at a house with a cheery yellow door? Not that we have many visitors outside of Mom’s booze crew. They call themselves “the ladies who lunch.” That’s true if you consider chardonnay and valium a balanced meal. As I walk up the two front stairs and pause at the white railing, my eyes drift to the old-fashioned porch swing. The swing seems to be waiting for a couple to sit and enjoy a lemonade while catching up with the goings-on of the neighborhood. It’ll have to keep waiting.

  Before I can slip my key into the lock, I hear loud voices inside the house. So much for the anxiety-relieving effects of my run. I turn the key as quietly as I can and slip inside, closing the door soundlessly behind me. Mom and Dad are in the kitchen. As I tiptoe down the hallway to my room, I hear glass shatter. One of them has thrown a plate or a cup. I see another trip to Crate and Barrel in our future.

  My mom slurs, “That’s it. I’ve had it. I want a divorce.”

  I freeze at my bedroom door, my hand on the knob, my heart pounding in my chest. I’ve overheard a lot of fights, but I’ve never heard either of them use the “d word.”

  My father’s voice is raised but flat. “We are not getting a divorce.”

  My mother laughs harshly. “I’m getting a divorce and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  My mother
stumbles toward their bedroom. She’ll see me if she looks down the hall. I tiptoe to the living room. There’s a small space between the china cabinet and the wall just big enough for me to squeeze into. No one can see me unless they’re at the dining room table. This hiding space has come in handy during numerous arguments. I squeeze around the china cabinet and slide down the wall, my knees pulled against my chest, my heart still pounding. Will Mom actually leave me here alone with Dad? Will she abandon me? I hear drawers opening and closing in their bedroom.

  My father bellows, “Put that shit away, Joanna. You aren’t going anywhere.”

  “The hell I’m not.”

  “What about Maeve?” Dad hollers. “Have you completely forgotten you have a daughter?”

  “You were the one who wanted her, Michael. Not me. You wanted a wife and a kid to show off with pictures on your desk. While sticking me with the job of actually raising her. Well, she’s your problem now.”

  Mom’s revelation knocks the air from my lungs. So that’s why she doesn’t love me. She never wanted me in the first place.

  The door to their bedroom opens with a bang. From my vantage point, I can only see Mom from the waist down. She’s wearing cream linen pants with navy high heels. In her hand she clutches her brown overnight bag. Dad’s right behind her. Still in his black suit pants from the office. He grabs her arm.

  Pleading, he says, “You haven’t thought this through, Joanna. Where are you going to sleep tonight?”

  Mom pauses. Then she giggles. “Oh, this is rich. You really don’t know? You haven’t even guessed? Bob and I’ve been seeing each other for six months.”

  Silence. Dad stutters incredulously, “Bob? Bob Mullins? My partner?”

  Mom smiles cruelly. “That’s the one.”

  Dad is out of his element. He’s not used to being on the receiving end of surprise revelations. “What does Tess think about all this?”