Thinking about Shadow’s poop makes me not really hungry anymore, so I set the bowl and cereal box on the counter and wander to the back door. I open it and watch for a minute while Jonah crab walks across the grass, hunched over and staring at the ground.
“Be careful of Shadow poop,” I call to him. He looks up at me and smiles real big.
“Hi, Eden! Happy first day of vacation! Marco and me are finding bugs. Wanna hunt with us?”
Like, not a chance. “No, thanks. I’m gonna watch Young Justice. Want to watch with me?”
He scrunches up his nose like he’s thinking about it, but then shakes his head. “I’m gonna keep hunting. But thanks for asking, Eden.”
I almost apologize to him right then and there. I probably should, but I know he’ll just run over and touch me with his skody bug hands. Shudder.
I go back inside and head into the living room. Shadow is looking out the window again and whining. His tail thwap-thwaps against the back of the couch. I grab the remote from the coffee table and fall back onto the couch cushions, then turn on the TV.
I hear laughter from upstairs. Mom and Dad must be awake. I quickly turn the TV back off. We’re allowed to watch TV on Saturday mornings and on vacation mornings—another double rule, but never before we eat breakfast. I jump up and run into the kitchen, pour some cereal into my bowl, add milk, then scarf it down as fast as I can without choking.
Back on the couch, I turn the TV back on and find Young Justice on Netflix.
By the time the show is over, Mom and Dad still haven’t come downstairs. I didn’t need to scarf my cereal down after all.
I start another show.
SIXTY-FOUR
SAMUEL
I lie awake half the night, alternating between self-flagellation and self-congratulation. Flagellation for the obvious reasons and congratulation for not letting the situation with Greta go any further.
When I dropped her at her car last night, she stood there, waiting for me to alight from the driver’s seat. Possibly she expected a good-night kiss, or a hug, or some other form of intimacy. I stayed where I was, anxious to put my foot on the accelerator and get myself home. Greta gave me a puzzled look, then glanced back at our building, and I could see the wheels spinning in her brain. She assumed my inertia was because I didn’t want to be caught in a suspicious embrace by someone still at work. It was too late in the evening for that to be a possibility, but I let her think her assumption was correct.
Another thing that kept me awake was knowing I need to talk to Greta. Sooner rather than later. Staring at the darkened ceiling, with my wife asleep beside me, I tried to come up with a script for what I would say to her. Nothing sounded right in my head.
I finally succumbed to sleep sometime after three. My dreams were vivid and loud, the scenery and secondary characters constantly changing. But when I woke at six, I couldn’t remember a single detail from any of them.
I awaken again at 7:59. I roll over and gaze at Rachel. She sleeps on her side, facing me. Her reddish curls cascade around her face and stream across her pillow. Her lips are parted, and she creates a soft whistle as she slowly, rhythmically breathes in and out. Her expression is peaceful, her skin ivory with little splashes of rosiness across her cheekbones. She has never looked more beautiful to me, nor more precious.
Watching Rachel sleep, I chide myself again. Then make promises that will not be difficult to keep.
I will be good to you, Rachel. I will never hurt you, Rachel. I will cherish you and Eden and Jonah. You and the kids are my life.
I think these things, rather than give them voice, but Rachel stirs as though she can hear me. Her eyelids flutter open, close, open again. A lazy smile spreads across her face.
“Watching me sleep?” Her voice is low, raspy with the remnants of sleep. Sexy as hell.
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Stalker,” she singsongs in a throaty whisper.
I smile at her. Reach for her. “I love that nightie.”
“I know.” She scoots toward me, then turns and nestles against me, her head in the crook of my arm, her back against my chest. “Mmm. You feel good.”
I reach my hand around her waist and pull her even closer. “You, too.” I trail my fingertips across the soft cotton of the nightie, lingering over the generous swell of her breasts. Instantly, I’m hard. Rachel laughs.
“Wow. You really do like this nightie.”
“I’d like it better if it was on the floor.”
She laughs again. “Romantic.”
I cup her chin in my hand and turn her head toward me, then close my mouth over hers. She tries to shrink away from me. “My breath.”
“No worse than mine,” I murmur.
She places her hand on my chest to still me. “Let me brush. I promise, I’ll be right back.”
I throw back my head. “Oh, fine. I guess I’ll brush, too.”
Rachel throws off the covers and climbs out of bed. I follow her to the bathroom. My dick is standing at attention, creating a tent of my boxer shorts. She sees my erection in the mirror and laughs. I feign shock and shake my head.
“You’re never supposed to laugh at that.” She laughs harder and I drink in the sound, then laugh along with her. I realize we haven’t laughed together like this in a long time.
We brush quickly, Rachel’s gaze rarely leaving my crotch. “Don’t worry,” I assure her. “He’s not going anywhere.”
She raises her eyebrows and grins. “Oh, yes, he is.”
She makes a mad dash to the bed while I detour to the door. I open it a crack and hear the familiar sound of one of the kids’ shows from the TV downstairs.
I glance at Rachel. “God bless the boob tube.”
“I’ve got another kind of boob for you over here, buddy. Two, actually.”
“God bless that kind of boob.” I lock the door and cross to the bed. I climb under the covers, and Rachel meets me in the middle. For a moment, we lie side by side, our arms across each other. She looks at me, and her expression has lost all traces of humor.
“Are you okay, Sam?”
I try for a joke to recapture the levity we shared only a minute ago. “Better than fine, can’t you tell?”
A ghost of a grin. “Yes. You’re better than fine. Down there. Always have been. What about up here?” She reaches out and taps a fingertip against my forehead. “Everything okay?”
I take a breath, exhale on a sigh. “I know I’ve been a little distracted lately. I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head. “No, you don’t have to be sorry. You don’t even have to tell me what it’s about. I just want to make sure you’re all right.”
I’m here, with you, the love of my life. Our kids are downstairs. Tomorrow is Easter. It’s the first day of spring break.
“I’ve never been better.”
Finally, she smiles. “Good.”
She closes the small distance between us and kisses me, gently at first, then more passionately. For a split second, I think of Greta and those lips that felt foreign against mine. Rachel’s lips feel like home. I push Greta from my mind and sink into my wife’s embrace.
SIXTY-FIVE
RACHEL
I fall back against the pillows, my heart pounding. God, that was good. And we both needed it, desperately. Sam’s breathing is ragged. I turn to see him smiling broadly at me as he gulps for air.
“You’re lucky the kids watch really loud shows,” he says.
“Me? What about you? I thought your head was going to explode.”
“One of them did.”
I roll my eyes, then laugh. “That was fun.”
“Fun? Just fun? That was amazing.”
“Okay, that, too.” I shimmy to the side of the bed.
“Hey, where are you going?”
“To shower, get dressed. Seize the day.”
He grins. “I’ve got something else you can seize.”
“What are you, sixteen?”
“
Not interested in round two?” He makes an exaggerated sad face.
“You look like an emoji,” I tell him. “And, yes, I would love round two, but we’ll have to postpone. Tomorrow’s Easter, remember? I have to clean the house. Prep the dinner. Little things like that.”
“It’s just Ruth. It’s not like we’re entertaining the queen.”
I push myself to my feet, relishing the tenderness in my female parts. Just thinking about what we did moments ago makes me shiver with delight. Our sex life has always been really good. Even when busy schedules, kids, work, commitments get in the way, we manage to carve out time. But we haven’t made love for several weeks, maybe longer. Too long. I make a mental resolution to take Sam up on his offer of round two before the weekend’s up. Is sex on Easter Sunday considered blasphemous?
I walk to the bathroom and turn the shower on, shoving the lever to hot. As I brush my teeth for the second time, Sam comes up behind me and slips his arms around my waist. He kisses my neck, then looks at me in the mirror.
“I’ll help with the chores.”
“Deal,” I say around my toothbrush. “Shadow needs a bath.”
“The kids can do that.”
“No way. Talk about an even bigger mess to clean up.”
He nibbles at my ear. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
I can feel his penis poking against my butt. I put down my toothbrush and turn around, then point at his nakedness. “Um, you might want to put that thing away and get some clothes on. Ruth’s coming over this morning.”
He nods sheepishly, as he always does when I tell him Ruth is dropping by. “To help with the prep?”
“I’m dyeing her hair.” I grin. “She has a date tonight.”
His eyebrows waggle. “Really?”
“Don’t mention it to her, okay? I don’t want her to think we’re talking about it behind her back.”
“My lips are sealed,” he says, then chugs some mouthwash.
I leave him at the sink and step into the shower, adjust the spray. The hot water feels good. I stand for a moment and let it run over me, then begin to lather up.
“How did it go last night?” I call to Sam. He doesn’t answer. Probably can’t hear me.
When I step out of the shower a few minutes later, he’s already gone downstairs. Hopefully to make coffee. I towel dry my hair and get dressed.
Shadow greets me at the bottom of the stairs. Eden’s on the couch—all I can see of her is the back of her head. She doesn’t turn around. Jonah is nowhere in sight.
“Good morning,” I say.
When she hears my voice, Eden jumps off the couch and rushes at me. I’m expecting a hug. Ha.
“Mom, Mom, can I use your iPad? I want to FaceTime with Carlee and Ava.”
“I said, ‘Good morning.’”
“Oh, yeah, right,” she says contritely. “Sorry. Good morning, Mom.”
“And happy first day of vacation,” I add.
“Yeah, that too. Can I use your iPad?”
I detect the aroma of coffee in the air and silently sing my husband’s praises. “In a little bit,” I tell her.
“When, Mom, when?” she presses. “I want to invite Carlee and Ava for a playdate, too. Can I? Please, Mom? I asked Dad, and he said it was up to you.”
I take a deep breath and march toward the kitchen. Too many requests before coffee. Eden trails me.
“Tomorrow’s Easter, Eden. I’m sure your friends are busy.”
“Coffee’s ready,” Sam says, and I mouth the words I love you to him.
“No, Mom, they’re not busy. Can I have them over? I promise we won’t make a mess. We’ll just play in my room or outside or in the garage. We totally won’t even get in your way.”
“Where’s your brother?” I ask her, and she makes a disgusted face, which is entirely at odds with her prettiness.
“Ew. He’s out back looking for bugs.”
Crap. I haven’t picked up the poop yet.
Sam hands me a cup of coffee. I glance out the window before I take a sip. As if reading my mind, he says, “I picked up the poop.” I smile at him, and he leans in and whispers, “I thought it was the least I could do for you after what you did for me this morning.”
I whisper back, “What do I get for round two?”
He smiles. “We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”
“Mom!” Eden’s piqued voice cuts through the kitchen. “Can I have my friends over? It’s the first day of vacation. Please?”
I take a sip of coffee, then smile sweetly at my daughter. “Yes, honey. You may invite them over. But wait till nine to call them, okay?”
She squeaks with joy, then runs over and gives me a hug. Totally worth saying yes to her. She gives Sam a squeeze for good measure. She heads out of the room, but stops suddenly and turns back to us.
“Oh! I forgot.” Her cheeks go rosy. “I love you, Mom. I love you, Dad.” Before we can respond, she races back to the living room to finish her show.
I glance at Sam. “What was that about?”
He shrugs. “Buttering us up for something? A car, maybe? Nice, though, huh? Don’t hear it much anymore from her.”
I refill my mug, then lean against the counter and watch Sam put a couple of slices of bread into the toaster.
“So, how did it go last night? I asked before, but you didn’t hear me.”
He concentrates on the toast. “Good. The center’s coming along. Should be ready for May Day.”
I know he likes his toast a certain color, but the way he’s watching it, staring down into the slots of the toaster, makes me laugh.
“What?”
“Are you waiting for Jesus to appear on the toast?”
He grins at me. “An Easter miracle.”
The back door slams open, and Jonah appears, Marco the monkey sprouting from his side. His hands are brown, and his shirt and shorts are caked with mud. He is beaming. “Happy first day of vacation!” he cries.
“And to you, too, my guy.” I set down my coffee as Jonah bounds over to me. I put up my hand to halt him. “Wash those hands, mister.”
He giggles then goes to the sink. Sam grabs the step stool for him and he goes to work washing off the grime, talking excitedly. “We found some ladybugs and a big fat caterpillar that I think was trying to find a place to make a chrysalis and we found some ants and spiders by the fence.”
I nod and feign interest, grateful that he’s using the laymen’s names for the bugs. Jonah used to call them by their scientific names until I told him I had no idea what he was talking about. Thank goodness he’s dumbed it down for Mom.
“That sounds fascinating,” I tell him. Behind him Sam gives me an exaggerated nod.
“Marco and me want to go out front and search the hedge. Can we, Mommy?”
“Marco and I,” I tell him, and he screws his face into a look of puzzlement. “Marco and I, not Marco and me.” He shrugs and I laugh. The hedge runs between our property and our next-door neighbors’, from the house to the street. It’s three feet thick and six feet high and apparently akin to the Amazonian rain forest in terms of exploring.
“Did you brush your teeth?” I ask.
He frowns. “I forgot.”
“Did you wash your face?”
“I forgot that, too.”
“Clean unders?”
His expression brightens. “That I didn’t forget.”
“Okay, upstairs, brush your teeth, wash your face, change your shirt.”
“Then the hedge?”
I nod. He jumps off the step stool and throws his wet hands around me. I bend over and hug him tight, squashing Marco. “Love you, Mommy.”
“Love you too, Jonah bologna.”
He starts to run out of the room, then stops and turns back around. “Oh, love you, too, Daddy.”
Sam makes a funny face. “Back at you, ham sandwich.”
“I’m not a ham sandwich, Daddy. You’re silly. But I still love you.” He wheels back around and he
ads for the stairs. I turn to Sam.
“He’s something, huh?” I say.
Sam nods and grins at me. “Yeah, I guess we’ll keep him.”
I take my coffee to the table, along with my notepad and a pen, then I sit and make my to-do list while the caffeine takes effect.
Laundry. Sweep. Market. Sweet potatoes. Wash platters. Oh, right. Ruth’s hair. I glance over at Sam, then write: Round two.
I underline the last entry, then put down the pen and finish my coffee.
SIXTY-SIX
RUTH
I wake up with a stomach full of knots. It’s not an entirely unpleasant feeling based on the reason. I admit, I’m actually looking forward to this evening, and as I go through my morning routine, I don’t consider canceling. Well, maybe once or twice I do, but not with any real conviction. I am going to keep my date with Judd, and I’m going to enjoy myself. Rachel is right. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. The big deal is what the date represents. A new start. Opening myself up. Allowing myself to be happy.
I sip tea at my tiny kitchen table and make an ingredient list for the banana cream pie, doubling the quantity of each item. Might as well make two. Rachel’s family loves my banana cream pie and would welcome leftovers. Or I could give one to my neighbor as a happy-Easter gift. I wonder what Judd is doing for Easter. Obviously, it’s too soon to invite him to Rachel’s. But perhaps I’ll inquire about his plans tonight. If things go well. Anyway, best not to get ahead of myself.
I eat an egg and some toast, then take my medication. I’m timing my doses to the minute today so my fibromyalgia won’t rear its ugly fangs during my evening. I throw on a pair of jeans and an old, tattered long-sleeve T-shirt—the one I always used to wear when I dyed my hair. One look in the mirror, and I quickly take it off, roll it up, and shove it in my carry sack. I don’t want to look like a homeless person. I pull on a light-peach cotton sweater. Better.
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