by Amy Teegan
Sophie climbs out of bed and pads down the hallway to listen a little more carefully at her mom’s bedroom door. She hears light snoring. Cool. Sophie tip-toes past the door, out to the living room and tries to decide how to spend her morning until it’s time to leave. Today is Saturday so she doesn’t have to worry about school. It’s not one of her dad’s weekends. All she has to do is be a flower girl in her cousin Ryan’s wedding, but that won’t be until later so she can put off waking up Mom.
She guesses she could probably watch most of Home Alone 2 before Mom wakes up. Even though it’s really old, that movie is her favorite. It’s a Christmas movie and Dad says it’s terrible, but Sophie likes to imagine what she would do if she could go anywhere she wants, without rules or worrying about her mom. Mom has promised they will go to New York together soon. Maybe even next summer, when Sophie is nine.
Hopefully Mom will wake up by herself. Sophie doesn’t know what time they have to leave to go pick up great-grandpa Marshall, but it would be better to be late than to wake up Mom. He would understand. Mom wouldn’t.
Sophie is hungry. Still quiet on bare feet, she very carefully picks up a dining room chair and carries it over to the kitchen. A year ago, she had to drag the chair but now that she is a much bigger girl of eight years old she can carry it. Once she’s up on the chair, she can reach the cereal bowls and cups from the upper cabinets. Then she can carry the chair back to the table, get the Fruit Loops out of the pantry, get the milk and orange juice out of the fridge, and carry all of it over to the dining room table. It takes three trips, but she can make her breakfast all by herself.
She needs to have enough energy for her big day as a flower girl. The fruit in Fruit Loops is probably really healthy. She opens the cereal and fills her bowl, all the way to the brim. The milk is harder to pour. It’s almost a full jug and she has a hard time holding the heavy container steady. Her arm trembles under the weight and some milk is poured out onto the table before she is able to guide it over to her bowl of cereal. The milk drips off of the table on to Sophie’s feet. She pulls off her wet socks and sets them next to her on the table.
When she was much littler, she would have had to choose between waking Mom up or just staying hungry until she got up. Sometimes — but not often — there is fruit or cheese or something in the fridge, but Sophie likes her bowl of cereal better.
When she goes back to the kitchen to get a paper towel to clean up her spilled milk, Sophie takes a closer look at the kitchen. She had missed it earlier in her focus on not spilling any of her own breakfast, but evidently her mom had attempted some complicated Italian recipe the night before, gave up partway through, and left everything out. Sophie can clean up some of it, but she doesn’t really know what is worth saving and what is a complete loss.
She sighs, wishing it were one of her dad’s weekends. Her dad and stepmom never left a third of a jar of spaghetti sauce out overnight, with another third of the jar spilled half on the counter, half in the sink.
Kevin McCallister will have to wait. When she is done eating, Sophie carries the dining room chair back over to the kitchen so she can reach the counter. She can at least make sure all the dishes are in the sink and the countertop itself gets wiped up.
Then, maybe, her mom will miss the rest of the mess and not get mad. Sophie misses when she was really little and her mom was more like a mom was supposed to be. She only has three of those memories; she had been four when her parents divorced. But one of them was of helping her mom mix up pancakes. Mom cracked the eggs, and tied a little apron onto Sophie. Sophie had had a special counter-height footstool and was big enough to stir the big bowl all by herself.
She starts wiping the counter and accidentally gets tomato sauce on her nightgown. Sophie wonders where that apron has gone.
9:00am Leah
Leah walks up the long driveway of 18453 Pendleton Lane, coffee in hand. The mid-century, enormous home sits on a flag lot, set far back from the street by a long, shaded pea-gravel driveway. This whole neighborhood south of Ventura Boulevard is full of houses like this — built in the 1960s by fancy entertainment executives with money to spend and room to spread out. These homes have only just started going back on the market in the last ten years; most had been kept in the family since they were built. 18453 Pendleton Lane is the bride’s grandfather’s house, a two-story Spanish-style with faded terra-cotta roof tiles, a giant, dark oak front door, and bright fuchsia bougainvillea creeping up the white-washed side.
Leah has already been here several times in the months leading up to this day, helping the bride Lindsay and her mother get everything perfect for the wedding today. As she walks up the driveway this morning, she has to remind herself of the details. She’s grateful that in her hyper-organization she has everything written down in the white binder in her tote bag, because her mind is not on the house, or on the wedding preparations. Leah cannot stop thinking about what Joe had said to her.
She stumbles, her ankle bending hard. She regains her balance just before falling to her knees altogether. Her coffee is jostled enough to spill over her hand and down her pant leg, dripping into her shoe. It is as if her right foot had decided to go a totally different direction than her left. Her shoe heel isn’t broken, thank goodness, but her ankle might be a little sore. She looks at the ground, but can’t identify any pebble or uneven edge or anything that would have caused her misstep.
“Shoot,” she says. She switches the mug to her other hand so she can shake off the last drips of coffee. The sugar Joe had put in it will now make everything sticky.
She looks down at her slacks — the dark gray will hide most of the stain, but she still should get to a sink. She should try to dab off any of it. Shoot, she thinks. I don’t have time for this. Any cushion of time she has built into her schedule is for cleaning up other people’s messes, not her own.
Joe has put her completely off her objective.
But she’s putting it all out of her mind. Focus is needed on a wedding day. Particularly a wedding in the backyard of a private home, with so many separate companies to sort out. She will be the point person for every single vendor and question and crisis that arises and she has to be fully present all day. She has to be hyper-aware. She needs to have all the details in her head to be ready for split second decisions if necessary. There will not be any time to think about her husband. So she should just forget him for today. Just for the day.
She walks faster toward the house so she can wash her hand and rinse off the layer of stickiness.
Back at home and once she had gotten into her car, she allowed herself the twenty minute drive alone to think about him. Why was he doing this to her? Hadn’t she always done everything for him? She ran through all the reasons that Joe might be thinking about leaving. Simple logic — that’s what was needed in a situation like this. Reasoning, evaluating each possibility, and then taking the needed steps to eliminate obstacles. As long as she didn’t let her feelings get in the way, she could solve this problem just as she had solved every other.
Is there another woman? Maybe he is in some kind of legal trouble, and is generously distancing himself to protect Dylan and her. Maybe he has heard something about her that’s obviously untrue, but he believes it and it repulses him enough to leave. Maybe …
She stops short in the middle of the driveway, almost at the front door. Leah remembers that Joe had specified he would call her ‘later in the week.’ That’s too much time. So much could happen in those three or five days. Maybe she should break her usual ‘no personal business on a wedding day’ rule just this once?
Leah’s thoughts wander so far while she travels to Lindsay’s grandfather’s house, she only comes out of her fog when she notices she’s standing in front of the door, a large iron bird-shaped door knocker at eye level. Today is about Ryan and Lindsay. It is going to be a long day if she lets herself think about Joe and about what could be happening to her marriage.
Leah checks the time — 8:58a
m — and triple-checks that her phone is on silent (no texts from Joe) before she rings the doorbell, ready to start her long work day.
10:09am Dylan
Dylan wanders out of his room, yawning, rubbing his eyes on the way to the bathroom. His mom has probably already left for the day. What’s Dad doing? Is he in the garage? Sounds like someone’s stacking stuff. Weird.
He checks his phone — just after ten a.m., so he still has more than five hours before he has to leave for work.
“Dad?” he calls out toward the living room. “Dad?”
When he passes by his parents’ room the door is open — not unusual. But the entire surface of their bed is covered with clothes, mostly folded and piled all over.
After peeing, washing his face and congratulating himself for not going back to bed, Dylan wanders around through the kitchen, into the living room. By now it’s clear the sound is coming from the garage. He walks through the den, his eyes drawn to the partially emptied bookshelves, through the garage door and sees his dad loading what looks like boxes of printer paper into the back of his little Acura.
“Dad, hey.” He stifles a yawn. “Uh … What’re you doing?”
“Dylan! You’re up! Want to go get some breakfast?”
Dylan narrows his eyes, looking around the garage. “Um …”
His mother has always kept this space meticulously organized, so both cars can fit parked side by side. The back wall of the garage holds tall, straight shelves full of boxes labeled Christmas, Halloween, Painting Supplies and more. Not one of them has been moved or disturbed in any way. What had he heard?
The big door is open so there is plenty of light for Dylan to see what his dad has been doing out here … definitely a stack of boxes. The trunk of the car is open and only has a few boxes in it, but Dad looks beat, like he has been up all night building a house, or digging a moat or something.
“Sure? Uh … I just gotta change.” Should he be worried? Shit. Maybe he had done something? His dad had that it’s-time-for-a-talk look — disappointed eyes and a shallow smile. “Are you okay?”
Joe nods. “Sure, buddy. I’m okay.” He nods his head toward the house. “Go change.”
Dylan hurries back to his room, and digs through the piles of clothes on the floor. Where are his jeans? Is he in trouble?
Twenty minutes later they are seated into a tiny little two-person booth at IHOP, squeezed back in the corner near the kitchen. In the middle of a Saturday morning, the hum of conversation surrounded them. Waiters step aside to let each other past, occasionally knocking Dylan’s elbow as it hangs off the table.
Dylan waits for his dad to speak. He holds the menu in front of his face, scanning quickly. This time he’ll try the New York Cheesecake pancakes — he’s working his way through the entire list.
Once their food arrives, his dad clears his throat. Repeatedly.
“So, uh… Well. Son, I have something to tell you.”
His suspicions are confirmed. Dylan can not remember his dad ever calling him ‘son’ except when he is in trouble. He racks his brain, trying to think of what he could possibly have done. Well, at least, what could he have done that his father has found out about? Maybe he changed his mind about letting Dylan drive to Santa Barbara? Dylan tries to arrange his face in an expression of neutral curiosity. “Oh, um. Really?”
“Yes. Well. … You see… Let me first say that I love you. Your mother loves you. This has nothing to do with you.”
“What?”
“I, um.” Throat clears. “Dylan, I’m moving out.”
“What?”
“You probably noticed all the boxes in the garage. Those are my things. Clothes and books and stuff. I’ve got a storage unit and I’m going to go stay with Aunt Justine for awhile. Until I find my own place.”
“What?” More information is not helping. He’s only getting more confused. He cannot keep up.
“Your mother and I are separating.”
“What?”
“Stop saying that!”
Dylan looks down at his pancakes.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” his dad continues, reaching over to squeeze Dylan’s forearm. “I didn’t mean that. This is hard for me and I just — I want you to understand. You’re old enough to know how an adult relationship works, right?”
“I guess.” Dylan picks at his syrup-drenched pancakes, not meeting his father’s eyes.
“Right. Well … God, I should probably tell your mom about all of this before I tell you.”
Dylan looks up. “You haven’t told her?” That seems unnecessarily calloused, and not at all like his father.
“Well, no. I mean, I’ve told her that I will be gone before she gets home tonight but we haven’t had a chance to talk about why or what it means.”
“What the fuck, Dad?”
“Hey. Language. But, yeah, I know. I know.” He runs a hand through his hair, which is now standing up straight. Dylan can see now why his dad looks so tired. He has been beating himself up over the whole situation for a while.
They each take a couple bites, trying to enjoy their breakfast while it’s hot but not really tasting it at all. After a few moments of silence, Dylan looks at his dad again.
“What about me?”
“Dylan, of course, I love you. I will definitely find a place that you can come live or stay with me. I mean, I don’t know.” He sighs. “Like I said, I haven’t talked to your mom. But we will make this as easy as possible on you. I still care about your mom and I have great hopes that this whole situation will work out. We both love you very much.”
“So … so, what then? Is there someone else?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. It’s just … things have been difficult. We’ve grown apart.”
“You don’t love her anymore? Why not?” He tries to keep the accusation out of his voice. But, before his dad can answer, Dylan remembers having to break up with Jess last fall. She’s nice enough, but he just didn’t care about her enough to keep dating her. How are you supposed to tell someone that? He feels bad for his dad who is probably trying to do the right thing.
“It’s not as simple as that. And I really should talk to her about it. But, hey, once I do I want to be available to answer any question you have. I know this might be hard or confusing to you.”
Dylan nods and takes another bite. His pancakes are cold, but he keeps shoveling in mouthfuls. He doesn’t want his dad to think the last meal they have together isn’t any good.
He imagines his mom, cool, collected, hard as fucking nails, learning that her husband is leaving her and then going off to work all day anyway. She does that a lot — put her work before her family. Or even, put things like her doctors or even DMV appointments before her family. Dylan knows she has a really intense standard for personal responsibility, but for god’s sakes. You can go to the dentist next week.
“How’re you boys doing?” Their waitress has appeared, coffee pot in hand.
“Fine. Um. Thanks. Can we get the check, please?” his dad says.
“Sure thing.”
Dylan glances at his father, who returns to eating wordlessly, and wonders where this decision has come from. Wonders if maybe his dad has gotten tired of not being a priority.
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
“Dylan, hey — it’s not your fault at all. Don’t even think that.”
“I know. I’m just sorry. I know how Mom can be.”
10:36am Ian
Ian McKay is still in bed. He has been awake maybe twenty minutes or so, scrolling through Facebook. His brain feels tight, and his neck and shoulders ache a bit. He has just the hint of a hangover. Last night wasn’t much of a party, by his standards. He gropes the side table for the bottle of water without looking. He is sure he left himself a bottle the night before. But he’s not paying close enough attention and knocks the bottle to the floor, where it rolls under the bed.
Damn it, Ian thinks as he leans over the edge of the bed. The corner of the
mattress presses into his gut as he stretches his fingers to get a grip on the bottle and roll it back out from under the bed.
Finally. Got it. Any farther and he would have had to get out of bed. Ian sits up just a little and leans back against the pillows. Several big gulps of water help immediately. It’s hard to drink so much water when he also has to take a leak, but he isn’t quite ready to get up yet. He’s just a lowly groomsman. Nobody cares that he’s still lying around. Hell, it’s not even like he has to do anything other than shower. He has no make-up or hair rituals. Nobody is waiting just for him. Formal photos depend on others as well. Nobody needs him.
He’s been listening to the laughing and joking from the other room. There’s a lot of light streaming in between the curtains, which had not been closed properly the night before, and he has the vague impression that it is late in the morning.
Some of the other groomsmen are in the next room. If he listens closely, Ian can pick out at least four distinct voices, including the groom. Is that … Blake? Or, uh … Ugh, I don’t know. Too hard, he thinks. He closes his eyes and lies back against the headboard, water bottle half empty and held loosely in his hand.
The two-bedroom suite they had checked into fewer than twenty-four-hours earlier is utterly wrecked. Ian only has a sheet covering him; every other blanket has been pulled back and is draped halfway on the floor. It’s a king-size bed, but he can not remember sharing it with anyone. The ice bucket has fallen over and is soaking a corner of the carpet under the window with melted ice. And that’s just the room Ian is in. He doesn’t even want to think about the bathroom.
All I know is I am not cleaning it, Ian thinks. He plans to give Ricky his portion of the room cost, a little extra for tip for the sad bastards who have to clean it up and then forget all about it. Hell, that’s why they were staying at a Marriott and not at home, right?