by Janis Thomas
ALSO BY JANIS THOMAS
What Remains True
Something New
Sweet Nothings
Say Never
Murder in A-Minor
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Janis Thomas
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503901148
ISBN-10: 1503901149
Cover design by Rex Bonomelli
For Linda Coler Fields—
I wouldn’t wish for any life that didn’t have you in it.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
Wednesday, June 29
“Charlemagne,” Louise Krummund announces. She stands on her porch, cradling a furry, puffy lump, and beckons me to join her. I’m already late for work, but my curiosity leads me to her. “His name is Charlemagne.” The name sounds odd coming from Louise, with her thick Brooklyn accent and bright-pink curlers peeking through Clairol-blonde hair. “But we’ll call him Charlie.”
Then why call him Charlemagne in the first place? I don’t want to sound rude, so I keep the question to myself.
“We got him from Paw-Tastic Pets,” she says, then turns defensive. “Oh, I know, I know, we should have adopted from one of those rescue places. But we all just fell in love with him as soon as we saw him in the window. And they were having a fantastic Independence Week sale. We couldn’t resist.”
I reach out to stroke the brown-and-black fuzz of the ridiculously named creature wriggling in Louise’s arms. He is cute, this Charlemagne/Charlie, and I allow myself the enjoyment of scratching his ears and stroking his belly. I pull my hand away, and he yaps in protest. I laugh, then submit to his demands, running my fingers through his fur.
“Can I take a picture of him to show Josh?” I ask, as is my habit.
“Here,” she says, holding the puppy out to me while grabbing for my phone. “I’ll take a picture of the two of you.”
Charlemagne/Charlie graces my cheek and mouth and neck with puppy kisses as I hold him in the crook of my arm. His sandpaper tongue tickles my skin. Louise fumbles with my cell phone—she doesn’t know how to use the camera app, and I will later find twenty pictures in my photo gallery because she accidentally used the speed setting. The puppy grows restless and starts to gnaw on my fingers with his sharp teeth.
When Louise decides she’s taken a good shot, she hands the phone back and reaches for the puppy. I don’t want to let him go. But I do.
“Bring Josh by any time to play with little Charlie,” she says. “I’ll make us a pot of coffee. I get these special Peruvian beans from Amazon. Pricey but worth it. You should definitely come in and try it.”
I nod, even though I know I won’t. Louise has been asking me over for coffee since we moved in—seven years ago—and I have yet to accept her invitation. I wonder if she’ll ever give up.
She cuddles the puppy against her ample breast, then disappears into a house full of children and unwashed laundry and the lingering aroma of bratwurst. I watch the puppy until the door closes.
ONE
Thursday, July 7
The first morning it happens is unremarkable in every other way. The same blade of sunlight slices across my comforter, setting a stripe of faded sunflowers on fire. The familiar aroma of my husband’s espresso wafts through the air. The shadow voices of CNN steal their way into my ear from the TV in the kitchen. My eyes are grainy and swollen from a fitful night of sleep.
An unremarkable day. Just another day to face, to endure, to survive. Another morning when my life bears down on me, weighting me like an anchor, dragging me beneath the ambivalent sea. And all I want is to be numbed by the icy current. To give in, give up, let the waves crash over me and drown me into sweet nothingness.
But there are things to be done, people to attend to, responsibilities, duties, motherhood—caretaking included—wifedom, sadistic bosses with their overbearing attitudes and Altoid breath, bitter ex-husbands brandishing threats, leaking faucets and broken banisters, bills in need of payment, and the constant whispered needs of a thousand to-dos, all of them dragging me down but ultimately forcing me to pull myself out of the safety of my bed.
This is my life.
I never imagined I would feel the way I feel now. I want to escape. I finally understand those women—and men—who simply walk away from their lives. Those people who drain their savings and disappear, shuck all their encumbrances and rebirth themselves. But I am glued to my encumbrances. And I have no savings to drain.
Another woman would embrace her life. She would face her challenges with grace, find the positives and focus on them instead of allowing the negatives to overwhelm her. I used to be that woman. I used to smile in the face of adversity and spout Pollyanna platitudes and count my blessings. Until I couldn’t anymore.
Shower completed: the first check mark on my list. My husband, Colin, waits for me as I move out of the bathroom. He sits on the end of the bed. His eyes are on the floor, peering at a fleck of something, some not-supposed-to-be-there something. A leaf, perhaps, or a shred of paper. A blade of grass. I can’t see it without my glasses, so I choose to ignore it.
“I got him up,” Colin says, expecting a congratulatory gesture on my part.
“Good.” My voice is thick with the remnants of sleep, those that have not been eradicated by the near-boiling water of my shower.
“He’s in fine spirits this morning,” Colin continues, deciding—I can tell—not to linger on the “something” on the carpet.
“Good.” Again with the one-syllable response. I’m not awake enough to offer more.
I glance at Colin and try for a smile. He matches my effort with his own. We are not estranged, my husband and I. We’ve simply transitioned into that limbo where married couples often find themselves: not lovers, not friends, but two people sharing space because of a commitment they made during a beautiful and costly ceremony where countless people showered them with flower petals because rice had been banned by PETA. There was a time I considered that
day one of the happiest of my life. Now it’s just a memory.
I love Colin, I do. But mostly because he’s still here.
“Katie’s gone already.”
I move to the dresser, turn off the baby monitor, and grab some underwear from the top drawer. I drop the towel, my nakedness exposed. No one’s looking.
The digital clock reads seven fifteen. An early departure for my daughter. I try not to think about where she is or who she’s with at this hour. Katie is almost seventeen, a year from college. Time to let her go. I repeat the mantra to myself often, because this is the phrase a good mother uses, the words a good mother says after years of maternal devotion. The good mother smiles when she says these words, proud that she has managed to nurture and raise another human being. I repeat the mantra without smiling and without pride, because it is a front. Katie lurks in teenage angst and writhes in hormonal upset. If I have nurtured her in the past, here in the present I can find nothing useful to say to her. The less time I spend with her, the better. For her sake, not mine.
Colin leans so far forward, I fear he will topple over. With his long-armed reach, he retrieves the offending something on the carpet. I watch his reflection as he inspects the item, as though it were an intriguing specimen on the tray of a microscope. He stands and tucks whatever it is into his pocket, and I avert my gaze before he can meet it in the mirror.
“I can start the oatmeal,” he offers, “if you’re running late.”
“I’ll do it,” I snap, then soften. He is only trying to help. “Just let me get dressed.”
“I am capable of boiling water.” A hint of a grin.
“Are you?” Meant as a joke, but unfunny aloud.
Colin moves slowly across the room, sagging slightly, his slouch a physical reaction to my meanness.
“Colin. Thank you for taking night duty.”
He gives me a weary grin. “It was easy. He slept through the night.”
Of course he did. He never sleeps through the night when I’m on duty.
Reading my mind, Colin shrugs. “We can bring in someone for nights, Emma.”
“We can’t afford it, Colin. You know that.”
“Well, maybe after the book . . .” His words dry up. He hasn’t finished his third book yet. He might never finish the damn thing.
“I’ll be right down,” I say.
He nods, then steps into the hall.
Only after he closes the door do I notice. Something is wrong. Or not wrong, but not quite right. I don’t know what it is, can’t put my finger on the not-quite-right thing.
I glance around the room, searching for a telltale sign: a picture listing to the side, a lamp pushed out of place, something missing, or, conversely, something here that shouldn’t be. Nothing reveals itself. The room is as always. Threadbare comforter, weary landscapes trapped in dusty frames suspended on drab beige walls that need a fresh coat of paint. Framed photo of my mother on my nightstand beside my digital alarm clock, hand-carved jewelry chest—my one treasure, my lone inheritance—gaping up at me from the scuffed dresser, the tiny ballerina in the back corner of the faded velvet tray forever motionless. Nothing is amiss.
And yet, and yet. That not-right feeling niggles at me, whispers through the hairs on the back of my neck as I pull my graying brown hair into a loose chignon. Pokes at me as I don today’s work ensemble of navy skirt, cream blouse, stockings, and toe-crushing pumps.
I’ve worked at jobs that allowed me to wear comfortable clothes, but not this one. My boss, Richard, demands that his employees adhere to their gender in all manner of appearances. So I carefully zip my skirt and button my blouse and wrestle the hosiery up my legs and ignore the blisters bulging on both of my insteps. And as I do, I think longingly of that bartending gig I had in college where I got to wear jeans and sneakers and T-shirts.
But the not-right thing lingers in my consciousness, begging for attention, dragging me away from my memories.
A few generous swipes of concealer do little to hide the bruiselike crescents beneath my eyes.
What is it? I ask myself.
The brushstrokes of rouge look comedic against the ghostly pallor of my cheeks and I wipe them away with Kleenex.
What is it that isn’t?
I choose pale pink for my lips; a shade darker would look clownish and grotesque.
What is the not-right thing?
I reach into the jewelry box for my pearl earrings and slide them into my ears as I stare at my reflection.
I hear the quiet of the morning around me. For the first time in a week, the puppy next door is not barking his head off.
And that is the not-right thing.
TWO
I make my way down the stairs, gripping the railing as I always do when I wear pumps. Time is not a woman’s friend, and I am approaching the age when a snagged heel can cause a disastrous fall down a flight of stairs that would lead to the ruination of a formerly vibrant life. My life is not vibrant, but it is still my own. My seventy-eight-year-old mother was vibrant. She took aerobic classes three times a week and gardened every day until she tripped off the curb of the community center and broke her hip. I buried her six months later. I am roughly half her age. But my anticipation of the foregone conclusion has begun.
Our staircase is wide, to accommodate the wheelchair lift. The width was one of the features that drew us to the house. The wheelchair platform is already below. As I descend, I gaze absently at the metal track that runs to the second floor. My ears are attuned to every sound around me, none of which is the sound I expect or desire. The quiet disturbs me almost to distraction, and even with my firm grasp on the rail, I feel my ankle turn. I right myself before I can do damage but sit hard on the carpeted step. Pain reverberates through my tailbone. I stand and continue down the steps more slowly.
My mind is elsewhere. I’m thinking about the neighbor’s puppy. Charlemagne/Charlie, the adorable little fluff ball whose kisses were coarse and sweet.
I was enchanted by him at first, but my enchantment has been replaced by weary resentment. Little Charlemagne is a yapper. All day and all night. There are periods of quiet, those short blocks of time during which I imagine one of the Krummund children deigns to give the puppy their attention, distracting him with chew toys or games of fetch or roughhousing or rawhide bones. But otherwise, he barks. Bursts of high-pitched staccato yelps that stop only for as long as it takes him to draw breath. The Fourth of July fireworks sent him over the edge. He didn’t stop for twenty-four hours straight.
Louise is aware. She smiles guiltily when I catch her outside, on her way in, on my way out, on our simultaneous way to the trash bins.
“You can’t put one of those shock collars on a puppy his age,” she said a few days ago in lieu of an apology. To which I responded with an ambivalent shrug.
“Oh, and, um, don’t worry about collecting our paper next week. We can’t go up to the lake. Charlemagne isn’t ready for that trip yet.” She tried a conciliatory smile. “The barking will stop. I promise. I appreciate you not calling the police for a noise disturbance.”
She was kidding. Ha-ha-ha. But last night, as I lay in bed hoping, praying, begging for the nothingness of sleep that would erase the hellish day I’d had, Charlemagne, that little ball of fluff, had barked-squealed-yapped with the endurance of an Olympian. A pillow over my head, palms against my ears, Motrin PM—which I can only take when Colin is on night duty—none of these could coax me into REM. And there was Colin beside me, motionless, snoring softly, undisturbed by the canine cacophony next door—even though I knew he would awaken with a start from the slightest hitch in Josh’s breathing. And I felt my insides twist and my mind fragment as the moments ticked-dragged-trudged by. And I couldn’t stop the thought that screamed through my head just before sleep finally prevailed.
I wish they’d never gotten that godforsaken dog!
As I step onto the first-floor landing, I feel my armpits dampen, despite my antiperspirant.
Pe
rhaps something happened to Charlie/Charlemagne. Maybe he got out of the house and ran into the street and was hit by a car, or he choked on a chew toy, or fell victim to one of the older Krummund boys’ version of roughhousing, which ended with a snapped neck. Maybe he got into the rat poison or or or . . .
I stop myself. The puppy is fine. The puppy is not roadkill. He’s napping. He’s eating. On a walk with Louise, although that’s unlikely. Probably she took him to the vet for a checkup. Yes. And if something happened to him, God forbid, I will not feel guilty. It will not be my fault just because I held an ugly thought toward him while I desperately clawed my way into sleep.
The puppy is fine. Another mantra. A prayer. Accompanied by an inexplicable prick of dread.
I walk into the kitchen to find that CNN has given way to Disney XD. The raw angles and stark lighting of the news broadcasts upset my son. Animated Phineas and Ferb discovering new ways to pass the summer and exploit their sister, Candace, delights him. He sits in his wheelchair, his head craned to the side, arms stiff and glued to his torso, his hands bent at an unnatural angle, fingers hooked. His tongue lolls out of his mouth, pink and straining as a chuckle escapes him.
He detects my approach, as he always does, and I quicken my step. When Joshua knows I’m near, he wants to see me, and he will twist and turn until I am within his sight line. Nothing causes more heartache to a mother than seeing her child struggle. But I can neither prevent his distress nor my own heartache to any measurable degree, because my son has cerebral palsy and every word he says and every action he performs is an excruciating undertaking.
“Mom,” he says when I kneel beside him, although the sound from his lips more closely resembles “Maah.” Joshua speaks in a foreign language in which only Colin, Kate, Raina (his caregiver), and I are fluent. My mother understood him, but theirs was a language without words—a wink, a nod, a slight gesture that communicated novellas.
Josh is fifteen and brilliant and trapped in a body that betrays him every day, every moment. But he is my son, and I love him fiercely, and his steady, blue-eyed gaze warms me.