by Minka Kent
We eat mostly in silence, the five of us. I made sure the children swam for hours today in the backyard with Addison. They’re hungry and tired, and that equals an early bedtime sans medication so I won’t be inflicted with mommy-guilt the rest of the evening.
When dinner’s finished, I ask Graham to bathe the kids, and he responds with the same stupefied look he gave me earlier.
“It’s either baths or dishes,” I say, a dish rag bunched in my hand, ready to toss his way. “Your choice.”
If he wants to earn brownie points, he can start by lending a hand.
His jaw sets, and he rises from the table and moves toward me. When our hands touch, he yanks the towel from me and proceeds to the sink.
“What’s wrong with Daddy?” Grace asks from the table.
“Nothing, sweetie,” I call back, eyes on Graham. “He’s just doing what good daddies do.”
“But why is he mad?” Grace asks, yawning. It’s a good sign when she’s tired, and it’s usually a good indication that she won’t be fighting bedtime. “He was stomping. You said we’re not allowed to stomp in the house.”
“He wasn’t stomping,” I lie. He was definitely stomping. “Run upstairs and strip down. I’ll be up in a minute to run your bath.”
I clean the younger children up, then stop myself before I begin to clear the table. Graham can do it. His arms aren’t broken.
“All right, run upstairs,” I say, and then I turn to my husband. “You got this?”
“Of course,” he says, voice muffled and back toward me. His displeasure is suddenly my pleasure. If he could turn around now, he’d see the ridiculously oversized grin covering my face for the first time in years.
The kids are going to bed without a fight tonight.
My husband is doing dishes, and tomorrow, I’ll let him be the one to break it to Addison that her services are no longer needed.
I grab my phone and snap a picture of Graham, posting it on Instaface with the hashtags #BestHusbandEver, #DontBeJealous, and #LuckiestWifeAlive.
They’re sarcastic little hashtags, of course, but no one needs to know.
Within seconds, I’m up to eighty-seven “likes.” My photos of Graham have always gotten the most attention out of everything I post. It’s almost as if these bitches follow me just so they can ogle my husband.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, and I’m half-tempted to write, “Ladies, if you want him, you can have him. #AllYours.”
Thirty
Autumn
I keep my phone by my side all day.
Waiting.
Watching.
And when the phone rings at twenty-five past two in the afternoon, I nearly knock Ginger over in the process of answering it.
“Hello?” My voice is sweet, innocent, and unsuspecting.
“Autumn?” It’s a man’s voice. But not just any man.
My soon-to-be-boss.
I bite my lip.
I know what’s coming.
“Yes?” I answer.
“It’s Graham McMullen,” he says. “How are you doing?”
“I’m well, thank you,” I say. I sound like Donna flipping Reed. If my phone had a cord, I’d be twirling it around my fingers and twirling in my knee-length skirt. “Everything all right?”
“I just wanted to thank you,” he says, “for yesterday. For telling me what you saw.”
“Of course,” I say, breathless and concerned, my voice low.
“Daphne and I spoke last night,” he says, “and we’ve decided to let Addison go.”
My heart trots, and I can’t feel my face.
There may as well be confetti flying through the air. I need a glass of champagne and a handsome gentleman to kiss whom does not taste like beer and chicken wings and smell like Dylan Abernathy’s mossy cologne.
“If you’re still available,” he says, “and if you’re still interested, we’d love to have you work for us for the summer.”
I hold my silent applause. And I hold back my response.
I don’t want to seem too eager.
That would be suspicious.
And I don’t want him to think I’ve been sitting around all day, waiting for this moment.
That would be pathetic, and I need my credibility to be perfectly polished.
“Oh, Graham,” I act shocked at the prospect.
“You were my first choice, actually,” he says.
How could I possibly say no, now?
I’m grinning so wide my face hurts.
“I’m sure it would be fine,” I say. “Let me just talk it over tonight with Ben when he comes home. Can I get back to you first thing in the morning?”
“Of course.” Graham clears his throat. “We were actually hoping you could start Monday.”
“Of course. It shouldn’t be a problem, but I’ll let you know as soon as possible.”
“Thanks, Autumn.”
“No, thank you. Talk soon.” I end the call on a sweet note and toss my phone aside. It bounces on the couch cushions and wakes Ginger from her half-asleep haze.
My body is ringing, practically vibrating. It’s on a whole other frequency. I’ve tuned into something miraculous. I can’t recall the last time everything felt so right in my life. Things don’t always work out for people like me . . . the underprivileged. The less fortunate. The ones society forgot. The ones who blend into the background.
The ones who matter to no one.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I find myself at the top of the stairs and then the end of the hall. Bursting into the guest room, I belly flop on the bed and reach beneath to grab my secret stash of McMullen mementos.
Only I don’t go for the small box.
It takes two hands to drag the big one across the carpet, and I retrieve the box cutter from the nightstand to slice through the tape. Each time I peek into this box, I tape it up to prevent easy access on the off chance Ben would go snooping.
Plopping on the floor and sitting cross legged, I fish a few things from the bottom of my collection.
A pair of J Brand jeans, exactly like the ones Daphne wore in an Instaface photo last year, a pair of Swarovski crystal encrusted Louboutins complete with unscuffed red bottoms, a black silk blouse that serves as a near replica of a vintage Chanel piece Daphne found at a thrift shop. I couldn’t find the exact one, given that the original was born in the 70s, but I found the next best thing via some Etsy shop out of Canton, Ohio that specializes in reproducing old clothing designs based on photos.
Within seconds, I’ve peeled out of today’s clothes and stepped into Daphne’s.
My old dresser rests against the north wall, and I step over my box, making my way to the unfamiliar reflection in the distance.
From here, minus my sandy blonde mane, I look like her.
I complete the look with a set of pearl earrings and a matching necklace, and I tie my hair back, twisting it into a low chignon. A slick of pink across my lips finishes my look, and in the blink of an eye, I’m officially transported.
In the coming days, I’ll get to set foot inside their world.
I’ll get to see what they see, smell what they smell, touch what they touch, and hear what they hear.
And my daughter . . .
My Grace . . .
I’ll get to meet her all over again.
Maybe we’ll bond over our love of mint chocolate chip ice cream and brown-haired Barbies, and maybe when she’s not looking, I’ll count the freckles on her arms – just because I can. I’ll get to breathe in the sweet scent of her soft skin, and I’ll get to hear her giggle in person, which will be a million times better than some thirty-second Instaface video, and she’ll get to know me – even if she won’t actually know who I am.
I abandon my moment the second I hear Ginger carrying on downstairs. It’s too late for her to be freaking out over the mailman, and it’s too early for Ben to be home – unless of course he’s “surprising” me again.
Creeping down the hal
l, I take the steps with caution, dipping down and peeking over the banister toward the living room where Ginger is yipping from the back of Ben’s armchair. She’s facing the front door, and the sound of a car door slamming makes my heart stop cold.
I run back upstairs, to the room I share with Ben, and peek outside only to see Marnie’s black coupe in the driveway.
Lovely.
If I don’t answer, if I pretend to be gone, there’s nothing she can do. She’ll leave soon enough. Taking a seat in the middle of our queen bed, I bide my time by making faces in the dresser mirror, manipulating my brows a little bit higher and pinching my cheeks until they’re a little bit rosier, imagining if it’s possible to shape and mold my face into a Daphne McMullen replica.
For a split second, I stare and my reflection and see her.
But I blink.
And she’s gone.
And it’s just me.
I must be incredibly exhausted because I find this entirely too amusing, and before I know it, I’m laughing out loud.
The tinker of Ginger’s collar in the hallway brings a stop to my shenanigans, and a second later, she’s pouncing on the bed, licking my face.
“Why didn’t you answer the door? I rang the bell, like, ten times.” The “angelic” voice of Marnie Gotlieb nearly scares the shit out of me.
My hand flies to my chest as I twist in her direction. Ginger wriggles free from my arm, and I regret that I must have been holding her too tightly.
“What the hell are you doing?” My voice is shrill, uncool. “How did you get in here?”
“You didn’t answer. I called Ben, and he told me where the hidden key was,” she says, hand on her hip. “I came to get my birthday gift. Ben said you were going to drop it off weeks ago, but surprise, surprise, you never did. I was in the area, so I figured I’d stop by and take it off your hands. I know you’re super busy doing . . . what do you do again these days? Sit around and play house on my brother’s dime?”
It takes everything I have not to roll my eyes or spit in her smug little face or yank those platinum extensions clean out of her hair.
“You can’t just show yourself in like that,” I say. “This isn’t just your brother’s place. I live here too.”
Marnie, for some ungodly reason, flips on the light, and illuminates my . . . get-up.
I really, really hate this bitch.
“What the hell is that?” She has the audacity to point at me and wrinkle her nose. “What are you wearing? Are those . . . are those Louboutins? Does Ben know you have those? Did you buy those with his credit card?!”
“Get out!” I charge at her, wiping that smart little smirk off her snotty little face and sending her stumbling backward. She nearly loses her balance until her back smacks against the wall in the hallway. She says nothing, her eyes squinted, glaring.
“I’m onto you,” she says through gritted teeth.
“Onto me?” I mock her, adding a haughty laugh at the end.
“There’s something not right about you.” Her finger is pointed in my direction, trembling slightly as her chest rises and falls. She scans my outfit one last time, and we’re both suddenly breathless and adrenaline-fueled, two alley cats preparing for a territory showdown.
“Why? Because I dress up once in a while? Puh-lease, Marnie, get a life.” I cross my arms. “I think there’s something off about you. You have some sick obsession with me, and clearly you need to find better things to do with that busy little brain of yours.”
“I’ve been asking around about you.” Her voice is low, frightened almost. “Nobody has ever heard of you before. Not in this area. Where did you say you went to high school again?”
My jaw tightens.
“You’re lying about … something,” she says, straightening her posture. “And the second I figure it out, I’m going to tell Ben. I’m going to tell him everything.”
“Good luck.” I hook my hand into her elbow, and I realize this is the first time she and I have ever actually touched. She’s bonier than I expected. And as much as I hate to admit this, she smells good. Like expensive flowers. And vitamin E lotion from The Body Shop.
It makes me loathe her even more.
“You don’t deserve my brother, and you know it,” she spits her words at me as we near the front door.
“That’s where you’re wrong. I deserve him because I make him happy. I’m everything he could ever want,” I remind her. “We’re in love, Marnie. And I know that bothers you because you have this disturbing little crush on your big brother that I’ve yet to fully comprehend or figure out, but he’s mine. And there’s nothing you can say or do to change that. So stop. Fucking. Meddling.”
Her jaw hangs, and I grab the door, swinging it open so hard the knob hits the wall behind it.
“Next time, I’d appreciate a phone call before you come barging in. A nice, proper girl like you should know it’s common courtesy,” I mock her infamously condescending tone.
“What about my birthday gift?” She hooks a bony hand on her skinny hip and cocks her pencil thin brows.
Groaning, I stomp to the kitchen and swipe her stained card and wrinkled gift bag from the counter before returning and handing it over.
“Happy birthday, Marnie.” My lips smile, but my eyes glare.
I’m so bored with . . . this, and I’m in too good a mood to let Marnie “Basic Bitch” Gotlieb ruin my high.
Besides, she couldn’t begin to dig up my past if she tried.
It’s dead and gone, just like the girl I used to be.
Thirty-One
Daphne
Flowers again? I don’t mean to seem disappointed, but this flowers after work every other day thing is getting old. Can’t he think of something else to do? Jewelry? Chocolate? If he’s going the full cliché route, the least he can do is mix it up a little.
I will say, though, he’s been pulling his own weight. The first couple days were challenging, but he’s been helping out more and grunting and groaning less, and a girl could definitely get used to this.
Today he brings me blue hydrangeas, wrapped in paper and tied with a bow. They’re beautiful, and they smell like a million dollars.
“Thank you,” I tell him, letting him kiss my cheek.
He’s trying. I’ll give him that. He’s trying harder than he’s ever tried before, which isn’t saying much because he’s never really had to try, but still. The effort hasn’t gone unnoticed.
“Why don’t you go upstairs and get changed,” he says, leaving his hand on the small of my back.
I glance down at my yoga pants and t-shirt, readying myself to bite his head off for criticizing my outfit.
“I have a surprise for you,” he says.
I swallow my words before they have a chance to come out, and I turn to face him.
“Sitter’s going to be here in an hour. I’m taking you out tonight.”
“Out where?” I fight a smile. I don’t know why I’m smiling.
Wait. No. I’m an idiot. That’s why I’m smiling.
“Wear that little black dress, the one you wore last year on our anniversary,” he orders, leaning in and brushing his five o’clock shadow against the side of my neck. He deposits a biting kiss and then gives me a look, that look he always used to give me, and then heads to the family room to sit with the kids.
I climb the stairs still wearing that dumb smile, and there’s a hint of butterflies in my belly. Hope, perhaps. And as messed up as it may be, there’s a rather large part of me that still loves that moron of a man, who still wants to grow old with him. There’s a rather large part of me that’s still longing to capture everything we’ve lost before it’s gone forever.
And I can’t raise these kids alone.
I can’t do this without him.
I round the corner at the top of the stairs and shuffle into our bedroom, closing the double doors and heading straight for the closet to pluck his favorite dress of mine from the far back.
He get
s one more chance.
Thirty-Two
Autumn
Today is, quite possibly, the best day of my life.
And I’m not being facetious.
I mean it with every ounce of my heart and soul.
My ears ring and my fingertips vibrate as I tap the knocker against the McMullen’s wooden front door for the first time in my life. I’ve never stood at this door before, under this awning, but in many ways, it feels like coming home.
A canopy of trees lines their lot, and this time of morning, everything is dappled in soft sunlight that trickles through swaying, leafed tree branches.
There’s a warm fullness in my chest, and it feels so full it could burst.
Daphne answers the door dressed in skintight jeans and a sheer white blouse. Her long, buttery blonde hair shines in the late-morning sun and her face lights when she sees me.
“Come on in! You must be Autumn.” She pulls the front door wide, and I step inside the McMullen home with wobbly legs.
If this is a dream, I never want to wake up.
My gaze catches on the marble console table in the foyer, instantly recognizing it from Instaface photos, and then I glance at the sisal rug beneath my feet. The one she ordered last spring from some fancy catalog and they sent her the wrong size, so she got to keep it for free. Resting in a milky white vase on the console is a small bouquet of pale pink roses. They’re not her favorite, but they look exquisite in this natural light, and the vase is an antique Baccarat she purchased at a Manhattan boutique two years back.
I know every square inch of this house.
I don’t even need a tour.
“Nice to meet you.” I extend my hand, searching her eyes for any hint of recognition on her part. It’s been several weeks since I saw her at the grocery store, but I’m the spitting image of Grace. Just being here is risky, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take because I’m a woman who has run out of options, and I cannot be without this family. They’ve become a part of my daily routine. A part of my existence. A part of me.