by Deanna Chase
I knew my voice would tremble, but I had to answer. “You still do.” A plastic saber Eric had found at a toy store one afternoon. “I packed it away with my equipment.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself. “So why start up again now? And why with him?”
“He’s a friend, and he’s got some experience. That’s all.” At least I knew now why Allie had seemed so cold to Larson. I reached over and stroked her arm. “As for taking the classes in the first place, I thought it would be nice for us to do something like this together. And your dad would like knowing you can take care of yourself.” I avoided answering her basic question: why. I didn’t want to lie to my daughter any more than I had to. “Believe me, baby, I’d never do anything to mess up your memories of your daddy.”
“I know.” She snuffled loudly. “I just miss him.”
“I know, baby,” I said. “I miss him, too.”
***
The afternoon played out like pretty much any Sunday, though I will say that both Allie and I were a bit more attentive than usual to Stuart. Guilt will do that to a person.
After dinner Tim played on his xylophone while Allie accompanied him on a bongo drum. Stuart and I filled in backup using Tim’s somewhat slobbery harmonicas. (I confess we were trying to avoid being part of the act, but Timmy’s “you play, too, Mommy” is hard to resist.) After playing, bathing, and reading Chicka Chicka Boom Boom (twice), How Do Dinosaurs Say Good Night? (once), and Goodnight Moon (three times), we finally convinced Tim that he was Super Jammie Man, and it was time for him, his jammies, and Boo Bear to head off to bed, where they could fight for truth, justice, and the rest of it in his dreams.
Silliness works well in our house.
Allie stayed up with us for a while, dividing her time between her room and the living room, with each trip bringing a different ensemble for me to comment on. Despite having lugged home bags of fancy new clothes, in the end she decided on her favorite jeans, a plain white T-shirt, and a cute little pink sweater (The Gap, 75% off) to top off the outfit. The internal wrangling before she reached this key decision took approximately two and one-half hours.
After she headed off to bed—with a halfhearted promise not to call Mindy in the dark and stay up all night anticipating the next morning—Stuart and I opened a bottle of Merlot, popped Patton into the DVD player, and curled up on the couch. (He picked it. I’d agreed out of residual guilt. Now I was stuck.)
His arm curled around me and I snuggled against him. “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy lately,” he said. “It’s just going to get worse.”
“I know. It’s okay.” More than okay, actually. I was counting on Stuart being busy enough not to notice his wife’s newly reacquired extracurricular activities. I shifted, then arched up to kiss him. “This is important to you.”
He stroked my hair. “You’re the best, you know that, right?”
I laughed, the sound a little forced. “I’m not the best, but I promise I’ll try. I’ll never be Suzy Homemaker, but if we’re lucky, I won’t completely torpedo your chances of getting elected.”
“Won’t happen,” he said. “One day out of the gate and you’ve already won Larson over.”
“Yeah, well, I guess we just clicked.”
“Who wouldn’t click with you?”
I didn’t answer that one, pretending instead to be suddenly fascinated by Patton pulling out a pistol and opening fire on a German plane. Stuart followed my lead, and we settled in to watch the rest of the movie.
I was cozy and comfortable and actually ended up enjoying the film (go figure), but I still couldn’t quite relax. Things were happening out there in the real world, but it all seemed to be off camera. Just outside my peripheral vision. If only I could somehow turn my head and see the bigger picture— “Hey.” Stuart’s voice was soft as he smoothed my hair. “Where are you tonight?”
“Sorry. Just distracted. Allie. High school. My baby growing up.” Another lie. That made how many? I’d lost track, and I couldn’t help but wonder how many more would follow.
My worlds were colliding, and I wanted to keep the world with Stuart safe and secure. Tucked away in a little box like a treasured Christmas ornament. But my old life kept peeking in, and I was so afraid that Stuart would look at me one morning and catch a glimpse of my secret. Or, worse, that one morning he’d wake up and catch a glimpse of a demon.
I twisted in his arms and kissed him, hard at first, and then softer, until I felt him relax under me and open his mouth to mine. His hands tightened around me, and he pulled me close. I wanted to be even closer. I wanted to curl up, lost inside this man. I wanted him to take care of me. At the very least, I wanted to forget my responsibilities and my promises and my past.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, his tone suggesting that he was amenable to more of the same.
“Can’t I seduce my husband?”
“Any time, any place.”
“Here,” I said. “And now.”
A familiar spark flashed in his eyes, the kind every man gets when he realizes he’s going to get lucky. And then he pulled me close, Patton all but forgotten.
I’m not stupid. I knew this wouldn’t solve my problem, wouldn’t make my worries or the boogeyman go away. Wouldn’t even erase my thoughts of Eric.
I wanted it, though. Wanted Stuart. This husband. This life.
I needed to feel my present tight around me, soft and warm like a blanket. Because bits and pieces of my past kept picking at the loose threads, and I was so afraid that, if I wasn’t careful, the perfect life Stuart and I had built together would unravel in an instant.
And then, I had to wonder, where would I be?
For that matter, who would I be?
Chapter 9
Good sex warps a woman’s mind. I realize that now. But when Stuart asked me if I could throw together another quick cocktail party, I was still lost in that sated morning-after glow. Apparently, one of the paralegals was supposed to host the thing that evening, but she’d come down with something. I murmured yes and then buried my head back under the covers, happy, content, and full of orgasm-induced confidence.
It wasn’t until my alarm went off five minutes later that I realized my mistake.
By that time Stuart was already pulling out of the drive, probably practicing his cocktail party banter as he drove to the gym for an early-morning workout. I toyed briefly with dialing his cell phone and backing out, but then abandoned the idea. It wasn’t a huge shindig. Only five couples. And this was what I was supposed to be doing—helping my husband, stepping in during a crisis, being a good wife and mom. Yes, he may have cheated a bit by asking when my body still tingled, but I’d said yes, and now I was stuck.
And considering I had to get two kids up and dressed—and then drive Allie and three other kids to school before the 7:45 warning bell—I really didn’t have time to sit around regretting my decision.
I tossed on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, then pulled my hair back into a ponytail without bothering to brush it. Allie’s a bear to wake up before seven, so I headed for her room first, pounding on the door and calling, “Up, up, up.”
Her muffled response filtered through the door, and although I couldn’t understand the words, the tone was loud and clear—Go away, Mom, you’re bothering me.
“First day of school, Allie, remember? Come on. We’re running late.” A lie, but I figured that might get her moving faster.
Next, I headed for Timmy’s room. This was about the time he usually woke up—six-fifteen—and I could hear him whispering to himself. I pushed the door open with a cheery, “Good morning, Mr. Tim.”
“MOMMA, MOMMA, MOMMA!”
Now there’s a proper morning greeting. I headed over to his crib and soaked up the light from his toothy grin. He held up Boo Bear. “He sleepy,” he said.
“Me, too.” I took the bear, gave it a big kiss, and then very seriously spoke to his little bear face. “Boo Bear, we need to get Ti
mmy up. What do you think? Time for a fresh diaper?”
I didn’t give the bear (or the boy) time to answer. Just schlepped them both the short distance to the changing table. Less than two minutes later (I’ve been doing this for a few years) Timmy had on a fresh diaper and clean clothes and we were heading into the living room. I plunked him on the couch, turned on Jo Jo’s Circus, and continued toward the kitchen to heat up a sippy cup of milk.
Forty-five seconds later Timmy was holding the cup in his chubby little hands, I had my cordless phone cradled at my ear, and I was heading back up the stairs to pound at Allie’s door once again.
“Dupont Mental Institution,” Laura said, obviously having checked her caller ID.
“How are things at your end?”
“The inmates are restless,” she said.
“At least yours is up and moving.” I pounded on Allie’s door again. “Now, Allie. If you’re not dressed at 7:20, I’m leaving without you.” The first day of car pool is always a challenge, and Karen and Emily were unknown commodities. If they were the kind who ran late—where you ended up sitting on the street, engine running, laying on the horn—I wanted a little padding in the schedule.
I switched my attention back to the phone. “What have you got going this morning?”
“Laundry,” she said, sounding about as excited as if she were having a root canal. “Carla refuses to step up to the plate.” Carla came in twice a month to do Laura’s heavy cleaning. This is a point of great envy on my part. One day I’m hoping Carla can be cloned. “And bills. I could be talked into procrastinating,” she added. “If you’ve got a better offer, I mean.”
“Not exactly,” I said as I headed back downstairs. “I was hoping to bum a favor.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Now that Mindy’s a teenager, don’t you miss the pitter-patter of little feet?”
“You’re killing me here,” she said, but I could hear amusement in her voice, and said a silent thank-you. “Just spit it out.”
“I need a babysitter.”
“Oh, really?” Her voice rose with interest. “And what fabulous dalliance have you got scheduled?”
“Nothing as fabulous as all that.” I gave her the short-but-incomplete truth—that I was going to be doing some work at the church.
She made curious noises, but didn’t ask and I didn’t volunteer. As soon as she agreed to watch the munchkin, I swore to do her bidding for the rest of eternity. “You can probably just treat me to dessert at the Cheesecake Factory,” she said, “and we’ll call it even.” A pause. “Or is this more than a one-day crisis?”
“Hopefully just one or two,” I said, making one of those I’m-guilty-but-please-help-anyway faces, even though she couldn’t see me through the phone line. “I’m hoping I can find a day care.”
“Really?” Her surprise made sense. I’d told her over and over that I love doing the stay-at-home-mom thing (I do). “Two days, two desserts,” she said, playing babysitting hardball.
“Done. I’ll drop him by after I offload the girls.” We hung up and I stood silent for a moment, listening for Allie. I heard the shower running. A good sign. At least I wouldn’t have to race back up the stairs and drag her bodily into the bathroom.
“More milk,” Timmy said as I headed toward the kitchen. “Chocolate milk. Mommy. Chocolate.”
“I don’t think so, kiddo.”
I took the sippy cup and filled it with boring white milk, then I ripped open a packet of oatmeal, dumped it into a bowl with what looked like the right amount of water, shoved the bowl into the microwave, and set the timer. I was already pushing it with Laura; I couldn’t expect her to feed the kid breakfast, too.
Two minutes later I had Tim happily settled in his booster seat poking at tepid, gloppy oatmeal with his spoon. Hopefully one or two bites would actually make it into his mouth.
Allie barreled down the stairs and into the kitchen a few minutes later, eyed the packet of oatmeal on the counter, and shot me a look of disdain. “I’ll just have coffee,” she said.
“You’ll eat breakfast,” I said, keeping a proprietary grip on my own mug. We’d compromised on the coffee thing midsummer (that’s when she’d claimed to be a true high-schooler). Minimal guilt on my part, though, particularly when I discovered that my daughter takes a little coffee with her milk rather than vice versa. Breakfast, however, I was holding fast on.
“Fine. Whatever.” She grabbed a Nutri-Grain bar from a box on top of the fridge, then disappeared back upstairs to finish the getting-dressed ritual. “Makeup?” she called down.
“Mascara and lip gloss,” I said.
“Mo-om!”
“I’m not having this conversation again, Allie. I’m deaf to your protests until you’re sixteen.” The real score? I knew she’d continue to bug me and I’d eventually cave. But I was holding fast for at least a month.
No response, but I did hear a lot of stomping going on up there.
“Makeup, Momma!” Timmy howled. “My makeup.”
“I don’t think so, bud. Not even when you’re sixteen.”
In lieu of pouting, he threw a glob of oatmeal across the room. I watched it land with a plop near the missing window, knowing I should go clean it up. For that matter, I should get on the phone and find a glazier to fix the damn thing. Instead, I drained my coffee and poured myself a fresh cup. Procrastination, thy name is Kate.
Allie came down the stairs just before Mindy rapped on the back door. I ushered the lot of us to the van, the girls carrying their brand-new day packs, me sporting a toddler, a purse, and a diaper bag.
We caught a lucky break and both Karen and Emily were ready when I honked at their houses. Emily was last, and as soon as she piled in, I headed to the high school, where I lined up behind a dozen other vans and SUVs. I caught a glimpse of some of the other moms (and a few of the dads). From what I could tell, I was the only one pulling car-pool duty sans shower, with my hair yanked carelessly back, the T-shirt I’d slept in tucked into ratty old sweats. I slumped down in the driver’s seat and made a mental note to get up fifteen minutes earlier on car-pool day.
When the line of cars had moved enough so that we were in the driveway, Emily slid the door open and the girls started piling out. I reminded them that Karen’s mom had pickup duty, then put the van in drive. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
“But not for me and Mindy,” Allie said, her hand on the sliding door. “Remember? We’re staying after to talk to Ms. Carlson about cheerleading.”
“Right,” I said. “I remember.” I hadn’t, of course. (And what are they doing scheduling a cheerleading meeting on the first day of school, anyway?) I mentally rearranged my schedule, realized it was completely impossible, but figured I’d manage somehow. “Call me on the cell when the meeting starts and let me know what time it’s supposed to be over. We’re having some of Stuart’s political folks over for drinks tonight, so Mrs. Dupont may end up picking you guys up.”
“Whatever,” Allie said. It really was unfair. I’d give myself an ulcer trying to work out who was picking who up and when, and all she had to say was whatever.
I sighed. Whatever.
Ten minutes later I was seated at Laura’s kitchen table, a fresh mug of coffee tight in my hand. I nodded toward my munchkin, who was seated across from me, his nose even with the tabletop since Laura had long ago packed away her booster seat. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“Honestly. It’s fine.” She was already dressed to the nines, which made me feel even grimier.
I nodded at her outfit. “You look like you had plans.”
She made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, no. Not really. Paul’s just working late again tonight, and I thought it might be nice to, you know, look extra special for him.”
I thought about how I’d looked that morning as Stuart had headed off—how I looked now, for that matter—and shrugged. “I’m sure he appreciated the gesture,” I said.
I expected her to give m
e some dish or make a snarky comment. Instead, she just looked embarrassed and started unloading her dishwasher. I decided to change subjects. “If he gives you any trouble at all, just call my cell. And for nap, just plunk him in the middle of your bed and put some pillows around him. He won’t roll out.” I tried to think what else to tell her. “There’re sippy cups and diapers in the bag, but if you need—”
She held up her hand, laughing. “Kate, you aren’t heading to Australia. And I have a key to your house. We’ll be fine.”
I looked at Tim, who was happily shredding a napkin into smaller and smaller pieces. “You going to be okay with Aunt Laura? Mommy’s got to go run some errands.”
He didn’t even slow down with the shredding. “Bye-bye, Mommy. Bye-bye.”
Laura and I exchanged glances, and I could tell she was trying hard not to laugh. So much for my guilt about leaving him.
When I actually reached the door, Timmy’s tune changed. Not a full-blown fit, mind you, but enough whining to soothe my mommy ego. I gave him a couple of big hugs, some sloppy kisses, and a promise to be back soon.
I’d left the van in Laura’s driveway, and as she herded Tim back inside, I settled behind the wheel, then mentally ran over my list of things to do today. Shower, find day care, buy groceries, arrange afternoon car pool, gas up van—the usual stuff. In fact, except for two items—enroll in kickboxing class and review cathedral archives to determine object coveted by vile demon—the list wasn’t that different from a typical day’s to-do list. I’d always managed to tackle my tasks, and today would be no exception. Just a list of errands and me, supermom extraordinaire. No problemo. I glanced at my watch. Eight-fifty. Just nine and a half hours until the cocktail hordes descended on my house.
I cranked the engine. Dawdling was over. It was time to get moving. Goramesh might have invaded San Diablo, but he was going to regret it. I was Kate Connor, demon-hunting supermom. And I was going to take him down.
***
Two hours later I was Kate Connor, discouraged toddler mom. Apparently, enrolling one’s toddler in day care requires an act of Congress. The three facilities that I’d noticed in the neighborhood were maxed out on their kid quotient. KidSpace (inconveniently located on the opposite side of town) had a full-time opening in the two-year-old class, and that for a tuition payment that made my blood run cold. I was only looking for part-time, and I turned it down. The woman had made a cluck, cluck noise as she asked if I was sure, offering to hold the spot overnight if I wanted to give her a fifty-dollar deposit charged conveniently to my credit card over the telephone.
