Five Days Left

by Julie Lawson Timmer

  He laughed. “Other than last night, you mean. You told me the same thing at dinner, remember? And on the way home, and once we got into bed.”

  She felt her cheeks redden and he put a cool hand on one of them. “Not that I’m complaining,” he said. “Of all the things to forget you’ve told me, and tell me again, that’s a fine one.”

  She allowed herself one last, long hug before she made herself push away. “So, you going for a run?”

  “Yeah, but I need a quick hit of caffeine first. I was thinking I might do nineteen or twenty today, if you don’t mind my being gone awhile. I’m feeling extremely energized, after the solid ten hours I slept last night. Thanks to you.”

  “Nineteen or twenty, eh? That takes you, what, two and a half hours? Two forty-five?”

  “About that. But I don’t have to go that long today. I don’t have to go at all—”

  She raised a hand to interrupt. “Tom Nichols. We are not having this conversation again. You’re a runner. You run. You’re going twenty.”

  He raised his own hands in surrender and laughed. “Okay, okay. I’ll go twenty. What are you going to do while I’m gone? Any chance you’d consider a nap?”

  She looked at him as if to say, “What do you think?” and he laughed.

  He handed her a cup of coffee and she blew on it, then said, “So, two forty-five, then, you think?”

  He squinted at her over his cup. “Um, yeah. Two forty-five. Are you feeling okay?”

  She looked at him blandly, pretending it was a memory thing.

  “Are you going to miss me?” he asked, teasing. “Is that why you keep asking how long I’ll be? Are you trying to decide if we’ll have time for more”—and now he smiled—“adventures in our room after I’m finished and before I go pick up Laks? Because I’m in. Should I just go five or six right now? Conserve my energy?” He winked.

  An iron fist of regret clutched her heart and her throat felt parched. Yes, she wanted to say. Yes, let’s spend another hour in bed together. One more hour. She closed her eyes quickly and called up the image of the sullen teens rolling their eyes at each other while their mother knocked her blanket onto the floor and their father stooped a tenth time to pick it up. Opening her eyes again, she shook her head, feigning annoyance. “Go twenty.” She reached for his hand, lifted it to her mouth and pressed her lips against his knuckles. Turning her face to his, she opened her mouth to speak.

  “Let me guess,” he said, still teasing. “You love me. You’re grateful for me.”

  She nodded, pressing her mouth more firmly against him, and he laughed quietly. She had told herself earlier she would need to force herself to smile at him this morning. She had even practiced in the mirror a few times. But now her lips curved upward on their own as she realized she didn’t need one more hour in bed, one more kiss on the lips, one more hug. This—his skin against her lips, the light, flirtatious tone in his voice, his laughter—was as good a final moment as she could ever want.

  He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead, a hand firm around her jaw. “I hate to break up this nice moment,” he said, “but if I’m going to fit in twenty before it gets too hot . . .”

  “Go,” she said.

  He gave her one last smile and walked out the door.

  Tom had only been gone about a minute when the phone lit up. She didn’t have to look at the screen to know it would be Laks and her parents, calling to sing “Happy Birthday.” Mara’s mouth fell open in delight: What better birthday gift could she receive than a chance to hear the voices of her daughter, her parents? She lifted the receiver from the base, but before she pressed the button to answer, she thought of what she’d told herself a dozen times the day before—that a few seconds of her daughter’s giggling would loosen her resolve significantly. And her father’s low chuckle, her mother’s soft “Beti” would undo it completely.

  Mara stared at the phone in panic as the lights continued to flash. Another few seconds and it would go to voice mail. Finally, she pressed the button, raised the receiver and let the voices of the other three loves of her life sound in her ear.

  43.

  Scott

  “Would you rather get driven over by a monster truck, or . . .” Curtis pressed his lips together and thought about a sufficiently excruciating alternative. They were driving home from Monster Trucks, both exhausted from the long day. Curtis had spent the day vacillating from hysteria to depression, excited about being with Scott and seeing the trucks one minute, subdued about his mother the next. Now he was slouched in the backseat, looking half asleep, but Scott could almost hear the gears turning in the boy’s head as he asked question after question. It was as though Curtis didn’t want to squander one minute without trading words, now that the two of them were together again. Scott didn’t blame him.

  “Would you rather get driven over by a monster truck or . . .” Curtis tried again but he couldn’t seem to think clearly enough to finish.

  “I feel like I already have been,” Scott wanted to say.

  A few minutes passed in silence before the child spoke again. He was quieter this time and Scott had to turn the radio down to hear him. “I heard Bray talking at my mom’s funeral. To some of the guys from the team. He said he’s thinking about quitting school to stay with me. But then he won’t get drafted, I heard them say. So why can’t I live with you, and he stays in school, like we did this year? Why can’t I do that forever?”

  “It’s not that simple, Little Man.”

  “Why isn’t it?”

  Scott ground his teeth so hard he could hear the noise above the radio. He couldn’t throw his wife under the bus but he couldn’t stand not telling the boy how much he wanted him, how he’d fought to keep him. He made a fist with his right hand and brought it down hard on his knee. Self-flagellation for not knowing what to say at such an important moment. For not having won his wife over last night. The most important debate he’d ever been in, and he’d blown it.

  “You look mad,” Curtis said, his voice unsteady. “Are you mad I asked?”

  “I’m not mad. I’m sad.”

  “Because of me.”

  “Well . . . yes.”

  Curtis sighed. “I’m sad because of me, too. I kind of feel like I did get run over by a monster truck and now my guts are all spilled out.”

  Scott let out a noise, not quite a laugh, and considered whether he should tell the boy about telepathy. His eyes were stinging now, though, and he didn’t trust himself to say more than a few words. “I know the feeling, Little Man.”

  He reached a hand into the back and Curtis snapped forward in his seat with more energy than he’d displayed in the past few hours. He grabbed Scott’s hand in both of his and held it so tight it started to tingle a little. Scott told himself he deserved it.

  “You’re crying,” Curtis said. “I’ve never seen you cry.”

  “I am. And a lot of people haven’t. Most people.”

  Curtis let go of his hand then and fell against the seat once more. He leaned his head on the door and closed his eyes. He stayed that way for a few minutes and Scott was about to turn the radio up, having concluded the boy was asleep, when Curtis spoke again. “Would you rather be so sad you feel you just got run over by a monster truck, and like your guts are all spilled out, or . . . never have even met Bray or me? So that now you wouldn’t be so sad? And you could just be out jogging or shooting hoops or something right now and not even thinking sad things?”

  “Guts spilled out, Little Man. No-brainer.”

  “Me too.”

  Laurie was on her knees in the garden when Scott and Curtis pulled into the driveway. Scott eased out of the car slowly.

  She looked up from the bush she was trying to dig out. “You’re early!” She rose slowly, dropping her trowel at her feet, and hugged him, laughing when her belly kept them from getting too close. �
�We weren’t expecting you for another hour, at least!”

  “Why are you gardening? What happened to resting?”

  “Oh, I’ve only been doing this a minute. I was anxious for you to get home. Nervous energy. I had to find something to burn it off.”

  “Nervous energy?” he asked.

  “Hey, Curtis,” she said, “would you mind staying out here a minute?”

  The boy, who’d been bounding up the porch steps, did an about-face and jumped down to the front walk.

  “Maybe shoot some hoops for a few minutes?” she asked. “I’d like to talk to Scott. Alone.”

  “Sure.” The boy ran to the garage to get a ball and a few seconds later Scott heard the rubber thwang of dribbling from the other end of the driveway.

  “What’s up?”

  “I just wanted to . . .” she began. She wiped a dirty wrist across her forehead, leaving a trail of black earth. She held a hand out for inspection and made a face. “Actually, could you give me a few minutes? I’m a mess. Could I clean up, and then maybe we can sit on the porch for a minute, before Bray gets back? I sent him out on an errand.”

  “Sure. But I don’t want to argue again, Laur. I don’t see the point—”

  “Me neither,” she said. “Look, I’m a mess. Can we save this till I feel a little less grungy?”

  “Sure.”

  They walked up the steps together and he took a seat on the porch while she went inside. He heard her walk through to the kitchen, heard the faucet turn on. The sound of running water reminded his body that they hadn’t stopped for a restroom break since he’d filled with gas last and bought a large coffee. No sense being distracted during whatever it was Laurie wanted to talk about, he thought, opening the front door.

  The smell of paint hit him the second he stepped into the house. What the hell? He took another step and sniffed. The smell was coming from upstairs, he realized, and he took the stairs three at a time. He could hear a fan to his left, and he followed the sound into Curtis’s room.

  What used to be Curtis’s room; it was unrecognizable now. There was a crib where the twin bed had been, a pastel-colored rug in place of the city map. The low bookshelf was gone and in its place was a changing table. A new glider and ottoman sat in the corner—no more old rocker.

  What. The. Hell?

  A fan oscillated in the corner, drying walls that had been stripped of their Michigan basketball posters and Curtis’s toy hoop and were now painted a soft green. Sweet Fucking Pea. No jeans or hoodies lay in a heap on the floor of the closet. Instead, a shelving unit had been fitted inside and held stacks of neatly folded receiving blankets and infant clothes.

  He looked at the crib again. It wasn’t the unique, expensive, claw-footed one she had been so excited about but a plain, cheap-looking one they had seen in a million baby catalogs. She was so eager to get the room done she couldn’t even wait for the crib? Couldn’t wait till the kid was gone before doing all this?

  He held his arms rigidly at his sides and made tight fists with his hands. He felt his cheeks flame and his heart pounded in his chest, into his throat. How could she be so goddamn cold? Taking an angry step toward the doorway, he considered whether he should go back to the porch and wait for her or burst into the kitchen to confront her. He stomped into the hallway, the first step to either decision.

  And stopped, tilting his head. More fans, from across the hall, in the empty room they used as an office. What the . . . ? Maybe she used the rest of the Sweet Goddamn Pea in the other rooms, he thought. She had dedicated every fiber of her being to this baby—why not dedicate all the rooms in the house to it, too? He strode to the office, raised a foot and kicked the door hard. It swung open, banging loudly on the wall behind.

  Seconds later, Laurie appeared at the top of the stairs, soapy water running down her arms. “Scott? Everything okay? I heard a noise. Did you fall?”

  He turned to look at her, a thousand emotions in his expression.

  44.

  Mara

  Mara stepped into the garage, pushing the door behind her closed. For a few seconds, she allowed herself to lean back and let the door support her. The vodka bottle hung by its neck from one hand and she clutched a bag of sleeping pills in the other. Tears ran so fast down her cheeks she saw no point in trying to wipe them away anymore.

  “Okay,” she said, straightening. “No time for this.”

  She set the bottle and bag on the hood of her car and got to work. Behind some large bags of fertilizer, she had hidden four rolls of duct tape and a stack of towels she had bought months ago. Carefully, she taped over the outline of the door into the house, sealing it shut. She had read online that newer houses had good enough door seals, so there was no need to bother with this step—the carbon monoxide wouldn’t get into the house. But who would take the chance?

  All along, she had planned to leave the top of the door—she couldn’t reach it without a ladder, and taping the other three sides was already overkill. But looking at it now, she frowned. The untaped length of door was unsettling. It made her feel she was leaving something undone. She pulled the stepladder over and, holding her breath, climbed up, one hand holding four long strips of tape, the other pressed firmly against the door, holding her steady. She hadn’t been on a stepladder in over a year and it was more difficult than she would have thought. Her parents and Tom had been right to insist she not do it.

  Next, she pressed three towels along the bottom of the door into the house, ten more along the bottom of the garage door. Reaching behind the bags of fertilizer again, she extracted a garbage bag she had hidden there, and from inside she pulled out a length of soft plastic tubing. It had been easier to pull off the role of DIY home repairwoman than she would have thought possible—the guy at the hardware store simply asked her the length, cut it to size and handed it over along with a roll of tape, wishing her good luck.

  Now she taped one end carefully around the tailpipe of her car, fed the other end into a small crack in the rear driver’s-side window and taped it in place there. She had read about this online, too—modern engines didn’t create the same concentration of carbon monoxide as the old ones did. Ultimately, more than the tubing, it was essential to have the right number of pills. But this was not the time to do anything halfway.

  She reviewed her handiwork and nodded, satisfied, before moving toward the bottle and pills. With one hand on the bottle, she turned her head to consider Tom’s car, behind her. She had been faster at taping than she had accounted for, she told herself. She had a little extra time. She left the vodka, opened the passenger door of Tom’s sedan and lowered herself onto the seat.

  Running her hands over the beige leather, she inhaled deeply—Tom’s aftershave. She reached a tentative hand to the driver’s seat and ran her hand over it longingly, as though instead of cool leather, she could feel his warm body. She slid her hand around the sleek circumference of the steering wheel before dropping it to the gearshift, which she held softly, as though it were his hand.

  She ran her palm along the dashboard before opening the glove box and touching a fingertip to his car manual, the envelope that held his registration and insurance, and his CDs. She smiled. He refused to put one of those CD holders on his visor, but he couldn’t reach them in the glove box as he was driving, and it was never until he was on the highway that he remembered he had meant to take one out of its case, slide it into the player. For almost a year, he had listened to the same CD—Tom Petty, the one she had put into his player for him the day he brought the car home. She eased herself out and closed the door gently.

  Inside her own car, Mara set the vodka bottle on the passenger seat and emptied the bag of pills into the cup holder. She leaned against the seat and took a deep breath.

  Stale apple juice.

  Laks.

  She craned her neck toward the backseat. Her daughter’s booster was covered
in crumbs, and an hourglass-shaped juice box lay beside it, squeezed in the middle so every last drop could come out. There was a pink flip-flop wedged between the booster and the seat belt. Mara clutched a hand to her throat.

  As she considered the little sandal, it struck her that in Harry’s cab, with its smell of cologne, its shiny vinyl seats and spotless floor, it had been so easy to wrap herself in a shroud of her own pain and fears, her stringent rules about what she could and could not tolerate, what she could and could not allow her daughter, her husband, her parents, her friends to abide. She might not have been able to keep so focused with the faint odor of stale juice around her, the tiny fingerprints on the window. The flip-flop.

  She closed her eyes and heard Laks’s voice singing “Happy Birthday,” giggling as she finished the song with the “Are you one? Are you two?” chant her friends all sang at their parties, going up the numbers until they reached the age of the birthday boy or girl. When Laks reached twenty, Mara heard her parents whispering in the background, helping her get the numbers right. They were eating pancakes, Laks announced, and Mara could picture the sticky syrup on the girl’s cheek—and now, likely, on her parents’ phone.

  She thought about the honey she’d found behind Laks’s ear when she’d lain beside her the other night. She thought about the tufts of hair that stuck out on the side of the girl’s head, courtesy of Susan and her “fix” for the glue incident. She thought about the five big pushes Laks begged for on the swing every day, the new “spider guy” technique she’d mastered for climbing up the plastic slide. She thought about how they’d cuddled on the couch together yesterday, Laks gripping her mother’s arm tightly, nestling her bony bottom into Mara’s stomach, sighing contentedly like there was nothing she would rather do than watch TV with her mother.

  Mara drew in a sharp breath, pressing a thumb and finger against her eyelids.

  “Turn around,” she said. And she did, quickly, and just as quickly she reached for the bottle of vodka and took a long swallow. She pressed her head into her headrest, keeping her gaze fixed forward, out the windshield, and told herself this was why the universe had sent her Harry. She couldn’t have gotten through these last days in her own car, with this—her daughter, her life—all around her. She needed the safe cocoon of the taxi, away from everything and everyone she was leaving behind.