Five Days Left (28 page)

“And then you get this job at Franklin and bam, now you’re vapor around here, with time only for your students. And your former students, for that matter. I’ve always wanted my own family. You knew that when you married me. I haven’t changed. You’re the one who has.”

He considered that for a moment. “You’re right,” he said. “I have changed. It was easy to talk about a white picket fence and a house full of perfect children when we were in college, when we were kids who didn’t know anything, hadn’t seen anything. And even when we first got married and I was coaching at that cushy private school in Bloomfield Hills, where every kid had an overinvolved parent at every game, sometimes two. But then I went to Franklin. And yeah, I changed. Who wouldn’t?”

“Right,” she whispered. “Who wouldn’t? Only a heartless beast.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did.”

He stared at his shoes.

“Don’t do this to me,” she said, her voice a strained plea, her shoulders starting to shake with sobs. “I’m not a terrible, selfish person, no matter what you might think. This isn’t easy for me, saying I won’t take him, after everything. But I can’t let guilt make me do something I don’t want to do. Give up what I want. What I’ve always wanted. What you always wanted, too, until you decided you wanted something different. You can’t ask me to do that.”

“Is there really nothing . . . ?” he started, but the look on her face was his answer. He was stunned. But she was right that they had been through it before. All the yelling and tears and threats hadn’t gotten them on the same page then, and wouldn’t now. Plus, the topic of their discussion was sleeping only a few feet away, on the other side of the wall. The last thing he needed was to wake up and overhear all the reasons why he wasn’t wanted.

“Okay,” he said softly.

They stood a few feet apart, Laurie sobbing quietly, her face blotchy and red, Scott with his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels. He thought of holding his arms out to her, stepping toward her, but his body wouldn’t move. He opened his mouth a few times to speak, but nothing he believed right then would make things better between them.

After a while, her sobs slowed, then stopped, and he felt her watching him. “Say something,” she said.

His lips parted, then pressed together again. He raised his shoulders and twisted his mouth in apology.

“Scott,” she whispered again. “Please. Say something. Say you don’t hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” he said. “I could never hate you.”

He bit his lip and hoped she wouldn’t ask him to say he loved her.

Sunday, April
10

Mara

Tom stood at the kitchen counter, pouring coffee. “Happy birthday!” he said as she walked into the room.

“Thank you.” She slid her hands around his waist and pressed her cheek in the space between his shoulder blades. She breathed in, filling her lungs with the scent of him.

“Mmmm,” he said, turning to face her. “We need to send Laks to your parents’ more often. Last night was amazing. Not that the rest of the week hasn’t been the same. But last night was particularly—”

“I love you,” she said, hugging tighter. “And I’m so grateful for you. You’ve been such a rock, for me and for Laks. I haven’t told you often enough lately.”

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.

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.