But Ava always cut him slack, something she was apparently never prepared to do for Frances. Any tiny error, any thoughtless word, and Ava would be all over Frances like white on rice. He could see how much it stressed Frances out, but then he could also see how her stress made it worse, how caring about Ava too much was preventing her from letting that shit wash over her.
He went over and sat on the bed next to her, stroking the dogs’ heads and reaching for Frances’s hand. “Honey, you just need to back off a bit.”
“I try!” Frances pulled her hand away. “It doesn’t matter what I do, I get into trouble every time we speak. It’s like walking blindfolded through a field of, I don’t know, exploding things in the ground.”
Michael frowned. “A minefield?”
There was a pause. “Yes, a minefield. Jesus, it doesn’t help that I’m clearly developing a brain tumor the size of a fucking tangerine.” She rested her head on her husband’s chest, over the head of Diane, who stuck her nose up and tried to lick their chins. “You’d be much better at this than I am, so maybe that would be for the best.”
Michael hugged her. “Look, I get to be the guest star, the occasional cameo appearance. And, unlike on old episodes of Columbo, I don’t always have to be the bad guy.”
“I miss Columbo.”
“I’m sure they have it on Netflix.”
“What if it isn’t as good as I remember it?”
“Few things are.”
“I love you.”
He grinned above her head. “I know.”
• • •
Anne was in the bathroom, washing her face, the grains dissolving as they always did. Charlie was sitting in the bedroom watching Theo and Kate playing some game or other on the iPad. Anne could tell from Kate’s tone of voice that things were about ten minutes away from going supercritical. She’d take eight of those minutes to finish in the bathroom and then walk out and pull the irons out of the fire just in time. What a heroine she was. She made a face at herself in the mirror and heard Theo’s voice in the other room say, “Who’s Richard?”
She clutched the side of the sink and her hand slipped in the water she was washing her face with. Lurching forward she almost cracked her head on the mirror. Her blood turned to ice, a phrase she’d never understood until that very second, and she heard Charlie say, “No idea, is it something in the game?” He didn’t sound all that interested.
Theo sounded puzzled. “No, he just texted me.”
Please, God.
“What did he say?”
“‘Are you there?’”
“That’s all he said? Is that my iPad or Mommy’s?”
“I don’t know.”
No, really, please, God.
Charlie sighed. “Show me.”
Anne looked at her reflection and listened to the last seconds of her old life ticking away. She looked so old stooping over the sink, her ratty kitten pajamas—a Mother’s Day gift from the kids—a little damp on the front, her quivering arms barely holding her up. She looked like a dog about to vomit, hunched, fearful. No one will ever know.
Charlie’s voice again. “It’s Mommy’s iPad . . .” He raised his voice. “Hey, Anne, did you know you’re getting texts on the iPad? Does that mean you’re not getting them on your phone?”
She could speak. “No idea, babe.” She sounded totally normal. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know, some guy named Richard?”
“Huh . . . I don’t know anyone called Richard. Maybe it’s a wrong number.” My voice couldn’t sound more innocent and disinterested.
“Can I have it back, Dad?”
There was a tiny pause, and Anne could almost see the small frown on Charlie’s face, followed by the usual microshrug and casting aside of worry. It was his way. She loved him for it, ironically enough.
“Sure, here you go.” Another pause. “Nearly time for bed, though, OK?”
Anne rested her forehead against the mirror in the bathroom and willed herself not to smash it there, killing the selfish monster who threatened her family.
Instead she reached for her dressing gown and walked out to lie to their faces.
Twelve.
Wednesday morning at five o’clock as the day begins . . .
Frances had a Beatles song stuck in her head and sang it under her breath as she blundered into the bathroom, everyone else still sleeping. The dogs followed her, wondering if this morning they would get fed in the bathroom; it paid to keep an open mind.
She looked at herself in the mirror, naked and sheet-marked. Not too bad, she thought, turning. Yeah, OK, there were definitely thirty extra pounds, but first thing in the morning it all tended to hold together, and not . . . fold so much. By the end of the day, having been squeezed into jeans and a bra and sitting and standing and driving, she looked like a transit map, lines intersecting pinkly in hubs and spokes. She’d been very slender as a young woman, and clearly remembered looking at herself in a mirror at the age of twenty-four, not an ounce of fat, not a hint that gravity operated on her the same as everyone else, and pledging that if she ever saw even the first hint of cellulite she wouldn’t ignore it, but would work that shit off right
