Betsy picked up a limp Walsh and carried her into the bathroom with Addie close on her heels. Addie showed Betsy where she’d lined up their toothbrushes on the bathroom counter, then reminded her that they both had to use the potty before bed. Betsy brushed Walsh’s teeth as well as she could, then helped her sit on the toilet. The child barely woke up, her head drooping to one side, her thumb lodged in her mouth.
Back in the bedroom, Betsy folded down the blanket and laid Walsh on one side of the bed. Addie climbed up into the other. She nestled down in the bed and pulled the blanket up to her shoulders, her stuffed elephant under her chin.
“Are you going to be okay in here?” Betsy asked. At this point, she was fairly certain a hurricane wouldn’t wake Walsh, but Addie seemed almost too calm. “It must feel strange not to be in your own bed. If you need me, I’ll be right downstairs.”
“Where do you sleep?” Addie asked.
“In that room right across the hall.” She pointed to her closed bedroom door.
Addie nodded and turned onto her side, facing Walsh. When she closed her eyes, Betsy stood, not sure of the right thing to do. She turned off the lamp next to the bed.
“Don’t worry,” Addie said in the dark. “I’ll take care of Walsh.”
Betsy stood in the doorway a moment before she pulled the door closed behind her. Then she opened it back up a couple of inches. Wouldn’t hurt to let in a little light.
Betsy and Ty waited until they were in bed before they talked about the day. It was always like that—they might spend two hours together downstairs, looking for something to watch on TV or sitting on the back porch, but if they had something important to discuss, their unwritten rule was to wait until they were in bed before bringing it up. It was as if the darkness softened the hard edges, blurring any anger, frustration, or annoyance until it was easier to manage, easier to pull out into the open.
Betsy slipped between the cool sheets while Ty was still in the bathroom. The lights were off, but the moon was bright, and it filtered through the windows, the curtains casting thin shadows across the floor and bed.
“So, we’re parents for the next two weeks,” Ty said as he climbed into bed. “I always thought we’d be here, but not like this.” He stretched and yawned. “How are we supposed to know what to do? What if one of them gets sick? Or baths—how does that work?”
“We’ll figure it out. I do know a little bit about kids.” She smiled. “And you probably know more than you think.”
“I doubt that. My only experience with kids was the one time I babysat a neighbor’s nephew while she went to work. The kid jumped out his bedroom window and ran to a friend’s house four streets away while he was supposed to be napping.”
“You never told me that story.”
“Why would I? Doesn’t sound too good, having a kid escape on my watch.”
Shadows darted and danced across the ceiling as the fan swirled. Ty shifted his leg so it pressed against Betsy’s. She could feel his gaze on her cheek, but she didn’t turn her head.
“Maybe this is our chance to see if we have what it takes to be parents.” She gave a little laugh, but her throat felt funny. Too tight.
Ty rolled up onto his elbow, his face above hers. “I have no doubt—not even a hint of a doubt—that we have what it takes to be parents. We have buckets of it. Acres of it.” He kissed her, then lay back again. “Anyway, the thing about having kids is that they usually start out as babies. It’ll be a different ball game practicing with two kids raised by a single mother who works all the time. No telling what life is like for those three.”
Betsy rolled to her side and punched her pillow into shape beneath her cheek. She thought of Addie and her fierce protection of her little sister. “The girls are fine.”
Sometime during the night, Betsy awoke to an unfamiliar sniffling, then a small moan. It was quiet, muffled, but it was enough to bring her out of a dead sleep. She sat up in bed, flung the sheets away, and patted the bed until she found Ty’s arm.
“Ty? Ty! Someone’s—”
Then she remembered. They weren’t alone in the house.
“Which one is it?” he mumbled.
“Go back to sleep. I’ll check.”
She tiptoed across the hall, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. Walsh’s side of the bed was still and quiet, but as Betsy stood watching, unsure of what to do, another sniffle came from Addie’s side. She knelt next to the bed and patted the small lump under the covers until she reached Addie’s face, her damp cheeks. “Addie? What’s wrong, honey?”
“I had a bad dream. A scary one.”
“There’s nothing to be scared of,” she said, cringing as the words left her mouth. She had terrible night terrors as a child—much later than most kids had them. She still had them at nine, ten years old, old enough to remember the sheer terror and fear that accompanied those awful nights. Her parents always told her there was nothing to be scared of and that she should just go back to sleep, the worst words they could have said.
She tried again. “Tell me what scared you.”
“It was Mommy. She was leaving. She was driving away in a big school bus.”
“That must have been sad. But you know what? Your mommy isn’t in a big school bus, and she’s coming back very soon.”
“And she’ll bring me a treat?”
“That’s what she said, isn’t it? I bet she’ll find you something wonderful.”
Addie nodded, sniffled again. “Could you sleep with me? Just for a little bit?”
“I don’t know if I—”
“Please? I’ll be quiet and I won’t
