But even as much as I tried to convince myself that I was just doing what had to be done, a part of me couldn't help being just a little bit relieved. It was an excuse to dodge Zara's questions she posed with those wide, confused green eyes whenever she caught me. I didn't know how to explain why Michael wasn't in our lives anymore. I didn't want to explain.
I wanted to earn money to support my daughter and run myself so ragged that I couldn't even think of him if I wanted. I was getting pretty darn close. In the few hours I could catch here and there to slip into bed, I rarely slept. I would just stare blankly up at the dark ceiling and wait for the alarm to go off. Then I'd get dressed, do my best to cover the puffy bags beneath my eyes, force myself to eat, and hurry off when I heard Zara stirring in her bedroom.
I pulled into the apartment complex just after 10:30 p.m. and rested my forehead against the steering wheel after turning off the engine. This was the kind of exhaustion where your bones hurt. The kind of exhaustion where the world spins and you're not even sure which way it's spinning. This was the kind of exhaustion where you don't even realise you've closed your eyes till your head falls forward and you jerk awake.
My body was at its limit and yet my heart seemed to show no signs of wearing out. Each time I forgot to forget and Michael sneaked into my head, the pain was as fresh and sharp and vivid as the moment I found that note in that motel room. My whole body was fuzzy with lack of sleep, but not my heart. My heart could still feel everything, goddamn everything.
With a tired, sad, self-pitying moan, I pulled myself out of my car and dragged myself up the stairs to my apartment. I fumbled with my keys, most of my coordination long gone. I thought maybe tonight would be the night I finally got some sleep. I surely couldn't go on not sleeping forever.
Feeling almost drunk from exhaustion, it took me a few seconds more than it should have to realise that the apartment was not dark like it should have been. A light from the kitchen stretched across the messy living room floor where I'd flung dirty clothes I'd lost the will to drag to the laundry room to clean. With a slight frown of confusion I set down my purse and tiptoed past the couch.
"Zara," I said in surprise when I found my daughter sitting at the table in the kitchen. "Zara, what are you doing? It's way past your bedtime."
I moved to close her books and shoo her quickly off to bed, but she placed her hand flat over her notebook so I couldn't move it.
"I was just finishing up some homework I hadn't done," she said while turning her head to look up at me.
In embarrassment, I untucked a strand of hair to block my face from her and pretended to busy myself with the stack of dishes from countless peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and boxed mac and cheeses we'd been surviving on over the past few weeks. I didn't want Zara to see me like this: tired bags and greasy hair and eyes jittery from my frazzled nerves. I was barely holding on, but I wanted, needed, Zara to keep thinking that everything was fine. I needed to be strong for her, or at least strong enough to make her believe that.
"You're finishing homework?" I asked over the water from the faucet.
I glanced quickly over my shoulder and Zara nodded while biting her bottom lip. "Emhmm."
I knew right away that this was a lie. Zara never put off homework. Usually, I had to fight for just a kiss and a hello before she dove excitedly into her books and papers and assignments. I was certain that all her homework had been finished for hours. My brain was slow and groggy, but it was steadily piecing things together. This all meant that Zara's lie was just a pretext to stay up late until I got home, which meant…
"Zara, baby, I need you to go to bed," I said, my voice tight with fear. "You can finish whatever it is in the morning."
I scrubbed at a sticky yellow-orange stain so roughly, I thought I might break the plate in half. I waited for the sound of Zara's chair pushing away from the table and heard none. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to keep control of my emotions, which felt more like trying to keep control of a bucking bull.
"Z, honey, did you hear me?" I said.
My frayed edges were coming undone and there was nothing I could do to stop them. I raked at the plate with the scrubber even after the stain was gone. The muscles along my arm were tensed and I could see the whites of my knuckles.
"Zara, go to bed," I repeated.
It was a plea, a beg, a prayer. It was a last-ditch falling on my knees for pity, just a
