I push past her, desperate to fill my lungs with cool air. It’s not until I am across the street, inside my own house, with the door shut and locked, that I remember what Leah said in the kitchen that’s been bugging me.
She told me she had been discreet when she’d talked to Daisy—that she did not share that Rob had told me to stay off Tinder.
But I’m sure that I never mentioned anything about Tinder to Leah.
15
“A-B-C-D-E-F-G, gummy bears are chasing me,” Cole sings as he moves his toothbrush to the other side of his mouth. To my chagrin, Cole is not only wide awake when I return from book club, he’s taken every single item of clothing he owns and strewn them around his room.
But I’m too jittery to clean. All I can think about is what happened at Leah’s. The way the women reacted to the news reminded me of watching a cigarette that’s tossed into the woods and ignites a raging wildfire.
And the embarrassing way I ran out of there.
Mark is prone in front of the TV downstairs, an inning away from unconsciousness. If I had known that, while I was at book club, he would plant himself on the couch while Cole destroyed the upstairs, I might not have gone. And he wonders why I don’t want another child.
“One is red, one is blue, one is peeing on my shoe.”
“Keep brushing,” I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. I don’t want to take out my irritation with Mark on Cole. “Not just singing.”
Cole spits into the sink and then attacks his bottom teeth with gusto. The dentist told Cole that he needed to brush for the entirety of the ABC song, or “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”
“Now I’m running for my life, ’cause the green one has a knife.”
Cole spits again.
“Very good.” I hand him a towel to wipe his mouth. Volcanic impatience is bubbling just under the surface of my skin, ready to erupt. But I can’t let it show. Cole is like a wild animal this way; if he sniffs out my desire to leave, it will trigger an intense clinginess in him. If I want a drama-free exit, I will need to be super affectionate, so that it is he who pushes me away. It’s a lot like dating, I realize.
An image of that photo and all those comments on the Eastbrook Facebook page spring to mind, and I cringe. The whole neighborhood is talking about it. How long can what happened to me stay a secret?
But more than that, my image is now forever linked to a murder. The internet never forgets.
“Mommy, you be the mommy ocelot, and I’ll be the baby ocelot.”
“Great idea.” I wince at my own sarcasm and take a deep breath. “Now let’s get our jammers on.” Hands on his bony little shoulders, I guide Cole out of the bathroom and toward the bedroom.
The whole evening has left me unmoored. I know that Leah and Daisy do care about me, but I feel so exposed, naked even. I hope Mark is still awake, because we need to talk. And not just about his not putting Cole to bed. All of this has unearthed long-ago feelings I thought I had cordoned off in my heart. Memories and experiences that I hoped I had moved on from and that I would never have to revisit.
There have been moments over the years when I was tempted to tell Mark about what happened in high school, but I never had the guts. Right after we moved from San Francisco to Chicago, I bumped into someone from back home at a farmers’ market, someone who was at Overton the same time I was. My body was swollen with Cole—not just my belly but my ankles, even my face. I was only days from giving birth, although I didn’t know that at the time. But that’s why I did not turn and run. That evening, I almost told Mark about what happened at Overton. When I hesitated, he told me, “I don’t care about your past; it’s your future that I’m interested in.”
At the time, it seemed like the most romantic thing anyone could say to me.
Cole climbs onto his bed, where I am sitting. At first, I cannot believe what I am seeing, but my son is wearing a T-shirt with the word Overton splayed across the chest.
Seeing the name of the school is a slap across my face. Bracing, accusatory. It’s the mocking laugh of the other girls, the snide smiles of the boys. It’s everything I’ve run away from.
“Cole, where did you get that?” My voice trembles.
“I found it.”
“Take it off.” I begin yanking his arms through the sleeves.
“Why? I like it!”
“Where did you get this? It’s not ours.” I struggle to sound even-keeled, even though inside my thoughts are swirling. Someone’s been here. In my house.
“I found it in the laundry.”
“Cole, tell the truth, where did you get this?”
Tears spring to his eyes. “I am telling the truth! You never believe me!” he wails.
“Okay, okay, honey. I believe you.” He collapses, sobbing, onto my shoulder. There has to be a reasonable explanation. Maybe Mark bought it. Maybe it came in the mail, and he didn’t tell me. Maybe the school mails these out to alumni.
I am itching to get downstairs and ask Mark, but first things first.
“How about bumblebee pajamas?” I ask. “You haven’t worn those in a while.”
Cole nods, eyes downcast. Once he’s changed, I snuggle beside him in bed and read There’s a Nightmare in My Closet. Cole recites the words from memory. Then we read Pinkalicious, twice, my legs twitching the whole time. When we’re done, I kiss Cole on the forehead, kiss Giraffe on his neck, and start to stand up.
“Scratchy my backy,” Cole says.
I lie down beside my son, tracing my fingers back and forth between the little boy’s shoulder blades a little too fast. I do it because this is
