Chương 3
The first time she saw it had been in a rental office when they were twenty-four and discovered the apartment they could afford did not allow dogs. They had not owned a dog then. Daniel had simply been offended by the policy.
She had laughed and kissed the back of his neck.
It was strange what a marriage stored.
Thousands of useless details.
A person could forget the words of a wedding toast but remember how their spouse peeled the paper label from a beer bottle when anxious.
Sarah pressed her fingers against her eyes.
Upstairs, a floorboard creaked.
Daniel turned off the faucet.
“I’m going to sit outside his door.”
“He said—”
“I won’t go in.”
Sarah did not stop him.
He climbed the stairs slowly.
She remained downstairs because somebody had to remain somewhere.
That was an absurd thought, but it kept her seated.
At nine fourteen, Daniel sat on the hallway floor outside Leo’s bedroom.
At nine sixteen, Sarah reheated her coffee.
At nine twenty-three, Daniel texted her from upstairs.
He won’t talk.
She wrote back:
Give him time.
Daniel replied:
We don’t have time.
Sarah stared at the message.
Four days until the move.
Years before the divorce would feel ordinary, if it ever did.
A lifetime before Leo stopped remembering this morning whenever someone said Christmas.
She typed:
We do now.
Then deleted it.
At nine thirty, she went upstairs.
Daniel sat with his back against the wall, knees bent. He had brought the divorce papers with him and placed them face down beside his leg.
“Why did you bring those?” she whispered.
“I don’t know.”
“Take them downstairs.”
“I didn’t want to leave them there.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, Sarah.”
The bedroom door opened.
Both of them looked up.
Leo stood barefoot now.
His blue socks were balled in one hand.
“I’m hungry,” he said.
Sarah got to her feet.
“What do you want?”
“Toast.”
“I can make French toast.”
“Just toast.”
Daniel stood too.
“I can make it.”
Leo looked at him.
“Mom can.”
Daniel’s face barely changed.
Sarah saw it anyway.
“Okay,” Daniel said.
Leo walked downstairs beside her.
He did not take her hand.
He usually did on the stairs when sleepy.
In the kitchen, Sarah put two slices of bread into the toaster and waited.
Leo climbed onto a stool.
The dog settled under him.
Neither spoke.
The toaster clicked.
Leo jumped.
Sarah pretended not to notice.
She buttered the bread and put it on a plate.
“Cut?”
“Yeah.”
“Triangles?”
He nodded.
She cut each piece diagonally.
For three years Leo had insisted sandwiches tasted better as triangles. When Daniel asked why, Leo had explained, with the exhausted patience of someone speaking to a slow adult, that corners were where the flavor went.
Sarah put the plate in front of him.
Leo took one bite.
Daniel entered but stayed by the doorway.
“Do I have a room there?” Leo asked.
Daniel nodded.
“Yes.”
“What color?”
“What?”
“The room.”
“Oh. Blue. Well, mostly. The landlord painted it blue.”
“Did you pick it?”
“No.”
“Do I have a bed?”
“Yes.”
“My bed?”
“No. Your bed stays here. There’s another one.”
“So I have two beds.”
Daniel swallowed.
“Yeah.”
Leo took another bite.
“Two toothbrushes?”
“We can get you another one.”
“I don’t want another one.”
“That’s okay.”
“What if I forget my school shoes?”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“What if my homework is here?”
“We’ll figure that out too.”
“What if I wake up and want Mom?”
Daniel was silent.
Sarah leaned against the counter.
Leo looked at him.
“What happens?”
Daniel pulled out the stool across from him.
“I call her.”
“What if she’s asleep?”
“I wake her up.”
Sarah looked at Daniel.
He did not look back.
“What if I want to come home?”
Daniel’s mouth tightened.
“We talk about it.”
“That means no.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It means maybe.”
“It means I’m not going to lie and promise something when we haven’t worked out every detail yet.”
Leo stared at his toast.
That was the first useful thing either of them had said.
Sarah saw it in the slight release of his shoulders.
Daniel saw it too.
He continued.
“You’re right to ask. We should know these things before we ask you to sleep there.”
Leo broke a corner from his toast.
“Why don’t you?”
Daniel opened his mouth.
Sarah answered.
“Because we thought we had more time.”
Leo looked at her.
“You did.”
She did not defend herself.
“Yes.”
He ate quietly.
At ten eleven, Sarah’s mother texted asking whether they should still arrive at noon.
Sarah had forgotten Christmas dinner.
She showed Daniel the phone.
His expression said no.
Leo was rinsing his plate.
“Grandma coming?” he asked.
Sarah hesitated.
“Yes, if you want.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“No reason.”
He dried his hands.
“Do they know?”
Sarah did not answer fast enough.
Leo stared at her.
“They know.”
“Your grandparents know we’ve been having problems.”
“Do they know about the divorce?”
“Yes.”
“Does everybody know except me?”
“No.”
“Who knows?”
Sarah could feel Daniel watching her.
“My mom and dad. Aunt Rachel. Your dad’s mom.”
Leo blinked.
“Grandma June knows?”
“Yes.”
He looked at Daniel.
“When did she know?”
“About two weeks ago.”
Leo made a small sound in his throat.
Daniel stood.
“Leo, we were trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
“From having this hanging over Christmas.”
Leo’s face turned red.
“It was hanging over Christmas.”
Neither parent spoke.
Leo wiped his damp hands on his pajama shirt.
“You just didn’t tell me it was there.”
He walked out of the kitchen.
Daniel lowered his head.
Sarah’s phone buzzed again.
Her mother:
Need me to bring rolls?
Sarah almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because her mother had always been able to reduce catastrophe to carbohydrates.
She typed:
Yes.
Then:
Leo knows.
Three dots appeared instantly.
Her mother called.
Sarah declined the call.
A second later:
May you like
Oh honey.
Sarah hated the phrase so much she nearly threw the phone.
