Chương 4
Daniel saw her expression.
“What?”
“My mother.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing useful.”
“That narrows it down.”
Despite herself, Sarah let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
Daniel looked startled.
Then ashamed.
She looked away first.
The ordinary reflex of finding him funny was still inside her. That seemed unfair.
By noon the living room had been cleaned without anyone consciously deciding to clean it. Sarah folded the throw blankets. Daniel moved unopened gifts closer to the tree. Leo carried the large package he had stood on back into place but turned the LEO tag facedown.
He changed into jeans and a green sweatshirt.
When Sarah asked whether he wanted his Christmas sweater, he said no.
She did not ask again.
Her parents arrived carrying a foil-covered casserole, two grocery bags, rolls, and the expression of people approaching a house where somebody had died.
“Normal,” Sarah whispered before opening the door. “Please.”
Her mother frowned.
“I know how to act normal.”
“You absolutely do not.”
Her father, behind her, said, “She does if you tell her what normal is.”
“Frank.”
“What?”
For one second, Sarah was fourteen.
Then the door opened wider and Leo appeared.
“Merry Christmas,” her mother said too brightly.
Leo hugged her.
Sarah watched her mother close her eyes over his shoulder.
Normal lasted forty-three seconds.
They had not even made it to the kitchen.
Leo pulled back and asked, “Did Mom tell you Dad’s leaving Tuesday?”
Her mother looked at Sarah.
Leo said, “Don’t look at her. I asked you.”
Sarah’s father coughed into his fist.
Daniel came from the living room.
Her mother touched Leo’s shoulder.
“Yes. She told me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“That wasn’t mine to tell.”
“You could’ve.”
“Leo,” Sarah said.
He turned.
“What?”
“Grandma didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I didn’t say she did.”
Her mother knelt slightly so she was closer to his height.
“I’m sorry you found out the way you did.”
Leo looked at her for a long time.
Then he asked, “Are the rolls the kind with butter on top?”
Her mother blinked.
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
He took the bag and carried it to the kitchen.
Sarah’s father watched him go.
“Well,” he said quietly. “That kid is mad.”
“Thank you, Dad.”
“I’m not criticizing him.”
Her mother rounded on Sarah.
“You said Sunday.”
“Mom.”
“You told us Sunday.”
“I know.”
“What happened?”
“He found the papers.”
Her mother put one hand over her mouth.
Her father muttered something under his breath.
Daniel stepped back.
Sarah saw the shame spread across his face and almost reached for him.
Almost.
Instead she took the casserole.
Lunch happened because people had to eat.
That was one of the insulting things about terrible days.
Bodies remained inconveniently ordinary.
Someone still had to preheat the oven.
The rolls still needed eight minutes.
Her father asked where the meat thermometer was. Daniel said the same drawer as last year. Her father said it was not. Daniel opened the drawer and found it under a package of birthday candles.
Leo ate mashed potatoes and no turkey.
Nobody mentioned divorce for twenty-three minutes.
Then Sarah’s father asked Daniel whether he had moved the rest of his tools from the garage.
Sarah closed her eyes.
Her mother kicked him under the table.
“What?” Frank said.
Leo put down his fork.
“What tools?”
Daniel wiped his mouth.
“Some things I’m taking to the apartment.”
“You already moved stuff?”
“A few things.”
“When?”
“Over the last couple weeks.”
“So every time you said you were going to the hardware store—”
“No.”
Daniel shook his head.
“Not every time.”
Leo looked offended by the distinction.
Sarah’s father stood.
“I’m getting more gravy.”
“There isn’t more gravy,” her mother said.
“I’m checking.”
He left anyway.
Leo pushed his chair back.
“Can I be done?”
Sarah said yes.
He took his plate to the sink.
Daniel watched him.
Her mother waited until Leo was upstairs before saying, “You two need to tell him everything he needs to know. Today.”
Sarah rubbed her forehead.
“We are.”
“No. You’re answering questions after he catches you.”
“Mom.”
“He thinks every adult in his family has been lying to him.”
“We were not lying.”
Her mother gave her a look.
Sarah hated that look because it was accurate.
Daniel said, “We were withholding.”
Frank returned from the kitchen.
“That’s lying with better vocabulary.”
“Dad.”
“What? He’s eight, not stupid.”
Daniel stared at the table.
Sarah’s mother softened.
“What does he know about why?”
“Nothing,” Sarah said.
“That’s probably enough for today.”
Daniel looked at her sharply.
“We can’t give him details.”
“I didn’t say details. But don’t make it sound like this happened because the universe mailed you divorce papers.”
Sarah’s cheeks warmed.
Her mother had never approved of how long Sarah waited.
Not to divorce.
To admit there was something serious enough to require a decision.
For most of the previous year, Sarah had treated the marriage like a smoke detector that would stop beeping if she ignored it long enough.
Daniel worked too much.
She became colder.
He lied about small things to avoid arguments.
She inspected small things because he lied.
They stopped touching.
He slept in the guest room after an argument in March and never fully moved back.
In May, he began seeing a counselor alone.
In June, Sarah found messages on his phone from a woman named Elise who worked in another division of his company.
The messages were not sexual.
That somehow made them worse.
He told Elise when he was scared.
He told her when Sarah would not speak to him.
He told her about the panic attack he had in a hotel bathroom during a sales conference.
He told her he sometimes sat in his car outside the house for ten minutes because he did not know which version of himself was supposed to walk inside.
May you like
He had not told Sarah any of those things.
When she confronted him, he insisted he had not had an affair.
