The Burning Side(29)

“I should have thought about the fire before the fire even happened?”

“No.” His face takes on a look of pain and contempt. Of something like threat. “You should have thought about the kids.”

Cold fear slices through me, and my eyes sting. Leo could spin this. To himself, to me, to a family court judge. He could try to build a case that I’m not fit. Would he do that? Take this to court? Hurt me however he possibly can?

I cross my arms. “I said I was sorry.”

“And it fixed everything,” he scoffs.

With that bitter note, he leaves the kitchen.

A terrible thought chooses right now to intrude: I wish I were Dad, forgetting this.

Except I don’t wish that at all, but as quickly as the thought arrives, it multiplies into new fears: that I am Dad, or will be. I haven’t asked Mom yet about the potential of inheritance, but I know it’s there.

I exhale sharply and clean up the deck of cards. I put away Dad’s new hammers and the bag of tortilla chips. Another endless day, one crisis distracting from another. I check my phone, closing the map to Jed’s Hardware and opening a text from Josie. LANDED IN CHI-TOWN BUT JUST SAY THE WORD IF YOU NEED ME, APE.

I whisper, “I need you.” But I press the thumbs-up reaction and close the text.

Then I notice a missed text from earlier. Leo sent a picture of Sadie with a toothpaste-foam smile. SHOW THIS TO YOUR OLD MAN FOR ME. FLOSS AND A TIMER!

I sigh. You can’t just say some words in my family’s language…

I tap over to my inbox and swipe away a few spam emails. Then I notice one from David Marquez, Esquire. I click it open and fill with heat. It’s an estimate, with a request for the name of my counsel. Leo called a lawyer? While I was out searching for a missing father? And he decided not to mention this when I attempted to apologize. He wants to do this through attorneys and paperwork, all while we’re living at my parents’ house.

I lower my phone, shocked that this is how it’s ending.

That a few little sparks have spread far enough to burn this whole thing down.





LEO


2020

THEY TELL US NOT TO go to the school, but I’m going anyway. April says it’s reckless. But if I have to teach over Zoom, I want my materials—this closure could last weeks. April cites our daughter; I cite my students. She shakes her head and says, “I don’t know.”

I ignore her concern, grab my keys, and tie on a bandana. We don’t have masks yet. When I saw someone last month with an N95, I had no clue what it was. I thought they had a medical condition. Turns out they didn’t, but the whole world might. It’s the mights that make this scary. I might get too close to someone. I might contract a deadly virus by going to grab some binders and McGraw-Hill textbooks. When I think of it like that, I might be an idiot.

The roads are deserted. Shops and restaurants are shuttered. Leaving my house seems like an apocalyptic trespass. But the early spring weather is defiantly beautiful. The air is filled with sickness while the roadsides are filled with wildflowers.

I admit I feel a sense of mission. Some of my students will barely survive quarantine. Some don’t have food. Some don’t have parents. I need to give them stories of survivors—there have been pandemics before, they need to know that. They need to know what happened in the past so they can see a future beyond this.

When I arrive, the whole school is dark. As I walk to my classroom, there’s a clatter and I whip around. Someone else is in the building, so I step back instinctively. What if they’re sick? What if I am?

I squint down the long hallway and see Kim. She is wearing a mask and holding a stack of government books. I’m not the only rebel teacher.

Not wanting to yell down the long hall, I pull out my phone. I WON’T TELL IF YOU WON’T.

DEAL.

She adds, STAY SAFE.

YOU TOO.

A sadness gurgles in my chest, the distance between us like a premonition.

In my classroom, I find what I need and take a final look around. There’s an old food wrapper on one of the desks. A book across the room with its spine falling off. But I shouldn’t touch anything else, so I grab the bare minimum and abandon my classroom, having already risked enough.

When I pull back up to our house, April and Sadie are outside, and I take in the scene. Some people are locked down alone, yet here we are with each other and acres of open, verdant land. With our rosy-cheeked daughter, who is still young enough to smile just because someone looks at her.

I walk straight over to April as she pushes Sadie in her red plastic swing.

“I shouldn’t have gone. I’m sorry.”

She frowns at the possibly contaminated binders in my arms.

“I already used Lysol wipes.” I shift the binders. “God, I love you. Sorry I don’t show it better.”

She sighs. “I love you too.” She looks down the driveway toward the world beyond our four acres. “But I hate this.”

“I know.”

Except I don’t know. It’s not until the weeks gather into months that I understand just how much April hates this. She feels alone and purposeless. She misses her parents. Her past.

Life becomes a list of befores and afters. Before, she was thinking about going back to work. We were going to Lexington Avenue for regular family dinners. Our problems were trivial. After, I exist inside my closet, where I jury-rig a desk. Where I watch pixelated students slump into truancy. Frozen screens and muted mouths. Glitches and troubleshooting.