The Burning Side(43)
LEO
July 14, 2022
THERE’S SOMETHING SO ELEMENTAL ABOUT my children in the bathtub with their round bellies and pruned fingers. They compare belly buttons. They make fishies swim. And I’m a fixture in the background to keep shampoo out of eyes, keep them from drowning, keep their little bodies safe from harm.
I bathe Otto, swiping a sudsy washcloth across the crevices in his neck. He giggles and tucks his chin. I ask if Sadie needs help, but she informs me that she can do it all by her own self.
Meanwhile, April is out on the town with her sister. April left the stove on. April was with another man. And yet, April is their mother—a court will favor her. Even if it doesn’t come to that, if she’s reasonable and we’re able to settle, I will still lose my children, because keeping half of something is losing it too.
I pull the drain, and the kids watch the vortex until it’s gone. I wrap them in towels. Sadie patters away to find her nightgown as I carry Otto to get a diaper. I zip his pajamas, careful not to pinch, before the kids run to say good night to their grandparents. Then I read Ferdinand and sing a few lullabies. They’re asleep by the time I leave the bedroom.
When April gets back from dinner, I’ll tell her that we need to talk. Start making decisions about how to move forward.
But this is easier said than done. It’s after eleven when the sisters tumble into the house, drunk. From my trusty spot on the couch, I hear them immediately.
I go to them and look at Josie, her pupils wide.
“Did you drive?”
She shakes her head, leaning against the wall. “Uber. I’ll get the car tomorrow.”
I look at April. “You don’t usually—”
“I don’t, usually.” She meets my gaze in challenge, and I realize this is no time to talk.
“Okay, then.” I sigh and turn toward bed. “Good night.”
“Is it?”
I groan inwardly and turn back around.
April walks into the front room, cornering me. “What makes it good?”
Josie makes a you’re on your own face behind her sister and escapes up the stairs, skipping the one that creaks.
April plops herself onto the couch and crosses her arms. “Name one good thing.”
“You should go to bed.”
“See? Nothing.”
“Fine, I rescind my ‘good night.’ Just go to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“I’ve heard that one before.”
“What?”
“It’s always later, never now.”
“Well, what is there to say?”
The skin beneath her collarbone is splotchy from the alcohol.
“That I don’t care about Cody!” She’s too loud. “We didn’t even have sex!”
I flinch, unable to block the memory of his hand in her jeans, the knowledge of every curve he was touching. I say quietly, “Marriage vows go beyond sex.”
“Oh, really? Like long talks?”
“What?”
“Long talks with Kim?”
My voice drops. “I’ve never done anything inappropriate with Kim. Are you trying to say talking to a friend is remotely the same as what you did?”
This seems to cut through the booze. Her arms fall from their crossed position, hands going limp in her lap. “No.” She shakes her head and says, almost to herself, “No, it’s not the same.”
“Mommy?” Sadie is suddenly behind me, blood dripping down her chin.
We dash to her, April sobering up.
In our daughter’s palm, a tooth. The first one she’s lost. Our relief is palpable, shock becoming pride. I give her a high five while April goes to grab ice from the kitchen.
Sadie rises onto her toes and back down, her tell of excitement. “Tooth Fairy time!” She gives me a big, overdramatic wink.
April and I argued about the tooth fairy tradition. She loved it as a kid, but I never experienced it, and I didn’t want to lie to our kids. So we told Sadie it’s a game of pretend but that we could play it all the same. She’s been waiting for this moment, more excited because she’s in on the secret. She has an empty mint tin waiting by the bed.
After getting cleaned up, she scampers back upstairs with her bedhead and bleary eyes, a tiny tooth cupped in her hand like a diamond. Back when she cut her first tooth, we celebrated with avocado, her first food. April took pictures and clapped, and Sadie gave us a wide, green, one-toothed smile. I wonder if this is the same tooth.
I frown. I don’t know when Otto cut his first tooth, I realize, or how many he has now.
April asks, “Do you have any quarters?”
I nod. “Yeah. I can do the trade once she’s asleep. I’ll add a little note.”
She hiccups. “Thanks.”
I run a hand down my face. “I can name two things.”
“What?”
“Two good things about tonight and every night: our children.”
“I—”
“No, listen.” I keep my voice quiet in case of more surprise visitors. “I know we had a fire, and I’m so sorry about everything with your dad, but I still want a divorce. And I want it in whatever way will hurt the kids the least.” I ask her, “Can we do that?”