The Burning Side(82)
From a ways off, I can see two boys bundled in puffy coats and kicking a soccer ball into a little goal. I pull toward the curb, my car’s visible exhaust a sign of the season. The house has been painted white, and I can’t say I care for it. But even in winter I can tell that the flower beds are well tended, and the windows have gotten a much-needed upgrade. There’s a yard sign with the name of the neighborhood school. One of the boys kicks the ball past his brother into the net, and he throws both fists into the air. Familiar holiday decorations line the street: the Garcias’ giant snowman, the Millers’ reindeer, and the Robinsons’ nativity scene.
The porch light comes on, and the front door opens. Their mother is calling them inside. Through my car windows, I can hear their complaints. Aw man, I was just about to beat him! The boys drag themselves into the house. A few seconds later, the littlest scampers back out to collect the soccer ball, and then the yard goes still with twilight. I stare, mesmerized. My own children are all over that yard, this street. I miss it. But we can only return to a place, not a time.
I look over my shoulder at a back seat exploding with Christmas gifts, and I turn to look at the house again. I imagine what the family might be doing inside, that third stair from the bottom with its slight creak. Then I imagine my own children currently in their respective homes with their respective evening routines, all of them suddenly so adult. I think of Billy taking off his Brooks sneakers and probably eating too much beef jerky in my absence.
I shift the car into drive, ready to go home.
* * *
The lights are off in our unit, and it’s fully dark now.
I frown. “Hello?”
I hear a shuffle in the hallway and follow the sound, flipping on lights.
“Billy?”
When I round the corner, my husband is cowering beside the coat closet.
I first register his expression—unfamiliar, twisted in shame and anger.
He is trembling.
I then register his pants—one leg its normal khaki color and the other a darker shade of brown. Around his feet, a puddle of urine.
I drop my bags and rush to him. It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re okay.
I take him gently by the waist and guide him to the bathroom.
“Sorry”—he fumbles for words—“I couldn’t—”
It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re okay.
When he is cleaned up and settled on the couch with some chamomile tea, I mop the floor by the coat closet. Put away my shopping bags. And then I go into the bathroom and lock the door.
I grip the marble counter and meet my own gaze in the mirror, leveling with myself, just as I did the night I lost my mother, then later my father. Just as I did when I got pregnant with April, when I got married, and when—several years later—I realized that I might actually love my husband, that I might be okay.
It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re okay.
My face has changed, time gathered in its creases, yet I still feel like a young girl.
I draw in some air and consider our dinner options: white chicken chili, broccoli rice casserole, or maybe a pasta with an arugula salad.
When I return to the living room, Billy is waiting, aware. He apologizes again. He’s wearing a gray fleece pullover, and he gestures for me to sit with him.
I go to the couch and duck under his arm.
Knowing me, he suggests tenderly, “We should just do a microwave meal.”
“Hm,” I say, and not without judgment. But we do have some Lean Cuisines.
His arm is soft and strong, and his voice is pained.
So I agree to a microwave dinner, and I let myself sit.
* * *
On the drive to Cameron and Rachel’s house a few days later, I turn on Rosetta Stone.
Beside me, Billy asks for the second time, “Do you actually know what she’s saying?”
“I’m learning.”
“Oh, that’s so hard. Why would you do that?”
“For Leo.”
“But Leo speaks English.”
“He also speaks Spanish.”
“No kidding.”
“His parents are Mexican, and we’re actually going to see his dad tonight.”
“In Mexico?”
Billy’s sincerity gives me a good chuckle. Even when his questions cycle, there’s always something new to keep me on my toes. “No, just at Cameron and Rachel’s house.” I pause the language lesson.
“You mean Cameron and April’s house?”
“No, Rachel is Cameron’s wife.”
“Oh, Cameron got married! That’s wonderful.”
“Mm.”
Billy is wearing his Christmas tree tie, and I’m in my shimmery red sweater. We repeat a version of this conversation once more before we arrive.
At the house, everyone sheds coats and offers up our usual holiday fare: every kind of tamale, from pork to beef to pumpkin to cinnamon raisin apple. Josie helps Rachel in the kitchen while Sadie runs around playing something akin to “Jingle Bells” on a recorder despite Bing Crosby being on in the background.
In an armchair, April is folded into Leo. When they told us they weren’t going through with the divorce, Billy made a joke about rekindled flames. I would have elbowed him had I not been celebrating his memory.