“Not now,” he repeats. “It can wait. You need to get some sleep.”
I exhale, nod, knowing that there’s no point in trying to convince him. It is two in the morning, after all—most people would be asleep at this hour.
Most people.
“Okay,” I say, my eyes stinging at the thought of waiting until morning—later in the morning, I mean—to finally find some answers. “Okay, sounds good. I’ll sleep.”
Waylon smiles, oblivious to the fact that once he leaves, once the door shuts behind him, nothing will change.
I’ll still be here, awake, only without him, I’ll be alone.
“Well, good night,” he says, turning around and flipping off the light.
I shut the door quickly and listen as Waylon retreats into his own room—then I hear the gentle click of the lock and realize: I don’t think I’ve ever heard him lock the door before. I wonder if it’s because of me. If it’s because he’s afraid of me—afraid of being alone with me in the dark—the way my own mother was.
I make my way back to bed and crawl beneath the covers, glancing at my laptop and pulling it toward me. I tap at the keyboard until it comes back to life, and there I am, just as I had left it: there’s me, standing in Mason’s nursery, the video on Pause. I stare at the frozen image on the screen, my body moving through some kind of mindless rhythm, like a wind-up doll walking on its own, and I wonder: If I was going into Mason’s nursery like this, night after night, I suppose it’s possible I was going outside, too.
I try to imagine myself walking down the hall, passing his nursery, and opening the front door instead, roaming the streets of my neighborhood, like some kind of restless spirit walking a familiar, comforting path. I think of those footprints on my carpet again; the fact that I had done that exact thing before—but even if that’s the case, there’s no way I would have brought Mason with me. I’ve seen myself enough times on these videos to know: I’ve never touched him. I’ve never even gotten closer than mid-room. That man must be confused. He must be lying to me, playing with me, trying to make me believe something that just isn’t true.
I hit Play again, resuming the video, watching as my body continues to sway like laundry on a clothing line being pushed by the wind. I observe the way Mason kicks his little feet in his sleep, the entire screen glowing in a strange, night-vision gray, making me look like I’m an animal in the dark, wandering into some kind of trap. Finally, I see my legs move: a step, and then another. I wait for myself to turn around, to walk back toward the door, but instead of walking out the way I came, I start to walk closer. Closer to Mason.
I lean forward, the light from the laptop making my eyes burn. I watch as my body approaches his crib and stands, silently, above him, peering down—then as I lean forward, my arms outstretched.
No, I think, unable to look away, unable to move, as my unconscious body picks up my son, his little feet kicking in the air as I hoist him up, bring him close. Hold him tight against my chest.
I slap my laptop shut, too afraid to see what comes next.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
A month after Allison’s memorial, I left my job at The Grit.
Ben found a way, just like he promised, and it involved me going freelance. I would continue writing for them on a project-by-project basis, then when we went public with our relationship, it wouldn’t look as bad. It wouldn’t look like a boss and his employee; it wouldn’t have started when Allison was still alive.
We had connected afterward, of course. After Allison was dead. After I was already gone.
Our wedding was small, intimate. It didn’t feel right to Ben to have a grand reception, and I tended to agree. It was his second marriage, after all, less than a year after Allison’s death. And besides, I didn’t have many people I wanted to invite.
To be honest, I didn’t have anyone at all.
We exchanged vows in Chippewa Square, the cobblestones providing a makeshift aisle, our altar an archway of sweeping trees. I wore white, a simple summer dress, and remember grinning widely every time a random passerby would whistle as they caught a glimpse. After so many months of secrecy—of trying to ignore each other at the office; of being out in public together, but not really together—it felt good for the world to acknowledge us.
To acknowledge me.
After the ceremony, we went to dinner, just Ben and me. We ate pasta and drank two bottles of rosé, laughing and beaming and utterly giddy at the thought of spending the rest of our lives together. We had moved into our house just a few days earlier, but the furniture hadn’t been delivered yet, so we spent our wedding night in an improvised bed made of blankets and throw pillows laid out across the living room floor. I remember the mismatched candle collection flickering from the mantel, the flower petals he had ripped from my bouquet and sprinkled across the carpet. It was passionate and romantic and emotional and real.