With one last agonizing look, Jolene disappeared into the crowd of soldiers and boarded the bus.
Betsy cried out, “MOM!” and ran the length of the bus, following her mother’s progress. Her voice was lost in the din.
Michael picked up a sobbing Lulu and tried to soothe her, but she was hysterical.
In the back row of the bus, Jolene put down her window. She gazed down at her family; the smile she gave them faltered as the bus drove away.
And then she was gone.
“I didn’t say ‘I love you,’” Betsy said, bursting into tears.
*
In the months before his wife left, Michael had slept on “his side” of the bed. He’d seen the river of rumpled white cotton between them as a no-man’s-land where passion had gone to die. Now, on this morning when he woke up truly alone, he saw how false that had been. In all those nights, he’d had a wife beside him, a partner with whom he’d shared his life. Alone was different from separate, infinitely different. Often last night he’d reached out for her and found only emptiness.
His first thought when he woke: she’s gone.
He sat up in bed. Beside him on the nightstand was her “bible,” the huge three-ring binder that housed the endless list of his new responsibilities. In it, she’d put everything she thought he might need—appliance warranties, recipes, lists of mechanics and housecleaners and babysitters. He reached for it and opened it to the “Daily Planner” section.
Make breakfast. （Each morning came with its own carefully constructed meal plan.）
Get girls dressed. Make sure they brush their teeth.
Get Betsy on school bus. Arrival: 8:17.
Drop Lulu off at preschool. 8:30. She had provided him with an address, which pissed him off, both because she assumed he would need it and because, in fact, he did.
He threw back the covers and got out of bed, stumbling toward the bathroom. After a long, hot shower, he felt ready to start his day. Dressing in navy wool slacks and a crisp white Armani dress shirt, he left the room.
As he walked down the darkened hallway, he knocked on the girls’ doors, yelling for them to get up.
Downstairs, he made a pot of coffee, realizing too late that he’d made enough for two. Then he stood there, waiting impatiently. As soon as it was done, he pulled out the glass carafe and poured himself a cup.
Only it wasn’t done; coffee dripped down, splattering and burning on the warming pad below. He shoved the carafe back into place, ignoring the steaming sizzle, and looked at his list.
Today was “clown” pancake breakfast day.
Ha.
Instead, he rifled through the cupboards, found some cereal, and thumped it down on the table. Tossing some bowls and spoons alongside it, he grabbed the newspaper from the porch and sat down to read it.
The next time he looked up, it was 8:07.
“Shit.” He threw down the paper and ran up the stairs, opening Betsy’s door.
His daughter was still asleep.
“Damn it, Betsy, get up.”
She sat up in bed slowly, blinking, and glanced sleepily at the clock by her bed and then screamed.
“You didn’t wake me up in time!” The horror on her face would have been funny any other time. He knew how precise Betsy was, just like her mom; she hated to be rushed.
“I knocked on your door and yelled at you,” he said, clapping his hands. “Get going.”
“I don’t have time. I don’t have time.” She jumped out of bed and looked in the mirror. “My hair,” she groaned.
“You have five minutes to be at the table for breakfast.”
“No shower?” Again, the horror. “You can’t mean it.”
“Oh. I mean it. You’re twelve. How dirty can you be? Go.”
She glared at him.
“Move it.” He strode down the hall to Lulu’s room. As usual, his youngest daughter slept spread-eagle on top of the blankets with a zoo of stuffed animals gathered around her. He threw the toys aside and kissed her cheek, pushing her tangled hair aside. “Lulu, honey, it’s time to wake up.”
“I don’t wanna,” she said, rolling away from him.
“Time to go to preschool.”
“I don’t wanna.”
He turned on the light and went to her dresser. Opening the top drawer, he pulled out some tiny pink-flowered underwear and a pair of small elastic-waisted yellow corduroy pants and a green sweater. “Come on, Lulu, we need to get you dressed.”
“Those are summer clothes, Daddy. And they don’t go together. Get the yellow sweater.”