“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m just tired.”
“Me too,” I reply.
I’m tired, and I’m lonely, and I’m sick of being unsure where we stand and having to keep it all to myself. I’ve spent my entire life coming in a distant second or worse to the people who were supposed to care.
I’m not sure I can keep doing it. And I’m not sure I should be setting my kids up for that kind of life either.
THE NEXT MORNING, I drive the twins to school. Henry refused to carry the robotic arm that Molly helped him complete, as if it’s tainted somehow now that Caleb won’t be there. I take it into the school for him, hoping he changes his mind.
The show is small and informal—the parents take seats along the perimeter of the room while the kids sit cross-legged in a circle on the floor.
Henry’s classmates attempt to juggle, dance or—in Sophie’s case—sing inappropriate pop songs. But when Henry’s name is called, he remains still and silent, refusing to even glance at the project I laid on the display table.
“Henry,” says the teacher, singing his name the second time, as if that’s going to induce him to do anything at all, “it’s your turn. Are you going to show us your creation?”
I hold my breath, waiting and praying. Henry stares straight ahead as if she hasn’t spoken, and I suspected he would, but when she gives up and moves on to the next kid, I want to weep until I have no more tears left.
The kids are sent home after the presentation concludes, because St. Ignatius assumes that all of us have nannies, or don’t work in the first place. I’ve arranged for Abby, a girl from our old neighborhood, to babysit.
She meets us at the house with a bag full of art projects and ingredients for cookies. I’m grateful and at the same time I hate that I’m paying someone to do things I’d love to do with them myself.
I stall at the front door. “Don’t let them go down to the lake without you,” I tell her. “And Henry probably won’t ask you for things, so anything you give Sophie, just give him the same. And feel free to call at any time. Honestly. There’s nothing—”
She smiles reassuringly. “Lucie, they’ll be fine. I promise. Go back to work.”
I leave with Henry still unwilling to meet my eye. And why should he? I’m the one who let him count on someone who’d assured me he couldn’t be counted upon.
I get through planning the retreat for the marketing department, working fast, hoping to cut out by five and get home to Henry—fix things somehow, though I suspect only Caleb can heal this particular wound.
When Caleb texts to say he’s boarding his flight, I don’t reply. He has a company to run. He needed this meeting and he told me the deal from the start. But I have a son I didn’t want to see hurt. I’ll do my best to get over it before he lands, but right now…I’m still upset.
I send my last few emails and am just about to close my laptop when the phone rings. Caleb’s flight was cancelled. I reach for the phone with grim resignation, but it’s Abby’s name there, not his. I hit the speaker button and when I hear her crying, my stomach drops to the floor. “Abby? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Henry,” she says. “I can’t find him anywhere.”
My breath stops. “Did you ask Sophie? Maybe they’re playing a game.”
Abby wails harder. “She said she heard the back door close, but we don’t see him outside.”
For a half-second, I freeze, my body still, my hand grasping the phone. “Call the police,” I whisper. “I’m on the way.”
I grab my keys and my phone, and I run down the hall, past Kayleigh, past the small group of employees gathered out front. I call Jeremy, then Molly as I drive, running red lights, driving on the shoulder when necessary. I’m gripping the wheel so tight that my hands ache when I remove them, panicked but at the same time…numb.
This can’t be happening. It’s a mistake. I’m going to walk in and discover Henry’s hiding, that she didn’t look carefully. I’ll call his name and he’ll walk out with one of his wary smiles.
But then I pull into the driveway. The police are here. Abby’s crying.
This is happening. This is really happening.
I force myself out of the car and swing Sophie onto my hip. Her head presses to my chest, uncharacteristically silent and still. Her thumb goes into her mouth—a habit I thought she’d outgrown.
“I’m so sorry,” Abby says. “My boyfriend came over because we’d had a fight and I came outside to talk to him—”