Читать книгу If You Only Knew - Kristan Higgins - Страница 8

Chapter 2: Rachel

THE LAST TIME my husband and I had sex, I fell asleep.

Not after. During.

Just for a second. Adam didn’t even notice; I think he just thought I was having my mind blown and it was all part of the grand finale.

But I did. I fell asleep. And it felt so good. The sex felt good, too…but the sleep! That gentle floating sensation, the skittering thoughts, the warm, comforting smell of my husband, the rocking rhythm, and just for a second there, I was…away.

This has been bothering me. I told Jenny about it, and she laughed till she cried. And I did, too, but I was thinking about how I’d vowed never to be that woman. The kind who’s too tired for sex. The kind who regards making love as just another chore in an endless blur of days.

“Cut yourself some slack,” Jenny had said, patting my hand. “You’re an amazing wife. But tell Adam you need a nap, for the love of God! Or have him give you a massage instead next time.”

Except I don’t want to be one of those wives who’d rather have a back rub instead of sex, though if Adam did give me a back rub, I’d probably cry with gratitude. Fourteen hours a day of lifting kids, buckling car seats, picking up toys, sitting on the floor, lugging diaper bags because Charlotte is still holding out with potty training… Of course my back hurts.

But it’s a small price to pay. Our girls are so lovely, so wonderful and precious and miraculous that I can’t even believe they’re mine.

“Mama!”

My middle daughter, lifted out of me one minute after Grace and one minute before Rose, snaps me out of my reverie. Charlotte’s chubby little torso is smeared with paint—nontoxic, made from organic vegetable dye… Once you learn there are products like that out there, it’s impossible to ignore them, and the Perfect Mommy faction here in Cambry-on-Hudson, New York, makes sure you know exactly what kind of paint their toddlers are using.

We’ve been finger-painting, and I always strip Charlotte and Rose down for that, Charlotte in her Sesame Street diaper, Rose in her tiny flowered underpants. Rose has moved from her poster board to the kitchen floor, but that’s okay. I’ll wash the floor later. Grace, on the other hand, is fully clothed, because even at three and a half, she’s very tidy. Her little brow is wrinkled as she carefully draws on her paper. My serious baby. Not for the first time, I worry that she’s on the Asperger’s spectrum; she’s too neat, too fastidious. Then again, she has cut my cleanup by one-third.

“What is it, Charlotte?” I ask, stroking her blond curls.

“I poop, Mama. My bum hot.” She shoves a hand in her diaper, then withdraws it to show me. “Sticky.”

Where’s that chapter in the parenting books, huh? “That’s fine, honey. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

I glance around the kitchen; all the drawers and cabinets have safety locks on them, and the girls and I are fenced in with baby gates. “Rose, Grace, I’m taking Lottie to the bathroom, okay? Stay here.”

“No! I coming, too, Mama!” Rose demands. Both Rose and Charlotte are behind Grace in the speech department, which the pediatrician assured me was normal with multiples. Still. I worry a little.

“Grace, are you okay on your own?” I ask.

“Yes, Mama. I’m making circles.”

“They’re beautiful, honey.”

I scoop Rose up, hold Charlotte so she can’t touch anything with her poopy hand, and walk down the hall to the powder room. Dang it. Somehow, Charlotte just managed to wipe her hand on my leg, so I’ll have to change again. Well, that’s life with three kids. Laundry every day. Besides, I was going to change anyway before Adam came home.

In the triplet group the girls and I occasionally go to, there are moms who look fifteen years older than they are. Who have inches of gray roots showing, who wear their husbands’ clothes and smell like stale milk and spit-up, who are weepy and exhausted. They terrify me, because some days, I feel as if I’m one inch away from that myself. I never want my girls to think they’re exhausting me; they’re the loves of my life. I’m the mother who actually misses them the four hours they’re at preschool three days a week. Being a stay-at-home mommy was all I ever wanted.

“Time to wash hands, Lottie,” I say now, setting Rose down and turning on the water. “Rose, do you have to go?”

“No,” she says. “No fanks, Mama, I fine.” She smiles, and my heart floods with love. I’ll have to write that down on one of my note cards so I can tell Adam about that. No fanks, I fine. I try to store up those little moments to tell him, since he has such long hours. Also, my memory isn’t what it used to be.

I wash Lottie’s hands, then take off her diaper and clean her up.

“I poop more,” she says.

“Okay,” I say, putting her on the potty. Rose and I wait. Charlotte grunts, her face going red. “No poop!” she announces grandly, and the three of us laugh.

I love being a mother so much, it’s a wonder my heart fits in my chest anymore. Adam and I made these perfect girls, and I can’t quite get over that. For most of my life, I’ve fought shyness. I’m still shy, even around Adam sometimes. You know how it is… If I have a stomach issue, I use the guest bathroom. I still have to give myself a pep talk before we go to a party.

And while I still blush and feel awkward when I’m out in public sometimes, I have this, the knowledge that my girls adore me, that I know exactly who I am and what I’m doing as a mother. The memory of my days as a graphic designer at Celery Stalk, a company that made computer games for kids, are shadowy now, but I remember the effort it took, talking to everyone, trying not to worry so much. How it took an hour for my shoulders to drop after I got home.

This…this is what I’m made for.

We wash hands again, all three of us. The soap dispenser is new, and the girls are still fascinated by its wonders. I put a clean diaper on Charlotte, and we’re good to go.

Just as we leave the bathroom, Rose squats and pees on the floor, soaking through her panties.

“Oopsy,” I say.

“I sorry, Mama.”

The usual stash of paper towels isn’t under the sink. Dang. “No, that’s okay, honey. Don’t worry a bit.” I glance down the hall. “Grace? How are you, sweetheart?”

“Fine.”

I can tell by her voice she’s not fine.

“What are you doing, honey?” I walk down the hall to the kitchen, holding Rose by the hand. She’s dripping, which means I’ll have to wash the hall floor, too.

“Nothing,” Grace says. Then there’s the sound of something spilling.

Cheerios. All over the kitchen floor. Those things have impressive sliding power. “Don’t dump the cereal, sweetheart. That’s our food.”

“I want more circles,” Grace says, emptying the box. “I want to color all circles.”

Charlotte is already stomping on the Cheerios, grinding them into fine powder, which makes Grace scream in fury. Rose hesitates, then joins in the stomping. “Settle down, girls,” I say, scooping up Grace.

“My circles! My circles!” she wails, arching her back so that I nearly drop her.

Nap time. Such blessed words. I am eternally grateful that my daughters are such good sleepers.

Twenty minutes later, Rose is in clean clothes but weeping because I won’t let her drink the Windex I used to wipe up her pee. Grace is angry and stony-faced and has told her sisters she hates them, which made me flinch; I don’t think Jenny and I ever said that to each other, and I have no idea where the girls learned the word hate, especially in reference to other humans.

Charlotte is making the strained poop face again.

“Mama, more pooping,” she confirms.

“Great,” I say. “Not a problem.”

It’s 1:34 p.m. Bedtime is six hours away.

But no, it’s not that bad. It’s just…well, it’s tiring, having three kids at once. People like to tell me how blessed I am, and trust me, I know that. Four years of trying to have a baby, three on hormones, four in vitro attempts…four years of hope and yearning… Adam and I went through a lot to have this family.

Which doesn’t mean it’s not tiring some days.

“I not sleeping,” Charlotte tells me. “I hate sleeping. I hate! I hate!” Grace’s anger seems to have infected her.

“Sleeping is a happy time,” I say, kissing her head. She rubs her eyes and glares at me, but she’ll be the first one asleep. Grace will be the last, and she’ll need a good twenty minutes of snuggling when she wakes up, flushed and confused. Rose already has her little butt in the air, thumb in her mouth. She gives me a drooly smile and closes her eyes.

Their room is my favorite place in our gorgeous house, yellow and green with mobiles that I made, an overcrowded bookcase and three hammocks filled with stuffed animals. Unlike a lot of the houses I’ve seen, this room isn’t a showplace, an adult’s idea of how a child’s room should be, with four tasteful stuffed animals and books arranged by height. No. This room is real and beautiful, sunny and light and airy. These books are read. “Sleep tight, my babies,” I say, closing the door.

Charlotte kicks the wall a few times, but that’s tradition. I now have an hour and a half of what Adam calls “your time.”

Me Time is spent vacuuming and washing the kitchen floor, cleaning the bathroom, putting the lids back on the paint pots, washing the brushes, chipping dried paint off the table, hanging up Grace’s picture on the fridge. I then wash out the sink and check the menu I made on the weekend. Being organized is kind of a must when you have to grocery shop with three little ones. Tonight’s dinner is salmon with couscous and roasted almonds and a broccoli salad. I stick a bottle of sauvignon blanc in the fridge, take the broccoli and red cabbage out of the fridge, then pause, glancing at the computer.

It’ll just take a second.

I Google “five star hotels, new york city” and scroll through the list. The Surrey—nah, too fussy. The Peninsula—just looked at that one last week. Anything Trump—no, thanks, too overdone.

Ah ha. The Tribeca Grand. I click and look at their suites, then call up. “Hi, I’m interested in booking a suite for a weekend in September,” I tell the woman, who has a gorgeous accent. Swiss, I decide, not that I’d know. “No, just for one person…Business with some entertaining thrown in…Well, I’m looking at that one right now, but I’m not sure that’ll be big enough. Is the penthouse suite free the weekend of the twenty-first?… It is? Great. And the rooftop terrace…that’s for penthouse guests only, correct?”

The dishwasher kicks on as the woman tells me about the cost, the amenities, the restaurant, and I imagine lying on a chaise longue on the terrace, looking at the city, or sliding into that giant bed, the thrill of those polished cotton sheets. I’d get a martini at the bar; a specialty martini, not something on the menu, but something I’d ask the bartender to make just for me.

Then I glance at the clock, realize I only have forty minutes of Me Time left, thank the Swiss woman and switch the laundry.

* * *

WHEN ADAM COMES home just before seven o’clock, I’m clean—thanks to taking a shower while the girls played on the bathroom floor with my makeup brushes—and dressed in clean clothes. The house is picked up, I managed to put some flowers in a vase—after scooping a tulip head out of Rose’s mouth and calling the poison hotline to ascertain that she’d be okay. Dinner is in the oven, the wine is in an ice bucket, the table is set, the girls are fed and bathed and sweet and in their little jammies, jumping up and down with excitement at the sight of their father coming through the door.

“Princesses!” he exclaims, kneeling down to hug them. He smiles up at me.

God, I love him.

He’s still so good-looking. Better-looking, one of those boyish faces that’s improved with age since we met ten years ago. His black hair is starting to gray, and smile lines fan out from his eyes. He’s the same weight he was when we got married. So am I, though I’ve had to fight for it, and some of my parts aren’t exactly where they used to be. But Adam is nearly unchanged.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, standing up to kiss me.

“That’s fine,” I tell him. “We can eat after they go to bed.” We try to eat all together every night, but sometimes life interferes. And honestly, how nice this will be! Almost a date. Hopefully, Grace won’t keep getting out of bed, because if she does, Rose will, too.

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” Charlotte chants.

“Rose, put that down, honey,” he says as she tries to carry his briefcase. “Rach, I’ll put them to bed, how’s that?”

“That would be great,” I say. “They’ll love that.”

A lot of people in this area work in Manhattan. Two of my friends have apartments in the city, and one’s husband lives there during the week. A lot of folks don’t get home from work until eight or nine. But Adam has always worked here, in Cambry-on-Hudson, ever since he graduated from Georgetown, and it’s just one more thing I’m grateful for. He spends more time with the girls than most of my friends’ husbands, the type of dad who has tea parties with our daughters, pushes them too high on their swings and has promised a puppy for their fourth birthday.

In Cambry-on-Hudson, being a stay-at-home mom is common, and the lovely neighborhoods are full of slim, highlighted mothers in Volvo Cross Countrys and Mercedes SUVs, moms who get together for coffee at Blessed Bean and go shopping together for a dress to wear to the latest fund-raiser.

I do some of those things, too—Mommy and Me swim class at the country club that I’m still a little embarrassed about joining. Adam said we needed the membership to schmooze for his job as a corporate attorney. But I still feel shy. And incredibly lucky, too.

Adam takes off his suit jacket and drapes it over the railing. “Story time!” he announces, then scoops all three girls into his arms and carries them upstairs. Grace’s dark cloud has lifted, Charlotte is shrieking with delight and Rose has snuggled her head against his shoulder and waves to me.

I pick up Adam’s jacket automatically and put it in the dry-cleaning bag in the hall closet, then go into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of wine. Fifteen more minutes for the salmon. From upstairs, I can hear Adam singing “Baby Beluga” to the girls.

This little window of quiet is a gift. I look around the kitchen, which I love. I love our whole house, a big 1930s house that has no particular style, but is gracious and warm and interesting. Jenny teases me about being a throwback, and it’s true, I love all the homey stuff—baking and gardening and decorating. Our childhood home was nearly perfect until Daddy died, and Mom and Dad were so happy, so solid, so together…that was what I wanted, ever since I can remember.

From the hall closet, I hear a phone chime. I guess Adam’s phone is in his suit pocket. Can’t have him lose that, because, like most people these days, it’s practically an appendage. I retrieve the phone and glance at the screen.

The text is from Private Caller. There’s an attachment. No message.

“Baby Beluga” is still being sung upstairs.

The phone chimes again, startling me. Private Caller again, but this time, a message.

Do you like this?

I click on the attachment. It’s a slightly blurry picture, but of what, I’m not sure. A…a tree, maybe, though it doesn’t look so healthy. It looks diseased, moist and soft. There’s a knothole that looks damp and sick. Whatever it is, I can’t imagine why someone would be sending it to Adam. He doesn’t know anything about trees.

A vein in my neck throbs. The vampire vein. Maybe it’s an artery. I don’t know.

Baby Beluga, Baby Beluga…

This was clearly sent to Adam by mistake. That’s it, because otherwise, Adam would have this person in his contacts list. His phone is always completely up-to-date. In fact, he lost it last week, and he went a little crazy looking for it. All those contacts, he said. All those saved texts and apps and calendar notes and everything that I don’t use on my phone. I just use it to call or text him or Jenny, or in case the nursery school needs to get in touch with me.

I think it’s a tree. I’m almost positive.

But Adam doesn’t know anything about trees. This was probably meant for the…the…the tree warden or something.

Baby Beluga… Baby Beluga…

I forward the picture to my phone.

Then I delete it from his.

That throbbing vein makes me feel sick. I put the phone back in his jacket pocket, put the jacket back in the bag, and then I go back into the kitchen and take a big sip of wine, then another.

The girls’ door closes upstairs. Adam is always faster at tucking in than I am.

His feet thud down the stairs. “Babe,” he says. “Have you seen my phone?”

“No,” I lie. “But I did just put your jacket in the dry-cleaning bag. Maybe it’s in your pocket?”

“Right.” He goes to the closet, retrieves the phone, checks it. Then he looks at me with a smile. “What’s for dinner? It smells fantastic in here.”

“Salmon.”

“My favorite.”

“I know.” And then I smile, though I have no idea how my face actually looks, and pour him some wine.

I remember what I wanted to tell him. No fanks, Mama, I fine.

I don’t tell him. I keep that to myself.

When we go to bed a couple of hours later, Adam checks his phone, kisses my temple and is asleep within seconds.

Usually, we make love on Friday nights, since the next day is Saturday and Adam doesn’t have to get up early. He tells me I can sleep in, too; the girls are big enough to play in their room for an hour or so, and he’s even offered to get up with them. But he never hears them, so I wake up anyway, and then wake him up, and then I can’t ever get back to sleep once I hear the girls moving and talking.

But this Friday night, nothing. A kiss on the temple. No expectant smile, no nuzzling, no “you look beautiful” or “you smell fantastic,” his traditional opening volley when it comes to sex.

Maybe he noticed that I fell asleep last time after all. Maybe he’s being thoughtful.

Or maybe it’s something else.