Читать книгу Little Mercies - Heather Gudenkauf, Heather Gudenkauf - Страница 12

Chapter 5

I awake with a start. The room is too bright, the light streaming across my face much too warm for six in the morning, even though it’s the middle of July and the hottest summer on record in more than a decade. “Adam,” I say, looking over at my husband who, jaw slack in sleep, is snoring. I used to, when I had time, in those brief moments when the children were asleep, when work could wait, watch my husband while he slept. The way his brown hair curled around his ears, the dark shadow that magically appeared on his chin during the night. The way, through the years, his face became fuller, more creased, like a love letter folded over and over and opened to be read and reread.

“Adam,” I say, leaping from the bed. “It’s almost eight o’clock! Get up!” He pops up, eyes wide.

“Jesus, I’ve got practice in a half an hour!” He is already heading toward the bathroom. “Did you set the alarm?”

“I thought I set it!” I say, trying to recall.

“Remember you’re dropping Avery off at the sitter’s and I’ll take Leah and Lucas with me to practice,” Adam says as my cell phone begins to ring. I grab it from my bedside table. Checking the display, I see an unfamiliar number and I ignore it.

“Yeah, okay.” I scramble from the bed. The night before is a haze. All I remember is falling into bed exhausted. “I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes. I can’t be late again.” But I’m talking to the closed bathroom door, my voice drowned out by the sound of the shower. I rush to the extra bathroom that the kids use and strip off the t-shirt that is still damp with last night’s heat. I step beneath the showerhead, letting the cold spray envelope my body. I don’t bother to wash my hair but run the bar of soap across my skin, scrubbing the salt of my sweat away. I rinse quickly, avoid looking at my stomach, still slack from giving birth eleven months earlier, and wrap a towel around myself and briefly mourn the loss of my once fit body, uninterrupted sleep, time alone with my husband and evenings out with my friends. “Leah, Lucas, it’s time to get up!” I holler as I make my way back to my bedroom.

Adam is sitting on the bed, pulling on his socks. “The kids are up already. I sent them down to grab something to eat before we leave.”

“Avery?” I ask, pulling on the first outfit I see in my closet as I step into a pair of sandals.

“Leah changed her diaper and got her dressed. She’s in her crib. I’ll bring her down,” he says, rising from the bed and then hurrying from the room.

“Thanks,” I say and run a hand through my cropped hair, once again glad that I keep it short. I finish dressing as my cell phone sitting in its charger on the bedside table begins to vibrate. “Damn,” I murmur, and check the display. It’s my mother. I meant to call her back last night, but between the baseball game and feeding and bathing the kids, I had forgotten. Again.

I think of the morning after my father had died. My mother rose early, as she normally did, and moved quietly from the bedroom to the kitchen, trying not to awaken me and my brothers ensconced in our childhood bedrooms. She didn’t hear me as I followed behind her, silently observing. I watched as she absentmindedly opened the freezer stuffed full of all the things that my father loved best, the foods that he would never be able to eat again. My mother blinked back tears and pulled out the date-nut bread, double wrapped in aluminum foil, the Danish meatballs in Tupperware, and a small container of rice and salmon casserole, and set them on the kitchen counter. Lastly, she pulled out the unopened pint-size container of banana-flavored ice cream dotted with chocolate chunks and walnuts that was my father’s favorite.

“Mom,” I said, startling her, “what are you doing?”

I looked at the open freezer. “Mom?” I said again, a lilt of fear creeping into my voice. “What’s going on?” I heard her stomach rumble in protest, but still she ate, moving on to a Ziplock bag filled with peanut butter crisscross cookies. “Mom!” I shouted, rousing Craig and Danny who by the time they ran down the stairs found me trying to wrestle the plastic bag from my mother, and her dog, Dolly, lapping up the crumbs that tumbled to the floor because of the tussle. We took my mother to the doctor, watched her carefully, encouraged her to get a part-time job, to volunteer. But life goes on. Our own lives resumed, my brothers going back to their own towns and families, me going back to work and my family. She seems better, but I know she is still so lonely and once again I utter a silent vow to spend more time with her.

I ignore the buzz but grab the phone and rush down the stairs, nearly tripping on the pile of folded laundry I had set there the night before to be put away. In the kitchen the TV is blaring, the phone is ringing and the kids are bickering over who gets the last Pop-Tart and who has to have a granola bar with raisins. In exasperation, Adam breaks both the Pop-Tart and the granola bar in halves and gives one each to the Leah and Lucas, who grumble anyway.

“Morning,” I say, ignoring the phone and distractedly tucking my blouse into my skirt. Avery is in her high chair, her eyes still heavy with sleep. Leah has dressed her in one of her Sunday dresses and shoved tennis shoes on her feet. She looks beautiful. I bend over and lay a kiss on the top of her head and do the same to Leah and Lucas. “Thanks for helping out this morning, I gotta go,” I say, and then stop short. “Damn,” Lucas looks at me with reproach. “Sorry. Darn,” I amend. “I left my bag upstairs.”

I turn on my heel and hurry out of the kitchen. “Ellen,” Adam calls after me, “I’ve got a game in Cherokee tonight, you’re going to pick up Avery after work, too, right?” Adam’s muffled words continue to follow me to the second floor but are blanketed by the buzz of my phone.

“Okay,” I yell from the stairs. Maybe it’s my mother again, or maybe Caren, my supervisor, wondering where I am. We have a staff meeting every Tuesday at eight and once again I’m running late. Not recognizing the number, I press the phone to my ear. “Hello,” I say breathlessly. Nothing. No one is there. I shake my head in frustration and grab my bag teeming with notes and case files.

I skitter down the steps, weighed down by my bag, and fling open the front door meeting Adam on his way back in the house.

“Bye, guys!” I shout, blowing kisses in the direction of the kitchen. I am immediately met by the day’s heat; already it must be eighty degrees. As I open the van door my phone rings again and I fumble for it in the depths of my purse. Tumbling from my sweaty fingers to the driveway the phone bounces beneath the car. “Dammit,” I mutter, and try to tuck my skirt tightly around my knees as I lower myself to the ground. The ringing stops as I snake my hand beneath the van’s carriage, but the phone is not quite within my reach. Sharp pebbles bite into my knees as I try to angle my way closer. Again my phone rings. I slip off my sandal and, using the heel as a hook, I snag the phone, pulling it within my reach and it falls silent. Sweat has soaked through my blouse and my skirt is dusty and wrinkled. I glance at my watch before getting up. I’m late as it is. The meeting has already started and I will be lucky to get there before it even adjourns. No time to change my clothes. I slide into the driver’s seat and the heat seeps through the fabric of my skirt.

Sweetly, Adam has started the van for me and lukewarm air from the air conditioner strikes ineffectually at my face. From the front steps Adam is waving. I catch snippets of what he is saying, practice, day care, kids. I wave back and give him a thumbs-up as my phone trills once again. “Hello,” I say breathlessly into the receiver as I brush my sweaty bangs from my forehead.

The voice on the other end is young and frantic sounding, unintelligible. “Slow down,” I urge as I put the van into Reverse. “I can’t understand you.” I back out of my driveway and head toward the office.

I listen for a moment finally realizing that it’s Kylie, a seven-year-old client of mine. “Where are they now?” There is no answer. Just heavy, frantic breaths. “Where are you? Are you safe?” I ask. In the bathroom, I don’t know, she answers uncertainly, more of a whimper actually, and a nugget of fear settles in my chest. Across the phone line I hear a heavy thud. “I’m calling the police and I’ll be right over. I promise,” I say, but the line is already dead. I stop the van in the middle of the road to dial 911 and I’m vaguely aware of cars honking at me from behind. I give the emergency operator the address, tell her who I am and what little I know about the situation. Cool air is finally puffing through the vents, but I barely notice it as I wrench the steering wheel to the right and pull into the nearest driveway so I can turn around.