Monsters (31 page)

“Maybe that's good,” I say. “Take some time off. Spend it with Sadie.”

“You know I'm not good at that,” he says. “I don't think I know how to help her.”

“It's not about helping her. It's about being around.”

“Doing what? She's not five. I can't take her to the zoo.” He takes a drink of the wine. He swallows it like it's water.

“Don't ask me. I do take mine to the zoo, and I still suck at it. Maybe we should both give our kids to Jenny.”

He kind of laughs, but then he lets his head drop down below his shoulders. “Whatever I do, I know I'm gonna fuck her up.”

“Story of my life,” I say.

He groans. “Shit, Stacey. I don't want to be like you.”

“I know. It sucks, right? I'm a disaster.”

“You really are.” But when he looks up at me, he's smiling. “So how are the boys doing these days?”

“Not great. I guess it could be worse.” I grip the stem of my glass and twist it through my fingers. “They're not crazy about Phillip.”

Tommy laughs, and whatever he's about to say, I don't want to hear it.

“Don't,” I say, and he holds his hands up like he's going to hold himself back. “You know, he's just . . . he's not their dad.”

“Come off it, Stace. That isn't the reason. I mean, they fucking love me.”

“Yeah, well, you put on a better show. Your ‘not genuine' looks really fucking genuine and his looks like an uncomfortable mess.”

“I'm totally genuine with them,” he says. “Jesus, you're an asshole.”

“You're not genuine with anyone, Tommy. You're just a really talented actor.”

“You've just got to stand right on the edge of that cliff, don't you? See how far you can stick your toes over. It's like you can't help yourself.” He doesn't sound mad though, so I just shrug.

“It was a compliment,” I say, though it obviously wasn't. And suddenly I feel like maybe I did stick my toes over too far, like maybe I am losing control. “Look, it's late. I've got to go to bed.”

•   •   •

I get up early. Sadie's still sleeping, tucked into Michael's side of the bed. It'll be hours before the sun is up, but the moon on the snow casts the backyard in this weird bluish light. I let Bear out and watch him from the window, this black monster trudging through the snow. He sniffs around the playset, checks the perimeter of the yard. I think about yoga, but today I don't have the balance. I'll wait till the house is empty, and then I'll run. I let Bear in, and I make a pot of coffee, clean up the glasses from last night. It'll be an hour still before the boys are up for school, and I don't know what to do with myself. I sit on the couch, cross my ankles under my thighs. Michael has been gone for so long now, long enough that I should be able to sleep.

•   •   •

When I hear the boys' alarm, I go into the kitchen. I make them oatmeal, organic rolled oats, and I stir in a little almond butter, a splash of vanilla. Stevie comes down first and plants himself in the same
spot Tommy was in last night. I put the bowl of oatmeal in front of him, and he wrinkles his nose.

“I don't like almond butter,” he says.

“It's good for you. Lots of protein.”

“I like blueberries instead.”

“Blueberries don't have protein.”

“Can I have both?”

I toss the bag of frozen blueberries on the counter, and he tries to maneuver a spoonful into his bowl. His fingertips come out of the bag blue. I take it from him and shake a handful of berries onto the top of his oats. Then I make a bowl for Ben and do the same.

When Ben sits down, he just looks at the bowl and frowns. “I don't like blueberries.”

I say, “You love blueberries.”

“Not in oatmeal.”

“Then pick them out.”

“I can't now. They're all mixed in and mushy.”

“I like them,” Stevie says.

Even the muscles at the base of my tongue feel tight. I press my fingers hard into my palms. “You know what, just throw it out.”

“Never mind. I'll eat it.”

“No, if you're going to complain about it, you don't need to eat it.” I can hear the tone of my voice change, but I can't actually stop it.

“I said I'll eat it,” he says, but he pushes the spoon through the oats like he's not happy about it, and it takes everything in me not to reach over and pull it away.

“Hey,” Tommy says, walking into the room, “what's for breakfast?” and when the boys spin in their chairs, he says, “Oh my god, you guys are so big!”

Stevie reaches him first, throwing his arms around Tommy's waist. Ben is a little slower, hanging back, but Tommy reaches out and grabs him by the back of the neck, pulling him in tight.

“God, what is she feeding you? You're huge. Are you getting into that giant dog's food?” He moves Stevie back an inch. “You,” he says, “were, like, to here last time I saw you.” He holds his hand right at his waist. “And now you're way up here,” he says, sliding his hand up. He still has his other arm wrapped around Ben's shoulders and he gives him a little shake. “I bet it's the blueberries.” Ben laughs a little, and Tommy pulls them both in for another hug and then nudges them away. “Go eat your breakfast, man.”

The boys climb back into their seats, and Tommy walks around the island behind me. He rests his hand on my back and looks over my shoulder into the pot of oatmeal. “Can I have blueberries in my oatmeal?” he says, and Stevie giggles. Even Ben smiles, and I just think,
What are you trying to prove?
I feel like I need to move away from the stove. It's too warm. I need to find some space.

“Take whatever you want,” I say. “You always do,” but then I think,
Fuck, I shouldn't have said that,
and I turn in the opposite direction and circle back behind him toward the coffeepot. “I'll get you some coffee.”

•   •   •

Tommy must have made some calls while I was getting the boys to school because by the time I get back, he has everything arranged. He probably just called Daniel. Either way, he and Sadie are set to fly out around noon.

“Is she awake yet?” I ask. Tommy's sitting on one of the stools in front of the counter. There are little drops of oatmeal everywhere from the boys.

“She's in the shower.”

“Any breakfast?”

“Not yet.”

He reaches his left arm back and rubs his neck, and the way this pulls at the fabric of his T-shirt makes me look away. I toss my keys by the coffeepot and grab a dishrag, hold it under the faucet, add soap.

“God, the boys are messy,” I say, using the rag to sweep the bits of oatmeal and blueberries into my hand.

“They're good kids, Stacey,” Tommy says, and he stands up, moving out of my way.

“You just like them because they like you.”

“Everyone likes me. I don't like everyone back.”

“I've really missed your ego,” I say, but he just smiles. He says, “I know.”

He walks behind me to refill his coffee, and as he passes, he squeezes my shoulder, but I don't stop wiping the counters. Oatmeal dries so quickly, I need to get every drip. He turns and leans back against the far counter, holding his coffee at his mouth and breathing in the steam.

“I feel like we need to clear the air, Stacey.”

I glance up at him, then back at the counter. “I feel like everything is fine.”

“You're still a bad liar,” he says.

I look toward the stairs. I can't hear the shower anymore. “Maybe we should talk about this some other time.”

Tommy sets his coffee on the counter, leans backwards on his hands. “Your ‘some other time' is kind of bullshit, isn't it? I don't know how your whole not-talking thing works with everyone else, but that's not us. That's not how we work.”

I'm just standing there, holding this rag. I still have crumbs in my hand, and I think,
We don't work, obviously.

“Jesus.” He lifts his hands and slams them back into the counter, pushes himself forward. “I am so sick of fighting with you, Stacey.”

“We're not fighting.”

“You're not. But I'm fucking trying here. Get invested, okay? Because I would like us to actually get past this.” He's not yelling, but he's loud enough that I want him to be quieter. He's loud enough that I feel like taking a step back. “I am really fucking sorry. Okay? I don't know what you want from me.”

“I don't want anything from you.”

“Fuck that. When are you gonna admit that you're the asshole here? I mean, I think I've been pretty upfront with how I feel about you, but all I hear from you is how you don't give a shit about me. I mean, you'll go to bed with me over and over again, but you're never going to take me seriously.”

“Take you seriously? Take what seriously? ‘I don't want to know who else you're fucking'? Because, really? Fuck you for that.”

“Stace, no,” he says, stepping toward me, but then I hear just this whisper of a noise against the wood floor behind me, and Tommy's face totally falls, and I think,
Of course, she's so tiny, she moves like a ghost,
and I close my eyes like that's going to stop anything.

“Oh my god. You slept with my dad?”

I turn on the ball of my foot. She's standing there, her hair still wet from the shower. “Honey,” I say, “no. No, it's not like that.”

She obviously doesn't believe me. I am a terrible liar. She looks past me to Tommy, and he says, “Sadie, honey, you wouldn't understand.”

She can't seem to close her mouth. She just stands there, staring at
him. “You ruin everything,” she says, and I think she's talking to Tommy, but I can't be sure.

“Honey,” I say, and I start to take a step toward her, but she shakes her head and runs out of the room and back up the stairs.

It's true. I do feel ruined. I stand there, looking at the place she'd been standing, and then I turn back toward Tommy. I throw the dishrag at him, and he flinches. “You happy now?” I'm so exhausted and my hands are covered in crumbs and soap. Tommy's just standing there with his head down, staring at the rag where it's bounced off of him and landed on the floor. I walk to the sink next to him and rinse off my hands. He's standing right in front of the towel, so I shove him with my elbow. “Move,” I say, and he does.

“I don't know what you want me to say,” he says.

I finish wiping my hands, and I sit down at the counter and prop my head up with my elbows.

“You want me to leave?”

I think,
Yes.
I think,
Maybe.
I think,
No.
But he does. He walks upstairs, and I can hear him talking to Sadie. I can hear her crying, but I can't hear what she says. I turn my head toward the window, look at the snow. It's weeks old. It's thawed and frozen, thawed and frozen so many times that the top layer is clear as glass.

•   •   •

When I start the treadmill, I have my earbuds in, but I can't find a song that fits my mood. Everything is too happy or too fucking slow. I pull them out and drop my iPod down onto the carpet beside me. I turn the speed up another click. I think about pushing it higher, but I want to be able to run and run and run. I don't want to have to stop. At five miles my legs are on auto, and my head is finally clear. It's
nothing but air. Three more and my right knee starts to twitch. I don't know how long I can ignore it. Probably longer than I should. I hit
stop
and step down onto the carpet, but I can't straighten my leg, can't put my weight on it without feeling this awful pinch deep in the joint. I sit on the floor, pull the leg into me, try to stretch it back out. I know it's not really an injury, it's just worn out. When Michael was alive, we used to run together on weekends. He'd plot out the routes, keep me from doing too many hills. He was faster than me by a lot, but he kept this really slow pace, so I never got ahead of myself, never got out of breath. These days, my lungs are always on fire.

•   •   •

Phillip calls three times between appointments, but I don't answer till it's close to five o'clock.

“Hi,” I say when I finally pick up.

“Where have you been all day?” he says, but he doesn't sound suspicious.

“I was running when you called. I think I tweaked my knee.” I try sort of maneuvering it around, and it still feels sore.

“You want me to look at it?”

“Maybe. I don't think it's swollen or anything.”

“How's your friend's kid?”

“Oh, she's fine, you know, trying to run away, but then not really.”

“Huh?”

“It's nothing,” I say. “She's just being sixteen. So are you coming over tonight?”

“I don't know. It might be pretty late. I have a meeting with my realtor.”

“I hope you're just talking about selling your place.”

“For now, but I think we should talk about that.” I can hear him tapping a pen against his desk. He's obviously nervous. “Stacey, I don't want to live in your late husband's house.”

“It's not his house. It's the boys'.”

“I think they can adapt.”

“They are little boys, Phillip. I don't think they should have to.” I twist the ring around my finger. I must be puffy from running. It feels a little tight.

He sighs. “Look, maybe we should wait to talk about this face-to-face.”

“Can we please not do it tonight? I'm really . . . I'm exhausted. I just . . . I can't.” I can't take another fight.

“Okay, not tonight, but we are going to talk about it, and soon.” He sounds, I don't know, firm. I really don't like it on him. “Look, I'll call you when I finish up and maybe I can make it over.”

•   •   •