Happily Ever Ninja(28)

Later, I would scream into my pillow. I would run thirteen point one miles while the kids were at school. I would go to the gym and beat the stuffing out of a punching bag. I would work out with one of the other black belts at my mixed-martial arts studio.

But, pragmatically speaking, right now—right before Greg left again for the airport and disappeared for the next four months—was not a good time to be angry. I endeavored to soothe the angry, feverish fire ants in my brain.

Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. . . and repeat seven thousand times.

Grace jogged into the apartment and made a beeline for the dining room table. She fished around in one of the boxes and pulled out two coils of copper. She was wearing a welding mask; it was pushed up and away from her face.

A welding mask . . . ?

“Grace?”

She stopped short, searching the apartment and grinning widely when she spotted me.

“Mom! We’re making something for you. Come see!” She turned on her heel and sprinted out the front door.

I picked my way through the toys, stepping over partially constructed Lego buildings and a discarded muffin wrapper surrounded by a halo of crumbs. Clearing the obstacle course, I left my apartment in my bare feet and found Grace propping open Professor Matt Simmons’s door. She waved me forward and I followed her through Matt’s apartment to the balcony.

What I saw then would forever be etched on my brain.

Everyone was wearing welding masks, Greg, Matt, and Jack. Which was a good thing, because Jack was welding.

That’s right, eight-year-old Jack was welding.

Granted, Greg was helping.

But Jack was welding.

It was too much. I lost my mind.

“Stay here,” I ordered. I grabbed Grace’s mask and marched to the balcony door.

I knocked on the glass, loud enough for them to hear. Matt turned his masked face to the door and waved cheerfully. I glowered at him. He dropped his hand. He moved to Greg and tapped him on the shoulder, then pointed at me. The welding gun turned off, Greg glanced over his shoulder. He waved. I glowered. He dropped his hand.

I watched his chest rise and fall with a bracing breath—that’s how I knew he knew I was mad—and he leaned forward, saying something to Jack. Jack nodded and leaned back in his chair, placing his hands on his knees.

Greg stood, lifting the mask and pulling the gloves he was wearing from his hands. He gave me a tight and contrite smile as he approached the door.

“Grace,” I said, holding my husband’s gaze while I spoke to my daughter, “go out on the balcony with your brother. And under no circumstances is anyone allowed to weld.”

“Okay, Mommy.”

I took two steps back and Grace walked swiftly by me as soon as Greg opened the balcony door. He waited for her to pass before entering. When the door was firmly shut, we stared at each other for a long moment. I didn’t speak, not yet, because my urge was to place him in a chokehold.

He lifted his hands and said, “I was hoping to be finished before you woke up. It’s taking longer than I expected.”

I still couldn’t speak because I was expecting the first words out of his mouth to be, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have allowed our eight-year-old son or our five-year-old daughter to weld. I realize it’s very dangerous and their wellbeing is important to me. Please forgive me.

Since that’s not what he said, I still wanted to place him in a chokehold.

He scratched the back of his neck and shifted on his feet, watching me cautiously like I might explode. Hesitantly he asked, “Is this about the mess?”

“The mess?” My question was shrill; it reminded me of a police siren.

Was that my voice?

“In the living room. We were in a hurry, but I did clean the kitchen.”

“You cleaned the kitchen?” That can’t be my voice. I don’t sound like that.

“We made muffins this morning. I saved you some, they’re on the counter.”

The resident fire ants in my brain were trying to singe their way out of my brain using a tiny ant-sized blowtorch.

“No, Greg. This isn’t about the mess. It’s about our eight-year-old son and our five-year-old daughter, who are now apparently proficient welders.”

“I wouldn’t call them proficient, at least not at TIG welding. It’s safer in some ways, but it’s more complex on the whole.”

“Greg—”

“And besides, if we don’t teach them about welding at home, they’ll just learn about it on the streets.” He grinned. He was grinning at me.

Fire ants.

In my brain.

With a TIG welder.

Matt opened the door; he, Jack, and Grace filed in. My eyes darted to the trio and I took a calming breath.