Thought I Knew You(25)

At night, after my mom would bring the kids home and help me put them to bed, I would drink wine until my vision wavered. I’d call Sarah, drunk and rambling, and day or night, she’d stay on the phone as long as I needed. She lived in California and asked more than once if she could come visit, but I kept denying her. She had a life—dating, drinking, single—a life I longed for some nights. I loved my girls; they were my life’s meaning, especially now. But the anonymity of a single life, of meeting men in bars and not knowing their names or their secrets, of not carrying someone else’s burden, sounded heavenly. But I couldn’t have Sarah with me, another person to witness my sorrow, to look at me with pitying eyes. I didn’t want her to ask if she could do something, maybe some laundry. She didn’t need to witness the dishes that piled in the sink or the long stretches between vacuumings. She might actually notice and cringe when Leah found Goldfish crackers on the floor and ate one.





Chapter 13



Ten days before Christmas, the house was still not decorated. I hadn’t put up a tree or done any Christmas shopping. I couldn’t seem to find the motivation to face the crowds, the malls with their hauntingly happy music, or the laughter of families as they waited in line for their children to sit on Santa’s lap.

Dad showed up with a small four-foot Christmas tree in tow. The tree was the smallest we’d ever had, and my first instinct was to scorn the gesture.

“Your mother said you needed a tree,” he grunted. He carefully laid out a piece of plywood and set up the tree stand. The tree looked silly in the usual corner, like a pretend tree. For a make-believe Christmas. Before he left, he stood in front of me, shifting from one foot to the other and finally reached out, putting his large hand on my head, as though I were Cody. “The girls need a Christmas, is all.”

“I know, Dad.”

“You’re on your own to decorate it.” He looked over at the wilting, skinny tree and then back at me. His eyes looked wet and sad. We’d never had much conversation outside of how’s the car running, and the sudden reaching out felt stridently out of place.

I kissed his cheek. “Thanks.”

He left with a final grunt and another pat on my head, hunched and lumbering down the walk to his car.

My mother came later and picked up the girls. She took them back to her house to bake cookies like “everyone else.” “You are going to get them presents, right?” Mom asked.



I gave her a withering glare. “What am I? A terrible person? Of course. That’s a stupid question.”

“Please wear something normal and go to the mall. Spend this on presents.” Mom countered my spitefulness with patience, and I felt a small pang of guilt.

I gaped when she handed me three crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. She put up her hand, as if I would try to argue. I had no idea of the condition of my finances, but they couldn’t have been good. Still unable to make myself go into the study and figure out Greg’s system, I had paid the November bills with the checks I carried in my purse. I had no idea if they would clear or not.

For the first time in over a month, I went to my closet and pulled on one of my own shirts. It hung on me, draping over bony shoulders and sunken breasts. The diet of the grieving—the latest fad. I got out my straight iron and pulled my dark hair through the hot plates. I applied some mascara, foundation, and lip gloss. My reflection in the mirror appeared almost ordinary, like my previous self, but skinnier, sadder, with bigger eyes. I tried to will my lips into a smile, baring my teeth. The expression looked grotesque, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

I steered the van into the mall parking lot and surveyed the crowd, heavy for a Wednesday, but Christmas shoppers didn’t differentiate. I felt a dull ache under my breastbone, dreading the music and the shoppers, which would both be irritating and cheerful. I forced myself out of the car, for my kids. They needed a Christmas. For that matter, they needed a mother. They needed a father. The walk from the car to the front of the mall seemed interminably long. When I opened the large glass door, I was assaulted by the smell of soft pretzels and cinnamon, and the sounds of Christmas music and Santa. There are five fucking entrances in this mall, and seriously, I pick the Santa one?

I kept my head down and made a beeline to Toys R Us at the far end of the mall. I had no idea what to buy. I certainly hadn’t been paying attention to television commercials. I walked the aisles, pushing an empty cart, trapped by indecision. Electronics? Too old. Polly Pocket? Too overdone. We had about a hundred. Dolls? Too babyish. Disney princesses? Hannah was past that phase. I needed help. I needed Greg. Every day, I thought that at least once.