What He Doesn't Know(40)

Dad said it was "Newton's Cradle," a sort of moving art that was meant  to bring comfort and serenity. He loved that it was reliable, that it  was always there, always moving, always making the same sounds.                       
       
           


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One afternoon, my old cat, Heathcliff, jumped up onto Dad's desk while  he was working. Dad had shooed him off, and in Heathcliff's haste to get  off the desk, he'd slipped on papers and run straight into Newton's  Cradle, throwing everything off balance. The balls clacked too fast  before losing their rhythm altogether and then crashing to the ground.

But when Dad picked them back up, he pulled one ball at the far end back, and once he let it go, everything returned to normal.

That's exactly how I felt those two days I spent alone in the home I'd built with Cameron.

I was always reliable. I was the "yes" girl. I was the hostess, the  soft-spoken, compliant friend, coworker, daughter, and wife. And I was  perfectly content being in a routine, providing comfort to those around  me by being the one constant they could rely on.

Reese had thrown me.

He had swung into my life unannounced, just like Heathcliff, throwing  everything off balance in the process. And though I was back in my  rhythm again, swinging along like nothing had happened, the truth was I  would never be the same. Now that I knew what it was like to swing  recklessly, to feel his hands slipping between the crevices of normality  - I didn't know how to just go back to what I'd been before.

I was spiraling.

Reese's questions spun in my head like cotton candy, thickening and  thickening with every pass, leaving behind a sticky residue I couldn't  escape. Was he right? Was I miserable? I surely wasn't happy. But did  that mean he could be the one to change that? Did I not owe it to  Cameron to try to find that happiness again with him?

But I had already tried. And he'd found happiness in someone else.

Why had that gone away so quickly, so easily, for him? For us?

The more time I spent alone, the more I questioned everything. I'd  driven myself so insane Wednesday that by the time Cameron got home, I'd  convinced myself I hated him. I'd stared at him from across our dining  room table with murder in my eyes, debating seriously about telling him  right then and there that I wanted a divorce. But then he stood,  bringing his plate with him, and sat in the chair next to me instead of  the one across. He pulled me close, kissed my lips, and told me he'd  missed me while he'd been at work that day.

It was like that kiss had snapped me out of the spell being alone had  put me in, and I was right back to sitting uncomfortably in my home of  confusion.

By the time Thursday morning rolled around, I was so desperate to get  out of the house and away from my thoughts that I went into work a full  hour before I needed to. I spent the morning cleaning up my classroom,  drawing a new picture on the white board, and adjusting my lesson plans  for the week.

And I thought things were going to be fine.

I slipped right back into my routine, thankful for the distraction and  familiarity of teaching, and I convinced myself that what I'd felt over  the snow days was simply cabin fever.

Everything was going to be okay.

Reese and I would be friends again someday, once we'd both had some time  and space, and Cameron and I would work together on our marriage. He  was already trying harder, and what I'd done was behind us.

Everything would be fine.

But just like before, I was a methodically swinging pendulum, and one  little touch was all it would take to send me spiraling again.





Jeremiah wasn't at school the morning we came back from the snow days.

I'd just assumed his parents had decided to keep him out an extra day  out of caution, as some parents did once the roads were deemed drivable.  I didn't even bat an eye at him being gone that Thursday we returned to  school, but when I saw him bright and early Friday morning, his little  eyes puffy and swollen, his shoulders hunched over his desk, I knew  something was wrong.

"Hey, buddy," I said, leaning down on one knee so I was at his level. He  was the first one in the classroom, the rest of the kids still  conversation in the halls waiting for the first bell to ring. "You  okay?"

He shook his head, eyes on where his little boots were swinging snow  onto the carpet under his chair. He had his hands tucked under his  thighs and he hadn't taken off his coat or hat yet. Both were a little  damp from the cold.

"Why don't we take these off and get you warmed up?" I asked, tugging at this coat.

Jeremiah allowed me to help him out of it, along with his hat, and I  ruffled up his dark hair before smoothing it out and tucking it behind  his ears. He still wouldn't look at me, and my heart ached for him.

"You can talk to me, you know," I whispered. "I know I'm an icky adult, but I'm a pretty good listener."
                       
       
           


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"You're not icky, Mrs. Pierce," he said softly.

I waited for him to continue, hoping he might tell me what was on his  mind, but he wouldn't. I pulled an apple juice from my mini fridge and a  little snack pack of powdered donuts that I kept for emergencies just  like this one. But Jeremiah wouldn't eat or drink, either.

He was like that all day.

Though Jeremiah was always kind of quiet, he was even more so that  Friday, and he wouldn't participate in any of the group activities. He  stayed silent, working in his notebook when instructed, just getting  through the day the best he could. When lunch and recess rolled around,  he begged me to let him stay in the classroom.

"Only if you eat," I told him. "If Miss Robin brings you back a peanut  butter and jelly sandwich, will you eat that? And drink some milk?"

He looked devastated that he had to eat, but he nodded. "I'll try."

Jeremiah made it through half a sandwich and took a few sips of milk  before I allowed him to lie his head down on his desk for the rest of  recess. I watched him resting there, his little eyes finally at peace  for the first time since that morning, and couldn't help but think of my  Jeremiah.

I wondered if he would have had bad days, too. How would I have helped  him? Would he have come to me when he was sad, or would it have been  Cameron who would have comforted him?

I wondered if he'd know how to write his name by now, and if he'd still  be okay with me holding his hand to cross the street. Would he be into  little race cars, or Disney characters, or maybe science - the way  Jeremiah in my class was?

Would he like to ride his bike, or would he prefer video games?

My thoughts ran wild with questions like that until the end of the school day.

It made me think of the nightmares I'd sometimes have where I'd wake up screaming.

Cameron was always there when I woke up, soothing me, holding me,  telling me it was okay. But in my dream, and in reality, both - it was a  lie. The dream was always me holding Jeremiah and Derrick in my arms at  the hospital, happy and content, both of them alive and breathing and  nuzzling into me with their warmth. But then the doors would fly open  and nurses would rush in, ripping them from my arms as alarms went off.  My body always felt heavy then. I couldn't reach out for them, couldn't  scream - not until I woke up in my own bed, anyway.

I never told Cameron what the dream was. Then again, he never asked.

I wondered if he ever dreamed about them, too.

Fridays were always a rush out at the car loop, the energy of the  weekend buzzing through the students and teachers, both. But I held back  that day, helping Jeremiah pack up his bag before slowly walking him  out to the loop with his hand in mine.

"I hope you have a good weekend," I told him when I noticed his mom's car at the front of the line.

"I won't."

I frowned, bending to his level. I motioned discreetly to his mother in the car, hoping she'd join me.

"Why do you say that, Jeremiah? You've always told me you love Fridays  because you get to stay up past your bedtime and watch movies with your  mom and dad."

"We don't have anywhere to watch movies anymore."

His little lip quivered just as his mom reached us, and he buried his  face in her side. I stood as she hugged him into her, and that's when I  realized her face was just as worn, her eyes just as puffy and tired as  his.

"Did he have a rough day?" she asked, and her voice was thick and raw,  like she'd been crying for weeks. "Oh, I wondered if it was too soon to  have him back, but we just wanted him to escape it all for a while and  have a little fun."

"It was a tough day, but he made it. What happened, is everything okay, Laura?"

Her brows bent together. "He didn't tell you?"

When I shook my head in response, she bent to kiss Jeremiah's forehead,  asking him to go wait in the car while she talked with me. We both  turned to watch him, and once he was settled into the back seat, Laura  spoke.