What's Done In the Dark(13)

“Just like I said, clean it up and get the hell out of Dodge.”

Fran wanted me to just up and leave? “Shouldn’t I at least call for help?”

“No! Housekeeping will be there soon. Let them find him.”

“No! This is just too much!”

“Do I need to come over there and help you?”

Of course, I didn’t want Fran to clean this mess up. Through the doorway I stared at Steven. He no longer wore the euphoric look he’d had when we finally went to sleep. All of that was gone. Forever.

I felt like I couldn’t stay in that room one second longer. “No, I want to get out of here now.”

“Okay, then do like I said. Go home and act like nothing ever happened. Wasn’t that what you two planned to do anyway?”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing,” she said, cutting me off. “You don’t have any other choice. Now, get up, because I know you’re crouched in a corner, crying, and get to cleaning this mess up.”

I did what she said and started vigorously wiping down everything in the bathroom. I felt like a criminal. I had visions of police bursting through the door at any moment. “What am I supposed to do when Paula calls and tells me what happened?” I asked as I wiped the toilet handle, the shower, and everything else I might have touched.

“You’re going to be the supportive friend and be there to help her grieve,” my sister said like that was a no-brainer.

That was so easy for my sister to say. She was the take-no-prisoners, hard-core one of the family. I was the emotional one. That’s why I had no idea how in the world I was going to get through this.

I hung up with Fran, promising to call her as soon as I reached my car. After I wiped down everything I could’ve even possibly breathed on, I gathered all my belongings, triple-checked to make sure I wasn’t leaving anything, then tiptoed toward the door. My heard disintegrated into a thousand pieces as I took one last look at Steven. In a voice strangled by years of regret, I whispered, “I’m sorry. I love you. God forgive me,” before easing out of the room.





8


Paula


IN ALL THE YEARS THAT we had been married, Steven had never stayed out all night. We’d had arguments before—some pretty ugly ones —but he’d always come home.

Until last night.

What do you expect when you told the man you wanted a divorce? I heard my mother’s voice in my head. I truly hoped Steven knew I was just mouthing off. That was a bad habit of mine, saying things I didn’t really mean. It had been a source of contention throughout our marriage. I was pretty good about not saying crazy stuff to the kids, but Steven had seen the brunt of my verbal fury on several occasions. I only hoped this time I hadn’t gone too far.

When he came home today, I promised myself, I wasn’t going to be mad about him staying out all night. I wasn’t going to hurl accusations at him, like I’d been prone to doing lately even though he’d never given me reason to suspect he was cheating. I was going to explain why I was so unhappy. We would fix this. As soon as he got home.

With a renewed positive attitude, I made my way into the kitchen and noticed the mess as soon as I set foot in the spacious area.

“What in the world?” I mumbled.

All four of my children stopped and turned to me, looking like I had walked into something major. Then I noticed my favorite tray with the giant sunflower.

“We were trying to make you breakfast,” Stevie said dejectedly, like I’d ruined their surprise.

“Yeah, we know they’ve been a handful,” Tahiry added, pointing at her brothers, “and so we wanted to do something nice for you.”

Twenty-four hours ago, I’d been dreaming about what it would be like to be childless, and now my kids were reminding me why I loved being their mother.

“Don’t be mad at the mess. We’re going to clean it up,” Tahiry hurried to add.

I couldn’t help but smile as I walked over and hugged each one of them. “I’m not mad. I’m actually very happy”

“You don’t seem happy,” Mason said.

I squeezed him tight. “I am,” I replied. “Let’s just enjoy breakfast.”

“You don’t want to eat in your room?” Tahiry asked.

I pulled out a chair at the kitchen table, where my mom was sitting, reading the newspaper. “No, I want to eat right here with my family.”

“Where’s Daddy?” Marcus asked, climbing into the chair next to me.

“He had to go into work early.”

My mom side-eyed me. She could tell I was lying. But we all sat down, and they filled me in on the latest news from their school. The meal was less than stellar, but the fact that my kids had cooked it made it feel like a gourmet breakfast.