Chapter Thirty-Six

Katy

Later that night, Gavin and I are cleaning up after the party, and for the first time since I got home, I know the tables have turned. He’s avoiding me at all costs to keep his explosion within. I have zero defense and won’t bother coming up with one. My son has just exposed one of my secrets and inadvertently humiliated us both. The words ‘I’m sorry’ won’t matter to Gavin; they’ve lost their worth. He wants his wife back. He wants to be able to talk to her without getting his head bitten off. He wants her to put dinner on the table without incident. He wants to fuck her without worrying about breaking her. He wants to wake up next to her with a smile on his face instead of fear in his heart. He brushes past me with a bag full of trash, and I catch a whiff of his cologne. Despite everything, his scent is still comforting.

He pauses at our back door, trash bags in hand, and apparently thinks better of what he’s about to say before he walks out.

I’m losing him.

I take Noah upstairs to the bathroom and help him into his pajamas. I watch as he brushes his teeth on his step stool. He leans over and spits. It lands all over the countertop and mirror.

His eyes widen as he looks over at me. “Whoops. Sorry, Mommy.”

I grab a towel and wipe up the mess, tossing the rag into his hamper. “No big deal,” I say.

Noah’s little eyes widen in surprise when he doesn’t get corrected and then a huge grin lights his entire face.

I’m still not her.

And I think maybe that’s not such a bad thing because the idea of riding him for something as minor as spitting toothpaste on a mirror is ridiculous.

I may be failing everyone else, but I will not fail my son.

We climb into his bed together facing each other, his head resting on my outstretched arm. I pull him close, burying my nose in his hair. “I love you so much, Noah, and I want you to know something.”

I pull away to make sure I have his attention, and he looks over to me with eyes identical to mine.

“What?”

“You know Mommy hasn’t been the same since she’s been home.”

“You’re sick.” It’s a statement and hurts so much worse when it comes out of his mouth.

“Yes, but with this kind of sickness, I have to try a lot of medicines to see which one works.”

“But you will get better?”

“Yes,” I say, praying it’s not a lie.

Tears threaten, and for the first time in months I feel like I could let them flow, but I pray hard to keep them inside. For my son, I will not let the levee break. That’s not the point of this conversation. He’s been strong and will get nothing less than the same from me. His little hand lifts to rub my cheek. “Why are you sad? Didn’t you want to come home?”

My heart. “Oh, Noah. That’s all I wanted.”

“Oh…okay,” he says, deep in thought, “Daddy is sad too.”

“I’ve hurt his feelings, but I’m going to try so hard to find the right medicine to get better for you both. I swear to you, I’ll do everything I can. And I don’t want you to ever be afraid to tell me anything, okay?”

“Okay.”

I’m losing it. His fingers tug on my hair like they did when he was little as his eyes start to get heavy.

“I feel so bad about today,” I tell him honestly. I’m done skirting the issues around my child. He deserves some safe honesty.

“It’s okay, Mommy.” He smiles. “Did you see how many presents I got?”

“Sooo many,” I say with wide eyes.

“Can I play with them after school tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

“Okay.” I kiss his forehead as I slide out of bed. “Hey, you know this day is still my favorite day ever, right?”

“Our day,” he says with a nod.

“That’s right. Night, baby.”

“I’m not a baby anymore, Mommy.”

So everyone keeps reminding me.

I pull his door closed to see Gavin standing outside of it with his arms crossed, wearing an expression I can’t read.

I give him the useless words. “I’m sorry.”

He’s still furious and doesn’t trust himself to speak. My hand reaches for his, and he steps away, turns the corner, and heads down the stairs.

Racing through the hall, I’m safely behind my bedroom door before the levee finally breaks.

Gavin left for work early this morning. The sting of his absence stays with me as I take Noah to school. Even though I know I look like hell, I feel a little less heavy. I cried all night when Gavin never came back upstairs. It was cleansing, to say the least. As we pull into the circular driveway, I reach back, giving his knee a squeeze.

“Okay, buddy, we’re here.”

I watch as some of the moms walk the younger kids to the door, and it does nothing for my confidence. Most of them are in full dress and makeup with smiles on their faces.

They have their shit together.

A knock on my window has me rolling it down. I greet Noah’s teacher.

“Hi.” I’m embarrassed by my appearance. I try and tuck some of my wide curls behind my ears to make myself more presentable, but I know it’s pointless. Her three-second assessment of my state tells me so.

“Just wanted to remind you that it’s Noah’s turn to bring a treat to school this Friday.”

“Thank you, I’ll make sure he’s got something good. Maybe a little less sugary?”

She smiles. “That’s always appreciated.”

“How many in the class?”

Apparently, that’s the wrong question, because she looks at me accusingly.

A horn blares behind us, and I startle at the sound.

“Seventeen,” she answers in a sympathetic tone.

“Thank you.” I look past her as anger simmers; I’m over her judgment. “Have a good day, buddy.”

“Bye!” he says, already in tune with two of his classmates running toward him.

On the way home, I make a mental list of goals that I want to accomplish today. Yesterday was a breaking point for me, and I no longer want to live my life being a survivor. Noah’s reaction and Gavin’s avoidance have slapped me back into my present. The idea of getting my hair done occurs to me as I make my way home. Maybe a little pampering is exactly what I need. It’s an effort, and I can only hope feeling better on the outside may stir up what I need to bridge the intimacy gap between Gavin and me.

When I pull up to the drive, I see a car I don’t recognize parked in front of my house. I pray it’s not another reporter. The calls have mostly died down in the last two months, but the threat still remains as long as we haven’t agreed to any interviews. Briggs hasn’t agreed to any either, as far as I know.

No one is on the front porch, which raises my suspicions. Typically, this would scare me, but as I study the truck with Texas plates, a little hope sparks inside of me. That hope is dashed as I walk down the small grass alley between our house and the neighbors’ and spot a woman on my back porch, peering through our window.

“Excuse me,” I snap. “Can I ask what the hell you’re doing here?”

The woman freezes before she turns in my direction.

The instant I recognize her, all the blood drains from my face. In her eyes, I see her loss mixed with a hint of anger.

Alicia Mullins looks me over before the loss wins out, and an uncontrollable sob escapes her.

“I came to ask you what happened to my daughter, Katy.”