Chapter 14
“You okay, ma’am?” the driver asked.
“Oh sure,” she told her. “Working too hard, I guess.”
She tried to relax, adrenaline high and brain racing, searching for normal as the driver navigated the gridded streets of Phoenix, which at this time of night still felt like being inside a hairdryer.
Now, in the deepening darkness, she could be anywhere. Anywhere but home. Where now her new peonies would be out, and the hydrangea, too, which Linny had breathlessly reported bore pink flowers on one part of the bush, and blue ones on another. Oh. Linny.
“I’m a horrible person,” she whispered. She texted Henry, as quickly as she could.
Done w thing, what latest? How Linny?
She waited the beat or two it would take Henry to hear her message ping.
She imagined him watching the news, flopped on “his” chair, the battered and supple chocolate leather hauled to Rockport with most of the other furniture from the old house.
We’ll get all new, Henry had proclaimed, as he’d positioned their well-worn couch, two almost threadbare flowered chairs, and the tippy glass coffee table in front of the redbrick fireplace, then placed a few framed family photos on the polished wooden mantel.
He’d surveyed the result, hands on hips.
“Our stuff looks different in here. Shabby.”
“Shabby?” She’d scanned the room then, assessing. The double-tall living room windows needed to be washed, and the stately rhododendrons outside were blurred through the smudged glass, the sun struggling through, softening on its way inside. “Oh, honey, it needs to settle in. Like we do.”
Why wasn’t Henry answering now? A million reasons—he was in a different room from his phone.
He was in the shower. He was asleep. He was on the phone with the doctor, describing Linny’s worsening symptoms. He was in the car with Linny, driving her to the hospital, leaving Zack alone.
No. He was in an ambulance with Linny, siren screaming, racing to the hospital, with Zack, sobbing, forced to stay behind, by himself, terrified and alone.
She was an abysmal mother. This had been the world’s worst decision.
Leaving home, leaving their children, in a new house in a new neighborhood, with Henry—Henry who meant well and was certainly confident enough, but sometimes, she knew, that confidence was…
unwarranted. But she wouldn’t have married him if she didn’t trust him.
There had been so many professional disappointments for him, and she’d always admired his unbreakable spirit and determination.
But one of them had to be the realist, and now, she’d left her children— their children—home with someone who survived on hope and positive thinking.
Those had been such admirable qualities. Until now.
Dots. Thank God.
Hey.
In an unfamiliar car in an unfamiliar city, the adrenaline high from her event vanished like the flame in a puffed-out match. “Hey”? Like he hadn’t frightened her to death?
What new?
She held back her annoyance. He was doing the best he could.
All good. Linny sleeping, Z pretending. Missing u.
She shook her head. Pitiful. Her life, in only these few weeks, had devolved into texting her own husband, the person she’d talked to in person every day for almost fourteen years, who’d spent his days at the office—except for the times he didn’t—while she juggled kids and housework and shopping and writing, they’d shared dinner-making duties, and sending the kids to their rooms, and wine afterward in front of the TV.
You worried me , she typed. Then deleted.
I was worried.
She’s fine.
“Sorry” would have been a better answer. But Henry was doing his best.
What eat, then?
IDK. Neighbors dropping off stuff tho. She good.
What neighbors? What stuff? She imagined them, the strangers protected by the label “neighbors,” leaving random food for her family to eat. What food?
Tessa took a deep breath, balancing her fear and her rage and her need to let Henry make his own decisions. As long as they were the safe ones.
We need a code to let me know if something is scary bad. Let’s try to phone more. Talking is better.
Tessa saw the lights of her hotel a block away, its bright neon logo over the now-visible trio of revolving doors.
Nothing is bad. Nothing will be bad.
Henry was wrong, totally excruciatingly wrong, someday something would be bad. Lives could be ruined in an instant. She knew that, firsthand. They needed a way to warn each other. Better to be prepared.
The driver had shifted into park, engine running, at the curb. The hotel lobby glowed with warm light, maybe hoping to replicate the welcome of a faraway home.
“Here we are, ma’am,” the driver said.
For emergency put 911, okay? At hotel now.
OK. Safe safe.
The driver was holding the back door of the car open for her. “ Ma’am? Here we are.”
Love love.
She clicked off before she heard his reply. But he’d certainly said it, always always.
We got this, Annabelle said.
The elevator arrived, its doors sliding open.
At least she had her correct room key— little victories —and in the empty hallway, the door opened as it should.
She hadn’t said always always yet to Henry, so she felt at loose ends, as if some part of her life was on hold with their lucky nighttime mantra unfinished.
She’d call him, first thing. And then go down and retrieve her dinner.
The door to 1205 swung open, and she popped on the light. And stepped on something.