Chapter 30 Arthur
Chapter thirty
Arthur
Lindsay hasn't come down for breakfast. I know this because I asked, casually, and the answer came back just as casually. She's in her room. No follow-up. No concern.
Exactly the level of distance I usually prefer.
I tell myself this is good. Space prevents escalation. Allows perspective. Keeps things from turning emotional when they don't need to. I've always believed proximity complicates things.
I'm working from home today. I go through my morning routine. Coffee. Emails. A call I don't need to be on but stay on anyway.
Midafternoon, I hear movement upstairs. Not footsteps pacing. Not doors slamming. Rummaging. Drawers opening and closing. Fabric shifting. Something clatters, then a soft curse follows.
I don't ask what she's doing. I don't ask how she's feeling.
I tell myself that this is what we needed—space.
And if I'm relieved by it, that's just proof that stepping back was the right call. That distance restores equilibrium.
Still, I catalog the sounds without meaning to. The rhythm of them. Purposeful. Focused. Not distressed. She's busy. Busy people don't spiral. Busy people don't need reassurance.
Henry comes home from school in a decent mood. We go over homework. Talk about a science quiz. He mentions something about a character he likes, some fandom detail I don't fully track. I nod where appropriate.
I'm good at nodding.
He asks where Lindsay is.
"In her room," I say. Neutral. Informational.
"Oh," he replies. "Will she come to the school fundraiser this afternoon?"
"I don't think so."
He accepts that answer faster than I expect. Goes back to his tablet.
I feel something close to gratitude. Not because Lindsay is gone—but because nothing is being asked of me.
No emotional calibration. No apology required.
This is manageable. This is safe.
***
The fundraiser is louder than I expect.
Not chaotic—organized chaos. Pop-up tents arranged in neat rows, tables bowing under baked goods wrapped in cellophane, banners taped slightly crooked overhead. Sugar, popcorn, fried dough. The air hums with noise.
Security fans out instinctively. Visible but not intrusive. Parents notice them, then quickly decide not to.
Henry doesn’t notice at all.
“Can I go look at the games?” he asks, already shifting his weight forward.
“Yes,” I say. “Stay where I can see you.”
He nods once and disappears into the crowd like he’s done this a hundred times.
I remain where I am.
This is appropriate, I tell myself. Fundraisers aren’t formal events. Children should have independence within reason. Hovering would be unnecessary.
Still, I track him without conscious effort—bounce house, ring toss, dunk tank staffed by teachers who look resigned to their fate. Entry points. Exits. Sightlines.
Henry stops at the bake sale.
I don’t move closer.
Other parents cluster naturally—leaning against railings, laughing, trading updates about carpools and weekend plans. I stand near the edge of the blacktop, hands loosely folded, aware that I don’t quite know where to put myself.
Henry laughs at something a boy says. A girl steps closer—braids, pink jacket. She digs into her pocket, pulls out a dollar, buys a cookie, and hands it to him.
I tense, inexplicably.
I can’t tell if she’s Jenny.
I don’t know what Jenny looks like.
Henry bows dramatically in thanks. The girl rolls her eyes and shoves his shoulder. Familiar. Comfortable.
I look away.
The teacher from Henry’s conference passes nearby carrying a tray of cupcakes. She recognizes me, offers a polite smile, and keeps moving.
She doesn’t ask where Lindsay is.
No one does.
Henry returns eventually, cookie half gone, cheeks flushed. “Did you see the cake walk?” he asks. “Mrs. Halvorsen tripped. On purpose, I think.”
“I missed it,” I say.
He nods, unconcerned. “Lindsay would’ve loved it.”
The statement is casual. Unweighted. He doesn’t look at me to gauge my reaction.
I don’t respond quickly enough.
Henry takes another bite of his cookie and gestures toward the game booths. “Can I try the dart thing?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’ll be right here.”
He pauses. “You can come with me if you want.”
“Go ahead,” I say instead. “I’m fine.”
He shrugs and jogs off.
I remain where I am.
As the afternoon wears on, I notice details I hadn’t planned to. Uneven frosting. Glitter glue bleeding through poster board signs. The way Henry lights up when he wins a plastic prize that will be forgotten by morning.
Lindsay would have opinions.
She would be laughing. Asking questions. Holding Henry’s jacket when he got too warm. Taking pictures she wouldn’t post.
When the crowd thins, Henry comes back holding a small stuffed dinosaur.
“Won it,” he says. “It’s dumb, but I like it.”
“It’s not dumb,” I reply.
That earns me a smile.
We walk back toward the car while he talks about which games were rigged and which ones weren’t. He mentions the girl with the braids again—still without naming her, still without making it important.
I listen. I always do.
The fundraiser went well.
Nothing went wrong.
Henry is happy.
And yet—
As I close the car door and the noise fades behind us, I’m aware of the absence beside me in a way I can’t rationalize away.
***
Later, I pass her door on the way to my office. It's cracked open just enough for light to spill into the hallway. I glimpse color inside—fabric draped over the back of a chair. Something sparkly catching the light. Tape. Scissors. A mess that looks intentional.
A costume. For that convention Henry mentioned. The one she lit up about.
I move on. Avoidance has always been a strength of mine.
The house settles into its usual quiet. Lindsay doesn't come down for dinner. A tray is sent upstairs. I don't comment. I don't ask if she liked it. I don't check whether the tray comes back empty.
I tell myself we're both cooling off. That this is temporary. That things will normalize once the emotional static clears.
I should go downstairs. I should say something. I should acknowledge what I did.
I stay where I am instead.
Control is stability. Distance is safety.
But as the sounds from the kitchen fade and the house goes silent, I wonder whether I've confused control with isolation.
And whether safety is worth what it's costing me.