Chapter 32
Mary showers quickly, water scalding. Something sticky from the side of the trash can had brushed against her leg, and she could sense the dust from Owen’s room that had collected on his things, layering her skin.
When she’s finished, she towels her aching limbs and her back dry, then squeezes water from her hair.
She dresses in her pajamas—silky but not real silk, seams pulling loose—and tosses her dirty clothes into the hamper.
It’s full now, so she hefts it upward and empties it into the machine in her walk-in closet.
Ed had the foresight to have a set installed in their bedroom.
He was so proud of the house, so much grander than anywhere either of them had ever lived.
Anytime he had an especially successful year, drew in more commissions, he wanted to use the extra money on the house.
New hardware in the bathrooms, lighting in the dining room, a shed in the backyard for his tools, a washer and dryer in the primary closet, and custom shelving, even though there was already a laundry room in the basement.
The projects were endless, and Mary never cared about them. Ed earned so much more than she did, and he seemed to think that entitled him to sole financial decision-making power. Mary had wanted a playground out back, then more deposits into Owen’s college fund.
The house hasn’t been as well cared for these past twenty years. Mary couldn’t afford much, and she’s feeling the age of it. It seems brittle, wheezy. It will be so hard, yet she knows it’s time to go.
She tosses a detergent pod into the machine, then turns it on. There’s so little laundry to do these days, just for herself. Sometimes she’ll wear the same shorts or pants for three days. It can take weeks for enough for a full load to build up.
She remembers how, in the months after Owen was born, laundry felt like an interminable chore.
How, when he was a newborn, he’d soil three pairs of footie pajamas a day.
She would wash them every morning, a pour of Dreft into the machine, her baby draped over her shoulder.
The way he clung to her back then. Like Velcro.
Like the cord was still attached. Like he was part of her still, and always would be.
Mary closes her eyes, feels the sadness swell, the memories cresting, tall and unavoidable. It makes sense, after the way she spent the day. Cleaning out his room. It’s only natural that this day would be more difficult than most.
She just misses him. That’s all. Even those bone-deep-exhausted days as a new mother. Even those sticky, shrieking whirls of toddlerhood.
She will never forget the way his face looked just before he fell asleep.
The particular fullness of it, the specific perfection.
She loved holding him while he slept. Even when he was nearly three, that summer before he started preschool, when he would resist his afternoon nap.
She’d rock him and sing to him and wish she could still feed him from her breasts.
She’d coax him into sleep, then rest beneath his warm weight. It soothed her.
When Ed was home and walked by the doorway, he’d grunt disapprovingly. “He’s not a baby anymore, Mary.” Jealousy and irritation flashing in his voice. She knew Ed thought that her devoted attention and care should be returning to him.
But Mary would smile at her husband, pleading.
Let me have this. She’d shrug sheepishly, then smooth her finger across Owen’s faint brows.
And Ed would say nothing more, indulging her in a way he so rarely did, ever since those first few intense and lustful years.
Then, when Ed was gone, Mary would curve toward her son.
She would press a kiss to his forehead and breathe in his heat, his lavender smell. “My most perfect boy,” she’d whisper.
He always was.