Chapter 6
DEB
The Night Before the Fire
ALL THREE OF MY KIDS give me grief about keeping a landline. Josie calls it the spam-line. But it’s the spam-line she calls when her plane lands.
I’m effervescent. “Dad’s on his way! Can’t wait to squeeze your face.”
Josie has been on the road for months, and I should be happy for her. Many theater professionals didn’t know if they’d ever get back out there after the pandemic. Josie had just gotten cast in The Lion King ensemble when everything shut down. But I’ve missed her.
“My face will tolerate squeezing by the hands that are about to feed me chicken pot pie.”
“Why do you assume it’s chicken pot—”
“It’s always chicken pot pie when you want us to realize how much we miss being home.”
I glance at the peas and shredded chicken on the counter. “Well, I don’t hear you complaining.”
“And you never will. See you soon.”
Half an hour later, the front door creaks open. Wiping my hands on my apron, I hurry toward the entryway and squeal like a woman younger than my fifty-seven years. A new mom again for a flash, I proceed with the aforementioned face squeezing of my middle child.
Josie gives a look of patient annoyance. “Satisfied?”
“My baby with the squishy cheeks.”
“I’m twenty-eight.”
A deep chuckle rises behind us from the man accustomed to this routine. “Anybody want to squeeze my cheeks? Or help me set the table?”
We turn, and Josie scrunches her nose. “Your cheeks are prickly.” She lugs her bag to her room, hollering from the stairs, “I’ll help with dinner in two shakes!”
I reach up to squeeze my husband’s cheeks. Then I reach down to squeeze his other cheeks. Smiling, we set out napkins and plates.
Josie bounds back down the stairs. “Smells amazing.”
I don’t comment on her new piercings. Kids go through all kinds of seasons, and it doesn’t let up when they’re grown.
One of our most memorable was Cameron’s Great Deodorant Protest the summer he was fifteen.
He had some beef or other with the cosmetic industry.
Teen boys, I came to understand, reek. But that autumn he developed a new crush, and the deodorant returned as quickly as it had disappeared.
I could never have accomplished that; I simply had to ride it out until the girl with long blond braids and coltish tan legs came along.
Billy pours three glasses of sweet tea, and we scoot our chairs forward.
Josie shovels a bite into her mouth. “So, is Cameron living at home all summer?”
Billy and I raise eyebrows at each other as I respond. “That’s the plan. It’s not always easy to figure out life after college.”
“I’ll say.” Josie chases her bite with some tea.
Her dad studies her. “Wasn’t your first tour lined up before you graduated?”
Josie traces the crease in her napkin. “I just meant for Cam.”
“Ah.”
Josie spears a ribbon of chicken and lifts it to her mouth. “April’s coming over tomorrow, right? She never texted me back.”
Billy looks at me, and I look at my lap. He clears his throat. “I think they’ve had a lot going on.”
Josie frowns. We don’t tend to give vague answers unless the answer is bad. And the truth is that Leo and April haven’t been coming over as much as usual. Last time they did, they barely looked at each other.
“Like what?”
I wave a hand. “Just kid stuff.”
Josie views “kid stuff” as a self-important excuse moms think they can give non-moms. So Billy adds, “I’m sure they’ll be here. Sadie and Otto have to see their favorite aunt.”
“I’m their only aunt.” Still, she smiles proudly.
I take the chance to make an observation. “You’d be such a great mom.”
She groans.
“I’m just saying.” I reach for the salt.
“You don’t need to just say. Besides, I’m practically a second mom to Jayden and Simone.”
I blink.
“Young Simba and Young Nala?”
Surprising us both, it’s Billy who says, “Well, are there no men in the Pride Lands?”
Josie groans again. “You too?”
I squeeze my husband’s leg affectionately under the table. I could coo with delight when we’re on the same page. Bolstered, I look at my daughter. “We just care about you. And casts come and go.”
“So do families,” she says. “Do you care that maybe the faces of an audience make me feel the way you feel about grandkids? That maybe I’m not hunting for men in the Pride Lands because I’m happy with what I have?
” She sets down her fork and dons the monologue voice that long predated her profession as an actress.
“I have the drums when they first come in. The mad dash to my mark before the spotlight hits. The songs I can sing in my sleep that I still make new night after night. Theater is the love of my life, and I wish you would accept that.” She huffs and takes a swig of tea.
I pat her hand and say evenly, “That was a lovely load of crap.”
She nearly spews her drink at the reference.
When Josie was sixteen, receiving a lecture from me about the beauty of abstinence, she—with her purple-streaked hair and black nail polish—listened without interruption, smiled sweetly, and said, “That was a lovely load of crap.” Then she unashamedly asked about the pill versus condoms versus an IUD.
Billy stands, a few flaky crumbs falling from the lap of his pants. “Ice cream?”
Josie scoots her chair back, grateful for the diversion. “I’ll help.”
Billy holds up a hand and smiles, unbothered. “No need. You relax.”
When he leaves the room, I lean in, bothered. “You know you always have a home and family here. But by the time I was your age—”
“I know, I know. You had a husband and kid.”
But that wasn’t what I was going to say. I was going to say that by the time I was her age, my parents were gone.
Billy walks back into the room, sits, and scoots in, stacking his forearms on the table. He grins contentedly at us, eyes bright. His hands are empty.
Josie smirks. “Earth to Dad? Ice cream?”
He snaps his fingers. “Shoot! Sorry.” He stands again, and this time I follow him to the kitchen. None of our kids knows what the doctor told us last week. They don’t even know we’ve been going to these doctors, naming objects and counting backward.
Josie shakes her head, chuckles, and says, “Classic Dad.”
But I narrow my eyes at him and think, That’s new.
The spam-line rings at two o’clock in the morning, an hour when robots don’t call. An hour—I always told the kids—when only God should be awake.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, eyes fuzzy. Billy is still asleep, so I cradle the cordless phone, scurry downstairs, and sink into my chair at the dining table, which creaks under the lean of my elbows. “Hello?”
On the other end of the line, my eldest daughter is frantic, and I go clammy.
When we hang up, my first thought is selfish: this is terrible timing. Why does my child have to have a crisis when I have one of my own? Seems a mother can’t even get a time of crisis to herself.
I sigh. With whatever’s going on lately between April and Leo, he might need some convincing, so I find my cell and scroll to his name. STAY WITH US.
An hour later, they show up with a child asleep on each of their shoulders. I try not to gape at their appearance: smoke, soot, and fear. I hold my breath and hug them as it sinks in that we could have lost them.
April and the kids go up to her room, Leo goes to the couch, and I resist the temptation to cover them with blankets and questions. As I’ve advised my kids many times, it’s usually better to wait until morning. Sunshine has a way of dusting tragedy with hope.
So I sneak to the oven and preheat it, quietly foraging for eggs, cheese, and spinach. This family will need a warm meal and strong coffee when day breaks, and far be it from me to leave them wanting under my roof.
It is five o’clock in the morning when I finally crawl back into bed.
Billy has snoozed through everything. This skill amazed me when we were first married.
I thought surely he was faking. I could turn on lights or shut drawers, and he wouldn’t so much as twitch.
I could read a book or cry or even talk to a child, and on he would slumber.
In the mornings, the kids would regale him with stories of nightmares or wet beds or overnight sicknesses.
I would yawn with my dark roast, while Billy would stretch like a well-rested bear.
Tonight, his sleep is a gift. He has been forgetting the last interaction we have before bed, so now I will only have to tell him about the fire once.
I roll toward my husband and whisper, “Love you.”
And from wherever he is, his hand rises to meet mine.