Chapter 17
Driving home, Rebecca marvels at how Maddy can slumber after a fit. She knocks out like a baby. If Rebecca were to reach into the back seat and lift her eyelids, they would snap right back shut.
Despite the air-conditioning on high, Rebecca is sweating profusely. Her hormones still roar about, especially when she gets emotional, which is always.
She is furious with Mark.
She loves Mark.
But she is furious with him.
As she coasts up their street, she spots Jackson standing on his roof with a broom, sweeping briskly, angrily.
Her body temperature spikes precipitously.
He pauses to glare at her as she coasts past and banks into her driveway.
Even once he is wiped from view, his angry, frozen form remains, a dark spot floating at the edge of her peripheral vision.
She shifts into park, her other hand already fumbling at the garage-door opener, rushing to close herself off from the outside world.
Hustling, she eases Maddy from her car seat, careful not to brush against the gauze bandaging. Maddy lolls in her arms, head thrown back, throat exposed.
Rebecca’s back aches. Maddy is too old to be carried, and yet she must be carried.
As she fumbles at the door to the kitchen, it suddenly opens and there is Mr. Man, light from the window above the sink streaming over his shoulders.
Effortlessly, he lifts Maddy from her arms. A folder on the kitchen counter bears the logo of the solar repair company. Another small blessing: Mr. Man must have overseen the appointment while Rebecca was at the nurse’s, one thing to cross off the ever-replenishing checklist.
As they move down the hall, they stay hushed, despite the impossibility of waking Maddy in this state. Mr. Man follows Rebecca’s direction, lowering Maddy into bed.
Rebecca taps the sound soother on, hoping the white noise rush will allow Maddy to slumber.
They file mutely back into the kitchen, and Rebecca plops down heavily at the nicely set table, Mr. Man sitting across from her. She lowers her face into her hands.
Mr. Man’s flat yet pleasing voice breaks the sound of her heavy breathing: “Would you like me to get you anything?”
If she speaks, she will break down, so she just shakes her head.
The doorbell rings.
She starts at the sound. The chime, like a violation.
Mr. Man cocks his head inquisitively.
She shakes her head.
It rings again.
Then there comes an angry pounding at the door.
“Open up, Rebecca! I know you’re in there! I just saw you get home!”
The pounding intensifies, turns menacing, the violence of fist slamming wood. She prays the noise won’t rouse Maddy.
“Get out here and look at what I just swept off my fucking roof!”
Mr. Man is still looking at Rebecca solicitously.
She says, “Will you just . . . sit here with me?”
More hammering.
Rebecca’s blouse, smeared with sweat and Maddy’s tears, clings to her. She closes her eyes, covers her ears.
Please stop, she thinks. Please just stop.
Finally the pounding ceases.
After a few seconds of silence, she lowers her hands from her ears.
Mr. Man reaches across the table, rests a cool, comforting hand on her forearm. “It’s okay,” he says, “Beccs.”