Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(31)

Some days, she’s tempted to say the hell with it all, serve candy corn for lunch, let the girls skip school, and stay up late watching cartoons. Yes, and on those days, it gives her great satisfaction to imagine the collective gasps of horror such decadence would extract from the perfect playground moms, whose advice—solicited and not—she relies upon to navigate this tricky suburban domestic landscape.

Why do the stakes seem so much higher now than they ever were in her own childhood? Is it due to geography, or generation?

All Allison knows for sure is that she’s not going to botch her child-rearing responsibilities the way her own parents did. But it’s exhausting, this business of trying to be the perfect mother raising perfect children.

She pours another cup of coffee and hands it to Mack. Black and strong—that’s the way he’s always drunk his coffee, not willing to dilute the caffeine jolt he so badly needs most mornings. It’s how she’s learned to drink it as well—and lately, thanks to J.J.’s early mornings, she’s the one who needs the jolt.

Not Mack. Not anymore. In the space of a few weeks, the Dormipram has worked wonders. Mack is falling asleep at night and getting up well-rested in the mornings.

It’s what may be going on in between that has Allison concerned.

But she doesn’t want to bring that up right now. Not with the kids here.

Mack leans against the counter beside her and sips his coffee. “Other than the girls putting on a show, what’s going on today? Besides more rain?” He glances at the dreary scene beyond the window.

“Errands, dance lessons, and then the party over at Randi and Ben’s.” Seeing his expression, she says, “Don’t tell me you forgot about that?”

The Webers throw a bash every year on the Saturday closest to Rosh Hashanah, to celebrate the Jewish New Year with family and friends. They’ve taken it to a whole new level now that they live in a house big enough to easily accommodate hundreds, rather than dozens, of guests, from all walks of life and various religious persuasions.

“I didn’t forget,” Mack tells her. “I just have a lot of work to get done this weekend, and it’s already been an exhausting week. I’m just not up for a huge crowd.”

“I’m not, either,” she admits. “We can always pretend that we’re sick . . .”

“No.”

Right. Mack and his pesky code of ethics.

“It’s crappy weather for a party,” he says, gesturing at the window. “They’re supposed to have it outside. Maybe they’ll cancel.”

“They won’t. I talked to Randi yesterday. The caterers were bringing in heated tents.”

“Terrific. Tents in a monsoon.” He shakes his head. “I think we should just skip it.”

“Randi and Ben are our best friends. They’re family, really. How can we not go?”

“We didn’t last year.”

“That’s because it fell on September eleventh, remember? We were in Florida with the kids.” And if they hadn’t been, there’s still no way they would have attended a party on that fateful date.

“Oh, right.” He falls silent, drinking his coffee, slipping back into the shadows of September 11 memories.

Allison wishes she hadn’t been forced to bring it up. With this year’s tenth anniversary behind him and his sleeping patterns on track for perhaps the first time in his adult life, Mack generally seems to have turned over a new leaf.

She’s the one who’s inexplicably found herself brooding about the past; about the dead: Carrie, Kristina, Jerry Thompson . . .

“Mommy, is there any more Cap’n Crunch?” Hudson asks abruptly.

She blinks. “Sure. Wait—no, that was the last of the box,” she remembers.

“There’s another one in the cupboard.” Mack turns to open it.

“No, there isn’t.”

“Sure there is.” He roots through the contents of the shelf. “I know I saw it last night when I was looking for— Hey, where did it go?”

All right—he just opened the door—quite literally—for Allison to tell him.

She says briskly, “Girls, if you’re done with your cereal, put the bowls in the sink and go get dressed.”

“But I want more,” Hudson protests.

“Mommy’s right, Huddy. There isn’t any more.” Mack turns away from the cupboard, looking perplexed.

“But I want—”

“You can have Cheerios,” Allison interrupts her daughter.

“They’re not even real.”

Out of habit, Cheerios are what Allison calls the toasted oat cereal J.J. was munching—and is now smearing—even though it’s not the brand-name kind in the yellow box she remembers from her own childhood. This is an organic version she dutifully buys at the health food store in town and feeds the kids most mornings.

Hudson shakes her blond head. “Forget it. Come on, Maddy, let’s go write our script.”

“Get dressed first, okay?” Allison reminds them. “We’ve got about an hour before we have to hit the road.”

“Okay,” they say in unison, and Hudson adds, “I’ll make a shopping list for when we go to the store. I’ll put Cap’n Crunch on the top.”