Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(43)
“I’d never do that to my own child,” she used to assure Allison. “Nothing you ever do would make me turn my back on you.”
In the end, though, was Brenda’s choice any different from the one her own parents had made? She chose to leave Allison just as surely as her own mother had chosen to leave her. For different reasons, yes. But does it really matter, when you find yourself alone in the world at seventeen, how you got there?
No. But now I have Mack and the kids and I’ll never be alone again.
Halloween might have been canceled by the town, but Allison is going to see that her kids get to trick-or-treat.
Earlier, she’d spotted Phyllis Lewis shaking heavy snow off the forsythia branches along the property line, and had gone outside to see if everything was okay.
“Looks like there’s a lot of damage,” Phyllis said, shaking her head. “Branches down all over, and an oak tree crushed the pool house out back. How about on your end?”
“The same. Except the pool house. Good thing we don’t have one. Or a pool.” She flashed a wry grin. “Listen, Phyllis, I know Halloween is officially off this year, but the girls have been working hard on their costumes and I was wondering if they could still trick-or-treat at your door later.”
“Are you kidding? Of course they can,” Phyllis said. “In fact, why don’t you all come over for dinner? Or even to sleep? We have the generator now.”
Bob Lewis had bought it in the wake of the weeklong Hurricane Irene power outages, something Mack had also planned to get around to doing, but hadn’t yet. Once the power had been restored in early September, it didn’t seem likely that it would be knocked out indefinitely again any time soon.
Now here they are on day three without lights, hot water, heat, or communications. School had been canceled today and tomorrow, but the trains were running again this morning and Allison had been stuck alone today in a frigid house with the kids while Mack went off to work.
“Oh, it’s okay,” she told Phyllis. “You don’t have to feed us. Or shelter us.”
“I’d love it. Bob is away on business and I’m all alone here anyway. I have plenty of food and plenty of spare bedrooms.”
Randi keeps saying the same thing, calling daily to invite the MacKennas to come stay. If this goes on for much longer, Allison told Mack, they’re going to take her up on it. But he’d made some calls from work this morning and been told by NYSEG was that the power should be back tomorrow. One last cold, dark night in the house . . . they could handle that, she assured Phyllis.
“It would just be great if the kids could trick-or-treat at your door. Hudson will be devastated if no one gets to admire all her hard work on the costumes—not to mention, if the only candy she gets to eat is the kind I bought. I’ve got SweeTARTS, Red Hot Dollars, and lollipops, but no chocolate.”
“Well, I’ve got plenty. Bring them by anytime. I’ll be home all night. I promise I’ll fill up their bags.”
Now, as she lights a couple more candles to make the kitchen a little brighter, Allison wishes Mack would call. She’s been trying to stall the girls in the hope that he’ll make it home in time to go over to the Lewises with them, but he’s in the midst of what he called a “manic Monday” at work, so it isn’t likely.
“Call me or text me from the office when you know which train you’re taking,” Allison told him earlier, before they hung up. “I’m down to one bar on my cell and I don’t want to use up what’s left of my battery by calling you again.”
“I will. But if you don’t hear from me by six-thirty, just go without me, because that means I won’t be home until almost eight and that’s too late for the kids.”
Checking the time on her watch, Allison sees that it’s almost a quarter to seven. Too late.
This will be the first year he’s not here to trick-or-treat with the kids. She wonders who’s going to be most disappointed about that—the girls, or Allison herself. Venturing next door in the dark with the kids, worrying about dangling limbs and wires, is about as appealing as the now-congealed boxed macaroni and cheese she prepared for dinner—yes, because it’s orange.
And maybe, secretly, because it’s so unhealthy. Maybe some rebellious part of her longs to push back against the many perfect-mommy rules she’s been trying too hard to follow.
At the table, the girls are putting the finishing touches on their costumes by candlelight. J.J. is fussing in his high chair because no one has bothered to pick up all the things he cast overboard: a wooden spatula, a couple of soggy crackers, plastic measuring spoons, and a milk-filled sippy cup that—thank goodness—has one of those no-spill stoppers in the spout.
Allison leaves it all right where it is. Throw-things-on-the-floor-and-watch-Mommy-crawl-around-and-pick-them-up is her son’s latest game, and she’s not in the mood to play tonight.
“How’s it going, ladies?” Allison asks the girls, who are both wearing red pajamas and white face paint.
“It’s going great!” Hudson flutters around Maddy, obediently standing statue-still on a chair. “See? Don’t you love it?”
“I do see, and I do love it.”
Gone are the days when Allison bought their Halloween costumes from one of those expensive mail-order catalogs that are always coming in the mail, courtesy of demographics—theirs being one of the wealthiest zip codes in the country.