All the Dangerous Things(63)

I try to imagine myself walking down the hall, passing his nursery, and opening the front door instead, roaming the streets of my neighborhood, like some kind of restless spirit walking a familiar, comforting path. I think of those footprints on my carpet again; the fact that I had done that exact thing before—but even if that’s the case, there’s no way I would have brought Mason with me. I’ve seen myself enough times on these videos to know: I’ve never touched him. I’ve never even gotten closer than mid-room. That man must be confused. He must be lying to me, playing with me, trying to make me believe something that just isn’t true.

I hit Play again, resuming the video, watching as my body continues to sway like laundry on a clothing line being pushed by the wind. I observe the way Mason kicks his little feet in his sleep, the entire screen glowing in a strange, night-vision gray, making me look like I’m an animal in the dark, wandering into some kind of trap. Finally, I see my legs move: a step, and then another. I wait for myself to turn around, to walk back toward the door, but instead of walking out the way I came, I start to walk closer. Closer to Mason.

I lean forward, the light from the laptop making my eyes burn. I watch as my body approaches his crib and stands, silently, above him, peering down—then as I lean forward, my arms outstretched.

No, I think, unable to look away, unable to move, as my unconscious body picks up my son, his little feet kicking in the air as I hoist him up, bring him close. Hold him tight against my chest.

I slap my laptop shut, too afraid to see what comes next.





CHAPTER FORTY-ONE




A month after Allison’s memorial, I left my job at The Grit.

Ben found a way, just like he promised, and it involved me going freelance. I would continue writing for them on a project-by-project basis, then when we went public with our relationship, it wouldn’t look as bad. It wouldn’t look like a boss and his employee; it wouldn’t have started when Allison was still alive.

We had connected afterward, of course. After Allison was dead. After I was already gone.

Our wedding was small, intimate. It didn’t feel right to Ben to have a grand reception, and I tended to agree. It was his second marriage, after all, less than a year after Allison’s death. And besides, I didn’t have many people I wanted to invite.

To be honest, I didn’t have anyone at all.

We exchanged vows in Chippewa Square, the cobblestones providing a makeshift aisle, our altar an archway of sweeping trees. I wore white, a simple summer dress, and remember grinning widely every time a random passerby would whistle as they caught a glimpse. After so many months of secrecy—of trying to ignore each other at the office; of being out in public together, but not really together—it felt good for the world to acknowledge us.

To acknowledge me.

After the ceremony, we went to dinner, just Ben and me. We ate pasta and drank two bottles of rosé, laughing and beaming and utterly giddy at the thought of spending the rest of our lives together. We had moved into our house just a few days earlier, but the furniture hadn’t been delivered yet, so we spent our wedding night in an improvised bed made of blankets and throw pillows laid out across the living room floor. I remember the mismatched candle collection flickering from the mantel, the flower petals he had ripped from my bouquet and sprinkled across the carpet. It was passionate and romantic and emotional and real.

It was the happiest night of my life.

We had talked about children, of course. Neither of us wanted them. Ben was too busy. His priority was work, it always would be, and he knew that would make him absent: one of those fathers who was never really there. I understood that—appreciated it, even, having grown up with one myself—so I told him I never saw myself as a mother, either. And that was the truth. It reminded me too much of Margaret: of what had happened when another life had been left in my care.

Of how badly I had failed the first time.

But then something inside me started to change. It was a slow revelation, barely there, that took years to take root, like a helicopter seed drifting away before planting itself in open soil. I was enjoying freelancing, for the most part, but it was different from The Grit. I didn’t have an office or coworkers; I spent almost all of my time alone. I got to travel a bit, here and there, but mostly I was home, spending the majority of each day glancing at the clock, counting down the hours until Ben would walk back through the door, and I would finally have some company.

And then, of course, there was Ben. The subtle changes that took place in him, too. The way he stopped eying me as I slinked around the house in my barely there bathrobe, his eyes cast down at his computer instead. The way he seemed to get home later and later, our once-fresh marriage suddenly grown stale. Before, he seemed so excited by me. So alive. But now that he had me, I felt myself starting to tarnish in his eyes, like a piece of fine jewelry left alone for too long. I tried to tell myself that that was just marriage—an inevitable, slow decay that took place as the years stripped us of our spontaneity and spark—but I didn’t want to accept it. I didn’t want to accept that, only four years in, things had already stalled.

I didn’t want to accept that after everything we had gone through together—after losing Allison, and my job, and all those other little casualties that felt like they were offered up in the hopes of something more—this was it.

I remember that morning so vividly; the morning that seed finally sprouted into something wild and alive. It was like an invasive weed I could no longer contain, snaking its way through my brain and taking over everything. I had been thinking about it for a while, really. I had been thinking that maybe a baby wouldn’t be so bad—in fact, maybe it would be good. Maybe it would nudge Ben to stay home a little more; to shift his priorities. Maybe it would help bring us back together—and maybe, maybe, it would be my chance to take care of someone after I had failed to take care of Margaret.