All the Dangerous Things(9)

“I can’t even imagine,” they’d say at last, “the pain you’ve endured.”

And they’re right: They can’t imagine. There is no way to imagine it until you’re right in the thick of it, living it, and by then, it’s too late.

The violence has come for you, too.

I can hear Roscoe snoring at my feet, his breath rhythmic and peaceful, until the charms on his collar clank as he lifts his head and stares at the front door. My heart sinks, watching him get up, trot over, and sit patiently by the window as a shadow of a man appears outside. I squeeze my eyes shut, take a deep breath, and lift my hand to my chest, my fingers massaging the outlines of the necklace hidden beneath my shirt. Then I make my way to the door.

I know who it is before I hear the knock.

“Good morning,” I say, opening the door and staring at my husband, realizing too late that it’s already well past noon. “What a surprise.”

“Hey,” Ben says, his eyes looking anywhere but into mine. “Can I come in?”

I open it wider and gesture for him to come inside. There’s a rigid politeness in his posture, as if we were strangers. As if he didn’t used to live in this very house; as if his lips haven’t touched every inch of my skin, his fingers haven’t explored every birthmark and blemish and scar. He leans down and pets Roscoe, whispering good boy over and over again. I watch their interaction, natural and calm, and wish Roscoe would curl back his lip, bare his teeth. Give my husband a menacing snarl for leaving him, leaving us.

Instead, he licks Ben’s fingers.

“What can I do for you?” I ask, crossing my arms tight against my chest.

“Just checking in. Today, you know.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Today. Day three hundred and sixty-five. One full year since our final day with Mason. One year since I read him that story and tucked him in tight; since I climbed into bed next to Ben and closed my eyes, drifted so easily into that long, still slumber, blissfully unaware of the hell that waited for us on the other side of dawn.

“Still not sleeping, huh?”

I try not to let the comment hurt—he doesn’t mean it like that, I know he doesn’t—but still, I hate it when he sees me like this.

“How can you tell?”

I try to crack a smile, show him that I’m kidding, but I’m not quite sure how it comes out. Maybe a bit deranged, because he doesn’t smile back.

It started as a desperate need to stay awake in case Mason came back. Someone had taken my baby, after all. Someone had taken him from me, and I had slept through it all. What kind of mother does that? What kind of mother doesn’t wake up? I felt like I should have known—I should have had some kind of primal feeling that something was happening, something was wrong—but I didn’t. I didn’t feel anything. So for those first few nights, I told myself I’d stay awake, just in case. That maybe, in the middle of the night, I’d peek into his nursery, and there he’d be: sitting up straight in his crib like he never even left. That he would crack that gummy little smile when he saw me. That he would reach for me, fingers curled around his favorite stuffed animal, and finally feel safe.

I wanted to be awake for that—no, I needed to be awake for that.

Then nights turned into weeks, weeks to months, and Mason still wasn’t home—but by then, I was wired differently. I was changed. Something had snapped in my brain, a taut rubber band that just couldn’t take the pressure anymore. Ben had begged me in the beginning, tried to pull me away from the window where I stood, feet planted, staring into the darkness.

“This isn’t doing anybody any good,” he would say. “Izzy, you need to rest.”

And I knew he was right—I knew it wasn’t doing any good—but still, I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t sleep.

“How’s work?” Ben asks now, straining for conversation.

“Slow,” I say, tucking a rogue strand of hair behind my ear. I had let it air dry, resulting in a wiry halo of baby hairs I feel tickling my forehead. “I’m not getting a ton of offers at the moment.”

“I would think business would be better than usual,” he responds, walking over to the couch and taking a seat. It annoys me he doesn’t ask permission, but then again, he did buy it. “You know, given the publicity.”

“I don’t want to do anything that feels exploitative.”

“And that’s different from what you’re currently doing … how?”

I stare at Ben, and he stares back. This is why he’s here—why he’s really here. He must have heard about it somehow: my keynote. I knew he would eventually, just not this soon.

“Why don’t you just come out and say it,” I say. “Come on, Ben. Just say it.”

“Fine, I’ll say it. What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m trying to keep his case alive.”

“It is alive,” he responds, exasperated. We’ve had this conversation so many times. “Isabelle, the police are working on it.”

Isabelle. He doesn’t call me Izzy anymore.

“You’ve got to stop this. All of it,” he says, gesturing to the dining room. I noticed him steal a glance earlier, that subconscious flinch as he rounded the corner, like steeling for a punch, his eyes skipping over all the pictures cluttering up the space where an oil painting of our wedding once hung. “It’s not healthy. Besides, it looks—”