Long Bright River(54)

Quietly, I roused myself from the bed and tiptoed to the end of it. There, in a nest of blankets and pillows, was my son. He was talking in his sleep. I watched him for a moment, uncertain whether to wake him. He pedaled his limbs wildly, like a dog chasing rabbits in his dreams. In the dim room I could only just make out his expression, which changed rapidly: he smiled, and then frowned, and then his eyebrows pinched together, and then his chin puckered. I leaned down to him, and only then did I notice he had been crying in his sleep; the pillowcase beside his face, in fact, was soaked with tears. I put one hand on his forehead, and then his shoulder. Thomas, I said, Thomas. You’re all right.

But he couldn’t be woken, and so, for that one night, I brought him into my bed with me, and I put my hand very lightly on his smooth forehead, the way my mother used to do for me, and stroked his eyebrows gently until he settled.

When he at last looked comfortable, I returned him to bed. And in the morning, when he recounted a memory of having seen me in the night, I told him that it had only been a dream.





Overnight, I open my eyes to find that we are in the thick of it.

Out my bedroom window, snow is falling heavily in the shaft of light sent out by the streetlamp at the foot of Mrs. Mahon’s driveway.



* * *



—

In the morning, I wake to my phone alarm, snatch it off my bedside table, and press Cancel. There on the screen, unsurprisingly, is a text from Bethany, sent at six in the morning: Roads r crazy! Can’t make it : (

—No, I say aloud. I stand up and walk to the window. A thick coat of white over everything. No, I say again.

I hear Thomas’s footsteps as he walks down the hall toward my room. He knocks, and then opens the door.

—What’s wrong? he asks.

—Bethany can’t come today, I say. She’s snowed in.

Or, just as likely, she’s pouting because of the exchange we had yesterday.

—Yes! says Thomas, and it occurs to me too late that he thinks this means I will stay home with him.

—No, I say. I’m sorry, Thomas. No more time off. I have to go to work.

His small face crumples, and I take it in my hands.

—I’m sorry, I say again. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.

I sit down on the edge of the bed again, thinking.

Thomas puts his small chin on my shoulder, light as a bird.

—Where will I go? he says.

—I’m not sure yet, I say.

—I can come to work with you, he says. I can ride in the backseat.

I smile. I’m afraid that’s not allowed, I say.

I pull him onto my lap. Together, we wonder what we’ll do.



* * *



—

Reluctantly, I try Gee first. In the past, she’s watched Thomas on a handful of occasions, true emergencies. But I’m not optimistic. Sure enough: she doesn’t answer her phone.

I try Carla, Thomas’s former part-time babysitter, next.

But Carla works at an insurance company in Center City these days, and she tells me regretfully that her office is open.

Ashley, I think. A last resort. I call her cell phone. No answer. I send her a text.



* * *



—

While waiting for Ashley to reply, I feed Thomas breakfast and gaze out the window. It’s still snowing. There’s the driveway to shovel, before I do anything else.

—Put on your boots, I say to my son.



* * *



—

Outside, the work puts me in a better mood. I used to exercise regularly when I lived in Port Richmond. I did CrossFit, very briefly. Even joined a coed soccer team. Working up a good sweat three or four times a week has always kept me calm. But recently I’ve had no time.

I give Thomas a trowel and tell him to help. He spends twenty minutes on the same spot, and then turns his attention to trying to build sandcastles out of snow.

I’ve got maybe five feet of driveway to go when Mrs. Mahon appears in her doorway.

—You don’t have to do that, she calls to me. Not your job.

—I don’t mind, I say.

—I can pay Chuck, says Mrs. Mahon. Usually do.

Chuck is the teenage son of our next-door neighbor. He comes around to make a buck by raking or sweeping or, I imagine, shoveling when it snows.

I keep working.

—Well, anyway, says Mrs. Mahon. Thank you.

—No problem, I say. And then I have a thought. I check my phone. No reply yet from Ashley.

—Mrs. Mahon, I say. Do you have plans today?

Mrs. Mahon frowns.

—I never have plans, Mickey, she says.



* * *



—

I have never once been inside of Mrs. Mahon’s house. When I signed the lease, it was in the apartment upstairs. Today, when Mrs. Mahon opens the door for us, I am surprised. Somehow I was picturing something along the lines of Gee’s house, knickknacks all over, old carpet that needs replacing. Instead, it’s sparsely furnished and impeccably clean. The floors are hardwood except where they are covered by small rugs. The furniture is mainly well made. The apartment has modern art all over it, large abstract paintings, textured with brushstrokes. They’re not bad. Did Mrs. Mahon do these herself? I can’t imagine asking that question, but I’m curious.