The Mother-in-Law(53)

“And you need help with the kids.”

It’s not a question, nor is it an offer, though I have to respect the way she doesn’t waste anyone’s time. “Yes.”

I hear shuffling in the background, Diana flicking through her diary perhaps. She’ll have a full calendar, no doubt, but I’m holding out hope that she’ll find a half-hour slot somewhere (“between two-thirty and three P.M., but it has to be a three P.M. sharp pickup because I have to take a baby carriage across town and I’d like to get back before the rush-hour traffic”). Fact is, I’m not too proud to take that half hour. I’ll take anything I can get.

“I’m free,” she says after a moment. “I’ll come and pick them up right away.”

I blink. “You’ll . . . pick them up?”

“I just have to reschedule a drop-off, but that won’t take long. I’ll be there within the hour.”

When Diana knocks on my door I’m still horizontal but I’ve moved to the couch. Archie is glued to the iPad and Harriet is sitting on my stomach, whining for attention. The floor is littered with cushions, the coffee table with toast crumbs, plates, mugs, and oddly, one of my wedding shoes (kids!). I don’t try to conceal any of the mess. It’s all I can do to answer the door.

Diana has pharmacy bags. “I stopped at the drugstore. I have Lemsip, apparently it’s nothing more than acetaminophen but I always find it comforting when I’m sick. I also have cold and flu tablets. Take two right after we leave and get some sleep.” Diana takes Harriet. “Right, I’ll pack a bag for the kids.”

Diana swishes about the place, finding a weekend bag and stuffing it full of the kids’ clothes. She finds bottles and formula and a couple of jars of baby food, which she efficiently loads into the diaper bag, along with some diapers and wipes and pacifiers. I’m helpless to do anything but lie there and watch.

“All right, kids,” she says, when she’s filled two bags. “You’re coming for a sleepover at Dido’s.”

This is exciting enough to tear Archie from his screen. A sleepover? Diana has never had the kids for a sleepover before. Not even Archie. Sleepovers at grandmas’ were something that only ever happened in my dreams. Also, evidently, in Archie’s dreams, judging by the way he runs around in circles now. Archie adores Tom and Diana’s house. The games of hide-and-seek are epic, and he is remarkably unfazed by Diana’s unceasing monologue about how he isn’t to touch or break anything. I do worry about the stairs—marble, of course—and Harriet, who is just starting to crawl, but right now I decide it’s worth the risk.

“Be careful of Harriet on the stairs,” I say to Diana as she gathers up the kids. Suddenly I realize I haven’t thanked her for anything. I open my mouth to do that, but before I do, another thought jumps into my brain. “And don’t let them near the pool!”

Call me crazy but I have a terror of kids and pools. Tom and Diana have an indoor swimming pool (obviously) and they have managed to get around the mandatory pool fencing laws by having high door-handles and auto-closing doors. It’s all well and good except that Archie loves going into the pool area to look at the giant aquarium fish tank they have installed (of course) and if Diana got distracted by Harriet, I didn’t want to think about what could happen.

“No one in the pool area,” Diana agrees, and she disappears out the door with my children.

That’s when I realize I never did say thank you.

I sleep. An unfathomable all-consuming orgasm of a sleep. Pregnancy will do that to you.

I haven’t slept like this in years. My dreams are odd and ever-changing, and I rouse every few hours only to realize that my children aren’t here and I can go back to sleep indefinitely. It’s unthinkably luxurious. I find myself wanting to savor every second.

Around 5 P.M., when I rouse again, the phone is ringing. I snatch it from the bedside table and press it to my ear, eyes still closed.

“Hello?” It sounds more like “nnmmo.”

“Lucy?”

I open my eyes. It’s Diana, I can tell right away, even though her pitch sounds different, a note or two higher than usual. “ . . . yes?”

I hear talking in the background, unfamiliar voices speaking urgently. I feel a chill slip down my spine, a sluice of ice water. I rise to my elbows.

“What is it, Diana? What’s happened?”

“We’re on our way to the hospital, Lucy,” she says. Her voice is threaded through with fear. “You need to meet us there.”





33: LUCY


THE PRESENT . . .

Eamon is gone. Thankfully I didn’t need to break up the fight—as soon as Ollie had seen us watching, he’d released Eamon, who’d brushed himself off and stalked out the front door. Ollie also brushed himself off, and then turned and walked back into his office without a word. I’d left him alone only long enough to get the children in front of their screens, and now I knock on the door firmly.

“Come in,” he says.

Ollie is sitting in his chair, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He doesn’t look up.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

He keeps his head down, which does nothing to ease my anxiety. I think about all the things I know about him—the way he eats his breakfast cereal dry, no milk; the fact that he sleeps naked all year round; his ferocious hatred of celery, so strong that he can tell the moment he walks in the door if it’s been in the house. But clearly, there are a lot of things I don’t know about him.