Wherever She Goes(50)

I intended to go to a hotel.

This is not a hotel.

I’m sitting in a driveway, staring at a house that used to be mine. I see a car in the drive that used to be mine. And inside that home is a family that used to be mine.

I sit in that drive, and I cry. I can’t help it. I slump over the steering wheel, forehead against it, and I cry.

I think of all the times I pulled into this drive and took it for granted. Pulled in and just wanted to get Charlotte out of the car, because she was fussing, and it’d been a long day of errands. Wanted to get her out and put her down for a nap and rest, just rest.

I loved my life, but I’d be lying if I said there weren’t times I wanted to escape it, too. Times when I longed for Charlotte to sleep so I’d have a few moments to myself. Times when I’d be making dinner and wish someone would cook it for me, wish I’d be the one coming home from work. Times when I even thought, Dear God, what have I done?

But that despair and regret never lasted long. The pressures and, yes, the loneliness of being a stay-at-home mom piled up, and I caved under it for an hour or two. Felt sorry for myself. Envied other lives. Far more often, though, I’d be in the yard with Charlotte, and I’d see other mothers hurrying to work, herding kids into the car, and I’d be so glad that wasn’t me. I’d be in the park with her, see the snarl of the morning commute, and I’d count my blessings. Staying home wasn’t for every parent, but it’d been what I wanted. Just give me a few years with my daughter—with all my kids, including those yet to come—and then I’d happily return to the workforce and find satisfaction there.

I had that. And I didn’t lose it. I gave it up. Now I sit in the car and look at that house, and I cry.

I came here to warn Paul. Tell him what’s going on and make sure he realizes the danger.

That’s it.

No, that’s not it. I came here for sanctuary. To tell Paul of the danger, yes, but then hope he’ll ask me to stay. Hope he’ll let me stay, just for the night.

I am afraid, and this is my home, and I desperately want to be here, where it’s safe. With Paul, where it’s safe. With Charlotte, where I know she’s safe, where I can watch out for her.

Too bad.

I can’t put this on Paul. I do need to warn him, but that can be accomplished with a phone call.

As I put the car into reverse, the front door opens. Paul steps out. His shirt is half-buttoned, his feet are bare, and his state of undress reminds me what he’d been doing earlier. Taking Gayle’s daughter to the train station. Presumably with Gayle, who might be in the house right now.

I start to back out. He raises his hand for me to stop. I put down the passenger window as he walks over.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I wanted to talk to you, but I should have just called.”

He leans down to the open window. “Come inside.”

I shake my head. “I don’t want to interrupt your evening.”

“I’m working, Bree. Interruptions are welcome.”

“Gayle isn’t here?”

His brows knit.

“You looked . . . I thought Gayle might be here.”

He glances down at himself, and it takes a moment for him to realize what I mean. “No, Aubrey, you didn’t ‘interrupt’ anything. Charlie’s in the house. I got comfortable because the office is stuffy. The air conditioner isn’t working right again.”

“You need to clear the weeds from the unit. They choke the fan. Here, let me do that, and then I’ll go.”

I turn off the car. When I get out and head for the backyard, Paul steps into my path.

“You aren’t here to fix the air conditioner, Bree. Come inside and talk.”

“I’ll explain while I fix it.”

He sighs but follows me into the yard. I’m glad for the darkness. It hides the play set and the sandbox and everything that will remind me of Charlotte and our life here. As I’m making my way to the air-conditioning unit, I smack into something in my path. It’s a hammock. My hammock, still stretched between two trees.

Paul bought it for me to read on while Charlotte played. I remember laughing at the thought that I could laze out here, reading, instead of chasing her. I did use it, though, when she was napping. I’d read and relax with the baby monitor beside me.

I remember Paul reading outside in a chair, and I’d tried to convince him to use the hammock.

“That takes far more motor skill than I possess,” he’d said.

Yet it’s still here. As if I never left it. As if I could grab a book and settle in—

I push past the hammock as Paul flips on the deck lights. Sure enough, vines choke the AC unit. As I pull them off, Paul says, “I can do that.”

“Got it.”

I keep tugging.

“Bree?” he says.

I don’t look up.

“I know you came here to explain,” he says, “and you know I don’t want to hear it.”

I’m about to say no, that’s not it, but he continues.

“I really don’t,” he says. “I need some time. But if you’re worried that I’ll keep Charlie from you, don’t be. Please. I already said I wouldn’t and . . .”

He exhales and leans against the deck railing, as I untangle vines below.