Whisper Me This(79)

“What are you doing?” His voice was a white heat of anger, but even that wasn’t enough to slice through the level of exhaustion that melted me into the bed.

“Sleeping,” I mumbled, burrowing into the blankets, pulling a pillow over my head.

“Oh no, you’re not.” He yanked the pillow away from me. “You are going to make that noise stop, and you’re going to do it now.”

Adrenaline dispelled sleep enough for me to see the state he was in, but I still couldn’t think straight. “Your turn,” I said. “Please. I’m so tired.” Tears started to flow, sideways into my ears.

“You’re a shitty mother,” he said. “You know that? I’ve been trying to help, but there’s only so much I can do. Get up and make them stop crying.”

“I need—”

He straddled me, knees on either side of my legs, face just visible in the light filtering in from the streetlights outside the window. “This isn’t about what you need. You wanted kids. Now you’ve got kids. And you can fucking get up and take care of them.”

I wasn’t stupid. I remembered well enough the fist to my face, the boot to my belly. But I wasn’t thinking straight either, and I had always had a sharp tongue. His accusations, his tone, raised my own temper.

“Maybe if you weren’t such a poor excuse for a father—”





Chapter Twenty-Four

Greg walks in at precisely 9:00 a.m. No knock. No warning.

He powers into the kitchen like it’s a courtroom, freshly shaven, perfectly combed, briefcase in hand. I’m lounging at the table about halfway through my second mug of coffee, my rumpled T-shirt and yoga pants a counterpoint to his impeccably ironed shirt and perfectly matching tie.

Elle flits by him, gives me a hug, and then plunks down on the floor in front of the cereal cupboard. She grabs a box of Froot Loops and hugs them to her chest.

“You’ve had breakfast,” Greg says.

She wrinkles her nose at him. “I’ve had fruit. And oatmeal. A girl needs sustenance.”

“Put it back. It’s nothing but sugar.”

“Oh good grief, Greg. Let her have some cereal.”

Greg sets his briefcase on the table, a little harder than necessary. He glares, first at her, and then at me. He’s justified. I’ve undermined his authority in front of our daughter. My hand goes involuntarily to my bruised ribs, and the haze of fatigue clears from my head. I’m awake. I’m alert. I’m hyperfocused on his eyes and his hands, every muscle in my body prepped for flight.

“Is this how she eats? No wonder she’s getting chubby. Do you—”

“Her weight is perfect. Don’t start. Besides, it’s a funeral. Rules don’t apply.”

“The funeral was yesterday.”

“Precisely.”

I’m amazed at my own audacity. The same part of me that was slurping cereal milk last night is enjoying contradicting Greg today, even as my early warning system starts sending siren bleats of danger through my brain and body.

Be small. Be quiet. Just go along.

I’ve done that. I’ve been doing that for years.

Frankly, I’m pissed. I’m pissed at my mother for dying and for having secrets. I’m pissed that she lied to me, that she pushed and prodded and poked at me to try to make me marry Greg. And I’m royally, out-of-the-ballpark pissed at Greg for being Greg in the first place.

“Coffee?” I ask him. “There’s more in the pot. Or Elle could fix you a bowl of cereal.”

I brace myself for the possibility of violence, but it’s not like he’d actually hit me. Not in Dad’s house. Not in front of Elle. He’ll take it out in other ways.

Right now, he very deliberately and precisely unlocks the briefcase and clicks it open. “We have a lot of work to do. You’re not even dressed.”

“I’m dressed.” Maybe if he’d called ahead, I would have changed. Maybe I wouldn’t have. To be fair, Elle knows where the key is hidden under the mat, and I know she opened the door for both of them. Also, if I had stopped to think about it, his behavior is perfectly predictable. Up at six, breakfast, exercise, work at nine.

His eyes flick over me with disdain, then go pointedly to the clock. He sits down at the table, but does nothing further.

It’s now 9:05. I am not with the program. He fully expects me to get up from this chair and go put on some real clothes, at minimum. Comb my hair. I should have prepared. Should have had all relevant files laid out for his inspection.

The usual guilt swamps my childish rebellion. Greg’s just trying to help. He wouldn’t have to do a thing, and yet here he is. He’s taking time away from his family, from his work, to help us out, and I am behaving badly.

Elle drags out a chair and plunks a bowl and spoon onto the table. She’s mixed three different varieties of cereal. The milk is pink. My stomach takes a little spin at the thought of eating the concoction, but she makes a little hum of pleasure with the first bite.

I take another sip of coffee and go refresh my cup. “What do you need?” I ask Greg. “Maybe we should move to the study.”

“I’m already set up here. I’ve spoken with the police, Mental Health, and Adult Protective Services. They’ve sort of back-burnered your dad because nobody has pressed charges. But somebody should be set up with a power of attorney. I’d like to get that squared away before I go.”