Confessions on the 7:45(20)

A few minutes later, she heard the boys running up the stairs. They’d been making videos of each other, recording on their iPads. This activity seemed to keep them goofily getting along, so she didn’t hassle them about too much time on their devices. It was creative at least, making and editing silly videos.

In the living room, she tidied—folded the blanket, fluffed the pillows. She caught sight of her reflection in the screen when she turned off the television. Hair up, outfit slouchy—baggy shirt and jeans too big. Her boobs—they looked huge, not in a good way. Men were so into it. But she just thought her large bust made her look fatter than she was—and she was no skinny waif. Today, she wasn’t even wearing makeup. She looked like the worst cliché of a housewife. One without a house and who wasn’t a wife.

Again, thoughts of her sister—her perfect sister who was a flawless beauty, never made mistakes, was always in control of every enterprise—surfaced, unwanted.

Are you even dating? she’d asked recently. She had nothing but disapproving things to say about Geneva, her life choices, her work. Geneva shouldn’t want her approval so badly, but she did.

The washing machine chimed that it was ready. She was about to go change it to the dryer when she heard the garage door open.

Shit.

Graham.

Her palms got all sweaty. But he’d leave her alone, right? The boys were up. Since it was Friday, Selena could come home at any time. She went to the laundry room, changed the wash. She’d make a hasty exit. Selena could pay her on Monday.

Then, after a few minutes, she heard Selena’s voice.

“I’m home early!” she called. Thunder on the stairs a moment later as the boys came down, yelling for her. Mom! Mahhhm! Mommy!

How nice that must be, thought Geneva, feeling a twinge she sometimes felt. The twinge of the voyeur, the interloper, the outsider on the inside.

When is your life going to start, Geneva? Her sister again, that silvery voice heavy with mock kindness. There’s more to you, isn’t there? I’m just worried about you. You’re like a case of arrested development.

Arrested development. When a person stops maturing at a point of trauma, grief, or at a place in her life when she felt the profound and total loss of love from a primary caregiver. Maybe it was an accurate diagnosis. No one ever accused her sister of being stupid.

She finished folding the wash, headed downstairs.

In the kitchen, the kids had attached themselves to Selena’s body, and she with an arm around each. She was tall and slim. Oliver shared her dark good looks, Stephen favoring his lighter, thicker father. Selena extracted herself, giving each boy another hug and kiss, then offered Geneva a tight smile. When their eyes met, Geneva’s stomach clenched. There was a distance to the other woman’s gaze, a coldness.

She knew.

“Lucky you,” said Selena. “You get to start your weekend a bit early, too.”

“Great,” Geneva said, smiling.

“Of course, I’ll pay you for the full day,” Selena said kindly.

“Thank you.”

She didn’t seem angry. If she knew—how could she stand the sight of Geneva? If she knew—how could she have gone to work? Pretend like nothing was wrong? She thought about that drop of blood she’d wiped away.

She started gathering up her things.

I’m sorry, Geneva wanted to say. I don’t even like him. There are reasons, deep and twisted, why I did it—according to my shrink. If you only knew the things that have happened to me, you might understand why I make so many bad choices. And then there’s my sister, what she asks of me, what I do for her. I’m tangled in my life. I can’t free myself.

But she didn’t say any of those things.

“Where’s Dad?” asked Oliver.

“He’s away this weekend,” said Selena. “You remember.”

Oliver shook his head, offered a confused frown. “No.”

“Boys’ weekend,” she said. “He went fishing with Uncle Joe.”

“Like a playdate?” asked Stephen, eyes wide with innocence.

“Exactly like a playdate,” said Selena with a playful roll of her eyes. Geneva tried to share a smile with her, but Selena wouldn’t meet her gaze.

“He didn’t say goodbye,” said Oliver, looking toward the door as if he expected Graham to walk back through.

“He did,” said Selena. “In the early, early morning. You woke up, remember?”

“No,” said Oliver stubbornly. “He didn’t.”

Selena touched his head, gave him a loving smile.

“You just don’t remember, sleepyhead.”

“I remember,” said Stephen, presenting himself for Selena’s approval. “He whispered.”

“That’s right,” said Selena, dropping a hand on Stephen’s shoulder. Stephen shot Oliver a victorious look, but the other boy was still frowning, unconvinced.

“Is he going to call at bedtime?” Oliver wanted to know.

“If they have service,” said Selena, voice neutral. “I haven’t heard from your dad today. So I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

If Selena was annoyed about Graham’s trip, if there was any more to it, it certainly didn’t show in front of the boys. The rag Geneva had used to clean up the small amount of blood had come away dark and red. There was still the faintest tinge of pink on the counter that wouldn’t come up. They said you could never really clean away all traces of blood. The hemoglobin always stayed behind, sank into porous surfaces, clung to fibers. She’d put the rag through the wash twice with bleach, stuffed it in the back of the cabinet with the other rags.