Confessions on the 7:45(25)

But had she been happy?

She and Graham stood on the sidelines at soccer fields and baseball games, smiling, laughing, cheering. They had their foldout event chairs, their cooler filled with water and oranges to share with the team and other parents. There were parties with friends and picnics and lovely family vacations. They had a legion of friends, acquaintances, neighbors. School functions, backyard barbecues, charity auctions, community fun runs. It was a life that they had built—one that seemed to spring up all around them without much thought. And it was a good one. Wasn’t it?

But before all that—what had she wanted to do? What had she wanted to be?

A writer.

For the first time since last night, she let herself cry. She turned on the television and buried her face in a big soft pillow and let it rip. All her anger, sorrow, the fatigue of holding it all in, her fear for what came next released into the cotton. When she was done, she felt better, cleansed.

She needed to think, figure out what to do.

Her phone lay dark and silent on the comforter next to her. Who could she call? Who should she call? No one. Her sweet mother. Her perfect sister. Her successful friends. Who could she tell what a shambles her life was about to become? The only person she wanted to call was Will, her ex, the man who she’d left for Graham. Improbably, they were still friends. Good friends. She could call him; she knew that. He’d be happy she did. A little too happy. It was a bad idea. She didn’t call anyone.

She thought again about the woman from the train. Martha, that was her name. Her confessor. She felt like maybe she would tell Martha what had happened. What would she say? Not that she had any way to reach the other woman.

On the dresser was a photograph of Graham, Oliver, Stephen and Selena, a family portrait taken at a low point in their marriage. It had been sheer chaos getting everyone dressed and out the door to the park to meet the professional photographer. Stephen wailed the whole way there. Graham thought it was a stupid expense, groused about that, about traffic, snapped at the boys. It was miserable. But everyone managed to pull it together for the session, fake smiles plastered on bright.

“Don’t worry,” said the photographer, an older woman with a wild head of curls and a wise smile. She must have sensed their stress levels, though Selena had tried to hide it. “It will be worth it.”

She meant more than the photo session, gave Selena a warm squeeze on the arm.

When the photos came back, they were perfect. All of them looking blissfully happy, she and Graham in love, the boys like little angels. She chose one for their photo Christmas card; everyone raved about it. The photographer was right, Selena thought when the proofs arrived. It’s all worth it.

What a fraud, she thought now, holding the portrait. She wanted to smash it. Instead she placed it down again, lay back on the bed, blanked out staring at the screen. Game of Thrones—everyone beautiful, draped in leather, smoldering, urgent with the approach of war. She let herself escape into that beautiful, dangerous fantasy world for a while. Dragons. Dirty sex. The Three-Eyed Raven. An army of undead soldiers. All of it way more manageable than real life.

Then she heard something, turned down the volume on the TV.

The security alarm was set; she’d done that before they came up.

Walking out into the hallway, she was greeted by quiet.

At the landing, she paused and listened, then went down. She checked the front door—locked. Alarm still armed and active. Back door closed and locked. Selena checked each window on the first floor, moving room to room. There’d never been a break-in in this neighborhood that she knew of.

But what the woman on the train said was true, wasn’t it? Bad things happen all the time. Randomly. When you least expect it.

At the top of the stairs, a slim figure hovered. A scream crept up her throat.

For a terrible, reality-altering second, she thought it was the woman from the train.

“Mom.” It was Oliver. “I heard something.”

Relief flooded her system as she climbed the stairs. At the top, she took his shoulders. “You scared me, buddy.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Back to bed.”

“Stephen’s snoring. Can I sleep with you?”

She looked into those wide, dark eyes. Her little old soul. He came out of the womb staring at her. Stephen wailed and fussed, wouldn’t nurse, was colicky and a general pain. But Oliver had been her angel baby, her kindred spirit. When she looked at him, sometimes when he wasn’t being a troublemaker and a con, she saw all the layers of past, present and future. Who he was before he was born, who she had been, the man he’d become, who they’d be together, and long after they were both gone.

They climbed into the big bed, and she teddy-bear-hugged him, relishing the warmth of his little body, the role of mother that allowed her to back-burner everything else.

“I heard you and Dad fighting last night,” he said when she thought he was asleep.

She thought about denying it. Then, “I’m sorry.”

She thought the boys had slept through it. But really, how could they have? It was epic.

“It sounded like you hated each other,” said Oliver.

She felt a dump of sadness in her middle. “No.”

“You said that. You said, ‘I hate you, Graham.’ You said you wished you’d never married him. That you should have married Uncle Will.”