The Better Liar(24)

    He picked up his phone and scrolled through Instagram. “Look, she posted a picture of Eli. Doesn’t he look great?”

Eli was sitting on a tiled floor, staring at one of Elaine’s cats, who skulked blurrily in the background. His face was turned away from the camera, which emphasized the length of his thick dark eyelashes, and his mouth hung open in fascination, the edge of a small pink tongue poking out. He looked just like Dave when he was concentrating. He looked just like the baby I’d dreamed we would have.

3 seconds before he tried to kiss Misty, Elaine had captioned the picture. Disappointing results. #ladieshesacatlover #cutebaby #thesmallestflores #brodyspals #playdate. It had 654 likes.

“She’s a good photographer,” I said. “Wow.”

“I think she’s thrilled I have spawn now, so she can change it up for the ’gram,” Dave said. “You can only take so many pictures of the same kids before people are like, Call me when they cure cancer.”

“I mean, she probably just wants more adults to hang out with,” I said. “She must be lonely.”

Dave laughed. “I doubt it. She’s got people over at that house day and night. She could be on Martha Stewart or whatever. Handed me a glass of homemade lemonade as soon as I walked in.”

“Still.” I pressed my cheek into the pillow. “It’s different, not having a husband.”

“Yeah, probably.” He set the phone back on the nightstand. “Eli had a good time over there. I think he needs more friends. I feel like now that you’re getting things wrapped up with your father’s house, you’ll have some extra time to hang with him. There’s a birthday party for one of the other kids at daycare next week. Friday the thirty-first. Maybe you could take him.”

    I didn’t move. “I don’t know how long this thing with her is going to take. With Robin.”

“Well, if you’re free.” The mattress tilted as he shifted his weight. “You want to watch something?”

I let him touch my hair, too gently. It felt apologetic. “Do you think Netflix has Anthony Bourdain?”

“Baby, we are gonna find out,” Dave said, and clicked the TV on.



* * *



—

Dave fell asleep barely fifteen minutes into “Hanoi.” I waited until the episode was over to get up and pull on my T-shirt and boxers and shut the light off. Then I crawled in next to him once more, trying to will myself into sleep.

I pulled his arm over my shoulders and pressed his wrist to my face. His heartbeat, like a live worm, moved against my cheek. His pulse had always been quicker than mine, reminding me every time I was in bed with him of his more subcutaneous functions. It was as if, as the night blinded me, I became more able to see the beauty of his insides: the violet thermal glow of his chest cavity, the electric-blue slosh of his stomach, the red pulsing veins embroidering his skin. He bled heat into the covers, into the mattress, his living so aggressive it kept me alive by proximity. I clutched him to me.

I’d expected to dream about Robin last night, but instead I had dreamed about Dave. The camping trip we took, up in Abiquiú, a few months before we got married. He’d borrowed his sister’s wife’s old gear, which included a clear-topped tent, and we lay in bed under an enormous glittering canopy as Dave tried to convince me of the existence of various types of desert predators I’d never heard of, complete with sound effects. That one’s the conejillo, he’d said. You don’t know it because it’s a Spanish name. Can you hear it?

And then later: Wake up. I miss you.

I’m right here, I’d said sleepily, opening my eyes to the still-bright stars.

How long had I been lying awake now? An hour? I looked at the bedside alarm but couldn’t remember when Anthony Bourdain had ended.

    Dave’s heartbeat pounded in my ear.

I gave in and sat up.

Down the hallway, lit a little to my dilated pupils. Mary’s door across the hall, shut tight. The next door, propped open. I pushed it farther and slipped inside.

There he was, asleep in the crib. He slept facedown, knees tucked underneath him—a position that suggested sleep had caught him standing up, crumpling him thoughtlessly. I stared at him, Eli, our baby, listened to his tiny, rapid breathing.

I don’t know how long I stood there, thinking, One more week. Then everything will be fixed.

One more week.





17


    Robin


Am I making Leslie sound like a saint? To me she was, at least back then. She taught me how to tie my shoes, how to heat up soup on the stove. She taught me how to read, in between school lessons, sat at home with one of the old Sassy magazines she stole from the hairdresser’s, helping me follow along the lines of “Ben Stiller: Cute Boy Director” with my fat pointer finger.

She taught me how to lie.

My mother was away again, although her purse still hung on its usual peg by the front door, and Grandma Betty had come to take care of us. We were unused to the surveillance. When it was just my mother around, I went to bed at nine, at Leslie’s provocation (she stayed up later, hours that I deeply begrudged her, plagued by visions of Leslie having dozens of friends over, all of them dancing madly around the bonfire without me or eating my personal Cheez-Its). But Grandma Betty believed that children should go to bed at eight, and sometimes barged into our shared room without knocking, hoping to catch us awake.