deserve to be hurt by this.
Time passes, though, and buffs my worry until it’s no longer sharp. Each day it slips a little further from my thoughts. A sliver burrowed under my skin.
The rain starts to fall sometime before dinner on the night before Thanksgiving. Just as I’m spooning pot roast over egg noodles, an enormous clap of thunder sets the sky into a torrential pour. The girls run to the window to see the black clouds racing in, shrouding the last patches of struggling daylight.
“Get back from the windows,” Tom says, and the girls leap onto the sofa, huddled together, loving every minute of the brewing thunderstorm, with all of the tumult of a Greek myth, Zeus throwing a tantrum. Meanwhile the boys huddle around my legs, koala bears clipped to a tree.
Tom clicks on the television and a warning for our county is flashing across the screen. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR HOUSE UNLESS ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY , it warns. The newscaster is using the terms “mini-tornado” and “microburst” to describe the impending storm. An unreasonable frustration swirls in me like the weather outside: Mother Nature is very inconveniently ruining our Thanksgiving plans. If the storm keeps up, my sisters will never make it. As if she were reading my mind, the phone rings and it’s Angela.
“J. C., Mare. If you didn’t want us to come, you could have just said so.”
“I know,” I whine. “This sucks. I was really looking forward to seeing everyone.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine by tomorrow.”
“Maybe,” I say, not so sure. “They’re talking about downed power lines and trees on the roads.”
“Don’t stress. We’ll talk in the morning.”
“Okay, I’ll keep positive thoughts.”
“Screw that,” Angela says. “Say a Hail Mary. For the storm…and for whatever else is bugging you.”
“I have been,” I say.
“Saying Hail Marys?”
“A lot of them,” I admit.
“For the storm? Or for what’s bugging you?”
“The storm just started,” I say, hanging up before I reveal too much. So long as it’s not said, perhaps it isn’t real. As much as I’d like to tell Angie about the photo, about Landon, I can’t, because by now I’m certain of one thing: The truth is owed to Tom, no one else.
The rain pounds throughout the night. Tom and I lie in bed and listen to the
ting-ting-ting
on the rooftop as the wind gusts swoosh by the windows. I get up to check the boys, who are sleeping together in Danny’s bed, the one that isn’t near the window. Emily, too, is sleeping with Sally, whose bed is squished into a corner and draped with a canopy. Back in bed, I snuggle up to Tom, curling around his muscular arm. I bury my face into it and inhale his scent. “Want to make out?” I say, kissing his shoulder.
“I always want to make out,” he says, rolling into me and wrapping his arms around my back.
“It’s the flannel, isn’t it?” I say. “This nightgown turns you on.”
“A warm body turns me on,” he says, yanking at my undies.
By the time I open my eyes to see the morning light sneaking through the bottom slats of miniblinds, I already have two kids in my bed. The twins are curled into each other like two sides ofa butterfly, and Tom is splayed out on his stomach with his arm covering them like a speed bump. I slip out of bed and look out the window. A beautiful sunny morning, birds are chirping, the sky is resplendent, but the aftermath from the storm looks like Armageddon blew through. There are branches scattered across the driveway, entire trees uprooted across the lawn. It looks as if a giant has come and picked up our neighborhood in its meaty hand and shaken it like a snow globe.
“Tom,” I say. “Tommy, wake up. This is nuts.”
Tom yawns and stretches and gets out of bed, joining me at the window. “Good God,” he says. And then, “Chain saw.”
“What about Thanksgiving?”
“We’re going to have a great Thanksgiving,” Tom says, kissing me smack on the mouth before
Time passes, though, and buffs my worry until it’s no longer sharp. Each day it slips a little further from my thoughts. A sliver burrowed under my skin.
The rain starts to fall sometime before dinner on the night before Thanksgiving. Just as I’m spooning pot roast over egg noodles, an enormous clap of thunder sets the sky into a torrential pour. The girls run to the window to see the black clouds racing in, shrouding the last patches of struggling daylight.
“Get back from the windows,” Tom says, and the girls leap onto the sofa, huddled together, loving every minute of the brewing thunderstorm, with all of the tumult of a Greek myth, Zeus throwing a tantrum. Meanwhile the boys huddle around my legs, koala bears clipped to a tree.
Tom clicks on the television and a warning for our county is flashing across the screen. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR HOUSE UNLESS ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY , it warns. The newscaster is using the terms “mini-tornado” and “microburst” to describe the impending storm. An unreasonable frustration swirls in me like the weather outside: Mother Nature is very inconveniently ruining our Thanksgiving plans. If the storm keeps up, my sisters will never make it. As if she were reading my mind, the phone rings and it’s Angela.
“J. C., Mare. If you didn’t want us to come, you could have just said so.”
“I know,” I whine. “This sucks. I was really looking forward to seeing everyone.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine by tomorrow.”
“Maybe,” I say, not so sure. “They’re talking about downed power lines and trees on the roads.”
“Don’t stress. We’ll talk in the morning.”
“Okay, I’ll keep positive thoughts.”
“Screw that,” Angela says. “Say a Hail Mary. For the storm…and for whatever else is bugging you.”
“I have been,” I say.
“Saying Hail Marys?”
“A lot of them,” I admit.
“For the storm? Or for what’s bugging you?”
“The storm just started,” I say, hanging up before I reveal too much. So long as it’s not said, perhaps it isn’t real. As much as I’d like to tell Angie about the photo, about Landon, I can’t, because by now I’m certain of one thing: The truth is owed to Tom, no one else.
The rain pounds throughout the night. Tom and I lie in bed and listen to the
ting-ting-ting
on the rooftop as the wind gusts swoosh by the windows. I get up to check the boys, who are sleeping together in Danny’s bed, the one that isn’t near the window. Emily, too, is sleeping with Sally, whose bed is squished into a corner and draped with a canopy. Back in bed, I snuggle up to Tom, curling around his muscular arm. I bury my face into it and inhale his scent. “Want to make out?” I say, kissing his shoulder.
“I always want to make out,” he says, rolling into me and wrapping his arms around my back.
“It’s the flannel, isn’t it?” I say. “This nightgown turns you on.”
“A warm body turns me on,” he says, yanking at my undies.
By the time I open my eyes to see the morning light sneaking through the bottom slats of miniblinds, I already have two kids in my bed. The twins are curled into each other like two sides ofa butterfly, and Tom is splayed out on his stomach with his arm covering them like a speed bump. I slip out of bed and look out the window. A beautiful sunny morning, birds are chirping, the sky is resplendent, but the aftermath from the storm looks like Armageddon blew through. There are branches scattered across the driveway, entire trees uprooted across the lawn. It looks as if a giant has come and picked up our neighborhood in its meaty hand and shaken it like a snow globe.
“Tom,” I say. “Tommy, wake up. This is nuts.”
Tom yawns and stretches and gets out of bed, joining me at the window. “Good God,” he says. And then, “Chain saw.”
“What about Thanksgiving?”
“We’re going to have a great Thanksgiving,” Tom says, kissing me smack on the mouth before
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