Learning to Stay by Erin Celello Page B

full-volume performance if she’s overtired.
    She packs Mia’s things and we hug good-bye before she picks Mia up out of her high chair.
    “You call me,” I say, wagging a finger at her.
    Darcy nods. “I’ll let you know,” she says again, and we both know that she will likely spend tonight just as she’s spent every other night since Mia was born—feeding and playing with her daughter, giving her a bath, singing her to sleep. Then she throws one arm around me in a hug.
    “Thank you,” she says.
    There are tears in Darcy’s eyes and she’s looking wistful. I imagine her going home to where Collin’s winter jackets still hang in their front hall closet, to where his shirts still lie folded in their dresser, and I wonder how I worked myself up to the point where I thought that my issues the past few days warranted the level of concern I’ve awarded them. I am lucky that Brad has come back, that he is alive; and although this phase of our relationship isn’t an easy one, it’s one that will pass. Standing here with Darcy, I see my situation for what it is: bumps in a road that will eventually be smoothed by time.
    “You’re welcome,” I say, hugging her back. And when I step through the café doors and into the crisp winter wind coming full force off Lake Monona and barreling up the hill to King Street, I feel better. I feel settled.
    Zach brings Susan in for our afternoon meeting, and any awkwardness between us has faded. Maybe I simply needed some fresh air, or maybe I imagined it all. Either way, the three of us settle into an easy rhythm, brainstorming various strategies that might work on
Rowland
and deciding who will be responsible for managing them. There is no small talk. Susan has been through the process of trying cases like this one many, many times before, and I get the distinct impression that she is going through these motions purely for our benefit.As a result, we finish earlier than I anticipated we would. Susan asks Zach to stay behind, and I’m suddenly free to duck out of work, if not early, then at least at a reasonable hour—and without any potential for additional weird exchanges between me and Zach.
    I decide to walk the mile or so home. The wind is less fierce than this afternoon, and the sky hangs black and clear overhead. As I walk, I breathe in through my nose, hold, and let my breath escape in one swift exhale from my mouth. It’s the only thing I ever picked up from my attempt at yoga years before. I was always too impatient for the deliberateness, the slowness, that yoga demanded. But tonight, the breathing works just as well as holding some ridiculous pose. By the time I’m home, my muscles have loosened. My mind has slowed. I’m ready to go in search of that dark-haired, handsome guy from our wedding picture, because I know he’s still in there, somewhere.
    I turn the key in the lock and push our front door open. And I lose any semblance of calm I had the moment before.
    Cupboards and drawers are hanging open, couch cushions are sprawled across the living room floor, and books have been pulled into heaps beneath the bookcases. It doesn’t appear as if anything is missing. It’s just been ransacked.
    And then I see the mirrors.
    One at the end of the hallway, one above our dresser in the bedroom, and another in the bathroom—all three are spidered with hundreds of breaks emanating from one single point of origin.
    Scenarios start to pinball inside my head. Have we been robbed? Did Brad get into a fight with someone? With himself?
    “Brad?” I call, tentatively at first, and then louder, until I’m yelling for him. “Brad! Babe? Brad!”
    I search the house until I finally find him sitting on the back step, smoking. After his mom died of lung cancer, it used to take everything that he had not to lecture complete strangers on the inherentevil of cigarettes. Now he’s up to a half a pack a day, as far as I can tell. His new habit concerns me, but it’s a conversation