I feel like I’ve been blindsided. To find out that some guy spent time with my wife, had some kind of relationship with her—no matter how platonic she says it was—hurts more than I ever imagined it would.

I can’t stop picturing them together. Talking and doing whatever it was that they did.

I want to know, but I don’t.

I should be grateful she didn’t sleep with him, but I’m not. I feel as if we’ve taken one giant step backward.

And I’m too pissed off to listen to the voice inside my head that’s saying it’s mostly my fault.

After spending a restless night on the couch I finally walk upstairs to our bedroom. Claire has fallen asleep with the TV on, but I don’t bother shutting it off. Once I’m out of the shower and dressed I look in on the kids and then I get in my car and drive to the airport.

64

claire

I don’t remember what time I finally fell asleep, and when I wake up at 6:00 A.M. the TV is still on. Chris’s side of the bed is empty and hasn’t been slept in. When I go to the bathroom I see his damp towel on the floor and smell the faint traces of his cologne, and when I check the garage I discover that he’s already left for the airport.

I watch the morning news as I make breakfast for the kids. The newscasters recycle the same information that I already learned last night before I dozed off: that Daniel and the reserve officer were flown by Life Flight helicopter to the University of Kansas Hospital and taken directly to surgery. They’re both in critical condition. The shooter—whom Daniel pulled over for running a red light—was strung out on drugs and wanted for a parole violation. He took his own life at the scene.

Elisa follows me home after we put the kids on the bus. “I’ve been watching the news coverage. You must be so worried,” she says.

“I am. I called the hospital, but they won’t give me any information. He’s in the ICU, so I can’t go there. I’ll have to wait until he’s transferred to a regular room. If he’s transferred.” I blink away tears.

Elisa nods and hands me a Kleenex from the box on the counter, and I dab at my eyes.

“I had it out with Chris last night, too. I told him about Daniel. He didn’t take it very well, shattered trust and all that.”

“I’m sorry,” she says.

I shake my head. “I deserved it. We were just finding our way back to each other, Elisa. It’s my fault. All of it.”

“Not all of it, Claire. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I still care for Daniel. I can’t just shut that off.”

“Of course not. There are lots of people pulling for him right now. For both officers. People that don’t even know them. It’s tragic when something like this happens. Give Chris some time. He’ll come around.”

I know she’s right, and that Chris needs time to process everything. I send him a text. Are you okay?

He answers an hour later. I’m fine.

Fine. A word that means the opposite if there ever was one.

I spend most of the day on mundane chores, leaving the TV on and refreshing the browser on my laptop every fifteen minutes. A little before 3:00 P.M. the BREAKING NEWS banner flashes at the top of the TV, and I hold my breath. I start crying when they announce that the reserve officer has died.

And I feel horribly guilty for being relieved that it wasn’t Daniel.

65

claire

“Mom?”

I struggle to open my eyes.

Josh is standing beside my bed, dressed in his pajamas. “Aren’t we supposed to be up by now?” he asks.

The clock on the nightstand reads 7:34. I was still awake at 3:00 this morning, despite my repeated attempts to fall asleep. I tried everything: reading, watching a boring TV show, lying in the dark trying to empty my mind. Nothing worked. I hate not knowing how Daniel is doing, and Chris is responding to my texts with short, terse replies. The tension, the anxiety of it all, keeps building and I feel constantly on edge, mind whirring with possibilities, none of them positive. Finally, at a little before 4:00 A.M., when I couldn’t take it anymore, I took a dose of Benadryl, which worked very well. Too well, it seems.

My heart races when I realize how late we’re running, and I fling back the covers. “Go get dressed, Josh. I’m going to wake up your sister.”

“Okay,” he says, hurrying off to do what I asked.

I rouse a sleepy Jordan from her bed and tell her to get ready, then hurry to the kitchen to make breakfast. Cereal bars, bananas, and juice are all we have time for this morning.

Josh sits down at the table and starts eating while Jordan wanders in, sharing none of her brother’s sense of urgency.

“Come on, Jordan,” I say. “Pick up the pace a little, okay?”

My eyes burn, my head pounds, and my feet feel like cement blocks as we walk to the corner, reaching it a scant fifteen seconds before the big yellow bus pulls up. Elisa and Travis are the only ones there and I’m grateful that Julia and Bridget are absent this morning. In the vague recesses of my mind I remember that Julia is still in rehab and that Bridget’s house is now empty.

“How are you doing today?” Elisa asks.

I take comfort in her soothing tone and sympathetic expression. “I’m okay,” I say. “Just really tired. Chris still isn’t really talking to me. We’re communicating mostly through texts.”

“Do you want some company? I can skip yoga.”

“No,” I say. “Thanks. I think I’ll go back to bed.”

She squeezes my hand. “Okay.”

When I return home I drop a slice of bread in the toaster and when it pops up I spread a thin layer of peanut butter on it. I don’t want to eat it, don’t know if I can eat it, but I have no choice so I do. I gag on the third bite and hold it down by sheer will, then finish the rest. There are dirty dishes in the sink and fingerprints cover every inch of the granite countertops, but I leave everything the way it is. I’ll pull myself—and the house—together later. Chris will be flying home tonight, which means we’ll have to give Oscar-worthy performances if we hope to get through dinner without the kids picking up on the tension. It’s something we know all too well how to do, but I’m exhausted just thinking about it.

Tucker waits patiently next to his empty food and water bowls and I fill the metal containers with fresh, cold water and his kibble.

“Sorry, boy,” I say, reaching down to scoop him up. I hug him, burying my face in his soft fur.

Upstairs, I strip down to my tank top and underwear and crawl back into bed, pulling the covers over my head. Anything to temper the sunlight that filters in through the bedroom curtains. I suddenly understand why people like blackout shades. I need a break from the TV, from my life. I toss and turn, but I’m so tired that my mind eventually stops spinning.

I close my eyes and soon the sleep returns.

 • • •

“Claire, wake up.” Chris opens the curtains, and the simultaneous assault of his voice and the blinding sunlight has me squinting and wishing I could put my hands over my ears like a child. His voice is so loud, or maybe it just seems that way because the room was so blissfully quiet. I have no idea why he’s here and one glance at the clock doesn’t make it any clearer. It’s noon on Friday. Chris should be getting ready to fly home, not standing in our bedroom looking down at me.