Page 42 of Such a Good Wife

“Okay.” She twists her hair around a finger.

“I hope you don’t think it is.”

“It’s just that—it’s not the first time.”

“What?” I stop washing Claire’s back and straighten up, turning to my daughter.

“A week or two ago, I don’t remember exactly, I noticed she wasn’t in her room. I was the only one home with her, so I panicked. I looked all over and she just showed back up, just like today.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You told me to keep an eye on her and I didn’t,” she says, looking like she may cry.

“Honey, it’s not your responsibility to take care of her. That’s not fair to you. If we knew she’d ever take off like that I wouldn’t have left you alone with her. You should have called me though. One of us would have come home right away. Okay?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry. Where do you think she goes?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart, I think she just gets turned around in her mind and she doesn’t know what she’s doing sometimes.” I know that’s disturbing to her.

Claire is sitting silently, patiently, in the bathwater with her hairless scalp bobbing slightly, mouth open. She’s off somewhere very far away and I can imagine how frightening and ominous that must be for a child to see. It’s difficult for me still, and each day I handle bodily fluids and discard rancid-smelling linens. I should be used to it, but maybe one never gets accustomed to looking at vacant eyes and a body that has betrayed itself. A soul vacating its body should be reserved for death. This is cruel, a life without memory—without a past or future—she’s just existing, and I wonder if living like this is what Claire would have wanted, if she’d had a choice. Or would she have just wanted to go to sleep and not wake up again?

Rachel lowers herself down from the counter and hands me a bath towel for Claire. I hear Ben wailing down the hall. We both know he’s realized he missed his swimming lesson he was excited about.

“It’s okay, he has a sleepover pizza party thing with his baseball friends tonight. Want me to remind him so he shuts up?” she asks, half out the door, but lingering to wait for my answer.

“Thanks, honey,” I say before she disappears into the chaos in the living room. I hear her walk down the hall and call Ben a spaz. But seconds later, his crying is quieted, so I guess it worked.

After I get Claire dressed in a wool nightgown and gently prop her against a heap of pillows in her bed, I hand her a cup of peppermint tea, not too hot, and turn on a channel that plays old, syndicated sitcoms. When I close the door, I go to the kitchen to make the kids some lunch, but Collin has taken care of it. The counter is littered with open pickle jars, ketchup spills and a bag of whole wheat buns that I seal before they go stale. He hands me a turkey burger on a plate, and I smile, exhausted by the task of Claire and grateful the kids have eaten.

“Thank you. This looks great.”

“She okay?” he asks as he makes up a plate for her.

“Yeah. She’s resting. She’s fine as far as I can tell.”

“It’s so weird that she’d do that.” He’s cutting a pear into bite-size pieces. “We’ll have to figure something out to secure the back door.”

“I suppose we will. Like a child lock?” I know it’s hard for him, this role reversal with his mother. I try to take the brunt of it so he can maintain a mother-son relationship with her as much as is possible. I really can’t imagine seeing my mother like that, so it breaks my heart for him. I don’t ask why she’d be muddy up to the elbows—was she digging for something? Where could she have been?

“I guess.” He clearly doesn’t want to think about it.

I offer to take her plate back, but he says he has it and heads back to her room. Ben bounces into the kitchen holding a Buzz Lightyear sleeping bag. He tosses it next to his overnight bag sitting on a kitchen chair.

“We get to sleep on the floor!” he says excitedly.

“Cool, bud.”

“We gotta wear our jerseys.”

“I see that. Is it clean?”

But he’s already in his number eight baseball jersey. Bless Mrs. Miller for taking on six special needs kids overnight.

“Yeah. Can I wear your Saints cap?”

“Sure, honey. Look in my closet,” I say, and he’s darting away before I can ask him if he packed his toothbrush. I don’t sit to eat; I stop to take bites while I tidy up the kitchen. I scrape plates into the disposal and wipe down the spills on the counter with disinfectant wipes. I don’t take for granted the beauty of this simple act—caring after my children. I promise myself not to take anything for granted anymore. I guess guilt offers perspective.

Ben comes back in, minutes later, with an overcome look, giving me a dramatic account of all the places he looked and couldn’t find the cap.

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