Page 5 of Lies He Told Me

Otherwise known as Monday morning at the Bowers home, the machinery slowly groaning and shrugging and clanging into motion.

Starting with my canine alarm clock, Lulu, our Cav, lying on my chest, her wagging tailwhoosh-whooshingback and forth over our comforter. Sheoofsat me, puppy breath on my face, before graduating to a full-scale whimper-cry.

I trudge downstairs and open the kitchen door. She bounds out into the cool October air. She’ll spend the next hour racing around our fenced-in yard, chasing rabbits and squirrels, having no idea what to do if she catches one.

I turn on the coffee grinder and, while it crunches and whirs away, reach for the coffeepot. It’s not there, so I try the dishwasher. Nope. I do a 360 around the kitchen but don’t see it. Sometimes we take the pot into the living room on a lazy Sunday morning — but no, not there, either.

I’m expected to survive Monday morning without coffee?

Screw it. I head upstairs. David’s beaten me into the shower, but he doesn’t take long. No hair to wash, at least.

“I can’t find the coffeepot,” I say to him as he gets out of the shower.

“I’ll look for it. I’ll get the lunches, too,” he mumbles while throwing on a sweater and jeans.

By seven, I’m out of the shower and dressed for court. David is down the hall in Grace’s bedroom, engaged in intense negotiations over the process of getting out of bed. David could wake a tiger without being bitten, but Grace knows how to play him.

“Hey, mister.” I flip on the light in Lincoln’s room, both to help wake him up and to avoid tripping over something on the carpet. Walking through a ten-year-old boy’s room is like navigating a minefield, except the consequences of a mistake are not death or dismemberment: they’re more along the lines of stubbing a toe or, my favorite, stepping in something of mysterious origin — something squishy or slimy.

On the bed is an Avengers comforter, tucked and nestled into the shape of a boy. I poke my finger into the center mass and hear a moan. I reach under the bottom, find a foot, and tickle it, resulting in a reflexive kick and a protesting groan.

I pull down the top of the comforter and find the face of a boy with messy dark hair, face flushed with heat, who looks like a younger version of the man I married. “Morning, buddy!”

I head over to his dresser and pull out a long-sleeved Blackhawks T-shirt, sweats, and underwear. The sock drawer is empty. Right — I washed them last night and left them in the dryer. “How’d you do in fantasy last night, bud? McCaffrey do okay?”

“McCaffrey’s hurt,” says Lincoln in his squeaky voice. “He’s out for the season.”

“How about Lamar Jackson?” And thus I have exhausted my knowledge of fantasy football, a game Lincoln plays with his father in a league of ten-year-olds that David started up. Lincoln loves it, and talking about it is a good way to shake off his morning cobwebs.

“Can I see your phone?” he asks, sitting up, eyes still closed.

“Downstairs you can,” I say. “After you get dressed and brush your hair and eat breakfast, including the fruit.”

Downstairs, David is looking through the kitchen pantry. “I can’t find Grace’s lunch box,” he says. “Not in her backpack, either.”

I look over at the island, where Lincoln’s lunch box is open, filled with his food and covered in ice packs. Grace’s food — leftover sushi from last night, carrots and ranch, and sliced apples — is out on the island, but no lunch box.

I sigh. “Is she up yet?”

David closes the pantry door. “Depends on what you mean by ‘up.’”

“She’s not out of bed yet?” I glance at the clock. It’s almost twenty past seven.

I take the stairs and march into her room. “Grace, get up, right now.”

Grace opens her eyes, sits up, and tosses her covers.“Fiiiine,”she says as a three-syllable word.

I pass David, standing in the hallway, who says, “Why can’t I get her to do that?”

Because you spoil her,I do not say.Because you can’t discipline a girl with an angelic face like that. Because Grace knows she has you wrapped around her little finger.

“Grace, did you leave your lunch box at school?” he asks.

“No,”she scoffs, as if the question were beneath her, as if she were personally offended at the insinuation.

“Is it in the car?”

“I brought it home on Friday!” She slams closed the bathroom door. Morning is to Grace like rain is to a picnic.

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