Page 6 of Lies He Told Me

Back downstairs, I make breakfast. Peanut butter toast and veggie sausage for Lincoln, scrambled eggs with green Tabasco for Grace, a bowl of fruit to share. I check Lincoln’s backpack while I move around the eggs in the pan. His school iPad is inside.

“Lincoln, did you charge your school iPad?” I ask as he waddles into the kitchen, still half asleep, clothed but barefoot, hair standing on end.

“I don’t know.” He looks over at me. “Well, obviously, if you’re asking, I didn’t.”

“Obviously. Whose responsibility is that? Is it mine or is it yours?”

He rubs his eyes, declining to answer on the ground that it might incriminate him.

“Where are your socks? Oh, right, the dryer —”

“What the hell?” David says, looking out the back window.

“What?” I walk over to him.

He points to the center of the backyard. “Grace’s lunch box.”

I do a double take, then focus. “Why is Grace’s lunch box in the backyard? For God’s sake, Gracie.”

I head to the washer-dryer in the mudroom by the garage door to get Lincoln some socks. I hear David calling up to Grace about the lunch box. I can’t hear Grace’s response per se, but I’m reminded of a growling tiger.

I bend down and pop open the dryer. “What — what the hell?”

“What? What’s up?” David calls to me.

I pull the coffeepot out of the dryer. I walk into the kitchen and show it to David.

“Great; you found it.”

“In thedryer.”

“In the —” He makes a face. “I think we need a family meeting on where things go. Lunch boxesnotin the backyard, coffeepotsnotin the dryer.”

“Seriously,” I say. “How did — is today bizarro day?”

He takes the pot from me and kisses my forehead. “No, it’s Monday morning. Lincoln, when you’re done eating, feed Lulu, would ya, sport?”

“Where’s Lulu?”

“The backyard,” I say.

“No, she’s not.”

“Um, yes, she …” I look out the window. Don’t see her, but the backyard is bordered with shrubbery on all sides, and she often gets in the bushes when she’s chasing small animals.

I step out into the cool air and call out her name. She isn’t there. Did we leave the gate open? No, the gate on the chain-link fence is closed, as usual. “Lulu!” I call again. “Lulu!”

I grab Grace’s lunch box and bring it inside.

“David, the dog is gone. She’s really gone.”

“Okay, I’ll go find her.” David sighs and heads for the door. “Welcome to Monday morning.”

TWO

EIGHT TWENTY. THE LAST of the two kids, Lincoln, rides off on his bike with a perfunctoryBye-love-youon his way to school, three blocks away. By then, I’ve already read three texts from David, out looking for our dog, Lulu:Not by Custers(the Custers have three Weimaraners whom Lulu loves),What a fucked up morning(true enough), andOn way to forest preserve.

The forest preserve — God help Lulu if she made it that far. She never has. She’s been known to chase deer, who retreat to the preserve, but Lulu usually loses interest after they outrun her.

---