“I just got comfortable.”
“The trash…” I say, widening my eyes for effect. “You forgot again.”
He taps his watch before turning his attention back to the TV. “It’ll still be there in half an hour,” he says, making it clear he doesn’t want to talk about it right now.
Too exhausted to press the issue, I lay my head back and close my eyes. When I open them again, more than an hour has passed. With Naomi invested in the TV, I flick Greg on the forearm and motion toward the kitchen. Reluctantly, he stands and follows me.
“I need to talk to you.”
“You know I hate it when you say that. Just spit it out.”
“I have a bad feeling—”
“Mom!” Naomi shouts as though we haven’t heard Blair erupt with an ear-piercing scream.
I bolt for her room, nerves raw, only to find that Miss Moo, her stuffed cow, was left behind in the transfer from the car to her bed. It is the end of the world.
“You’re six years old,” I say, patting her back. “You don’t have to have Miss Moo all the time anymore.”
Greg stands in the doorway, shaking his head. Sometimes I think I made a mistake not nipping Miss Moo in the bud early on. Her obsession is a bit much, something on a good day I find charming. Today has not been one of those. The crying continues.
As Blair and I rescue Miss Moo from the backseat of Greg’s car, a private conversation with my husband has never felt more like a pipe dream.
When we return to the kitchen, Greg is elbow deep in a bag of potato chips. “Did you hear back from Dana?”
“No, not yet.”
“So what are their plans…next door—the damage—” He stuffs a handful of chips into his mouth. “Are they moving out?”
I smile at his hopefulness. Greg wouldn’t wish ill on anyone. He’s as amenable and likable as they come, but if there’s one person able to get under his skin, it’s Mrs. Crump. “It doesn’t appear there’s that much damage. I overheard the firemen saying they got lucky. I think they’re staying at an extended stay place for a little while… but I’m not sure.”
“Huh.” He takes another fistful of chips and shovels them in. “I still can’t imagine what you were thinking—rushing into a burning house for—”
He wants an answer that makes sense. But I can’t offer one. It was pure instinct, going into that house. And it was very, very stupid. It feels like a bad omen.
“Mommy—” Blair whines. “How much longer?”
“Nothing,” he finishes.
There’s a tug at my shirt. “How. Much. Longer.”
When I look down, Blair is staring up at me, her eyes swollen from the crying. “How much longer for what?”
She shakes the fall festival flyer at me. Naomi walks over and takes it from her. “I had that first!” I expect a fight, but together they drop to their knees and dissect it fervently.
“Well,” Naomi says. “When are we going?”
I glance at the time on the oven. “In just a few hours.” Then looking at Greg, I say, “Remember, I have to work the realty booth from eight to nine.”
He finishes off the bag of chips.
“How long is a few hours?” Blair squeals.
Greg looks across the room at me. “Sometimes it’s forever.”
As I get ready for the fall festival, Naomi sits on the bathroom counter, dangling her feet, watching me touch up my makeup. The hectic morning, the fire, and the strange encounter at the open house have begun to fade. I still haven’t had the chance to talk to Greg about it, but I’m sure he’d say what I’m thinking, that I’m probably making a bigger deal out of it than it was.
Naomi picks up a makeup brush and dusts it across her face. She peers at her reflection in the mirror. Our eyes meet, and I smile. “What would happen if you died in the fire?”
“It wasn’t that big of a fire,” I say, blotting my lipstick.
“But what if?”
I check my appearance and then scoop her into my arms, pressing my cheek against her soft curls. As I pull back, I run my fingers through them. “You worry too much, missy.” I kiss the top of her head, recalling the first time they placed her in my arms, all scrunched up, tiny and pink. When I pulled the blanket back and saw little tufts of red, I’d cried. I had been afraid that my children would inherit my hair color. When you’re a kid, sticking out is the worst thing that can happen, so I was grateful that by the time she was six months old, the fiery red had all fallen out. Eventually it was replaced with hair the color of rich molasses, like Greg’s.
She wiggles free. At eight, she already believes she’s too big for hugs. Although, every once in a while, like amnesia, she forgets, and I get a glimpse of the past. Just twenty-four months ago, she barreled down the hill after kindergarten and flung herself into my arms. I miss those days, as trying as they were. People tell you this will happen, mostly older women. Grandmotherly types. A part of you understands, maybe. But you can’t really know until it happens, even if you know they are right. Eventually the last bedtime story is the last. Hugs in front of friends disappear before they fade out all together, sometimes reserved for special occasions. The nature of things, Greg says.
“But you can die even in a small fire.”
“I suppose so.”
“Who would take care of us if you died?”
“Well,” I say, giving her a slight tickle. “First of all, I am not going to die. And second, if I did—which I won’t—Daddy is very, very handsome, and I’m sure he’d find a nice—”
“I doubt it,” she says, scrunching up her nose. “He never remembers to take out the trash.”
Greg peeks his head around the bathroom door. “I never remember what?”
Naomi looks at me wide-eyed, like she’s been caught and isn’t sure what to do. We both smile. “Nothing,” I say. “Inside joke.”
“What’s an inside joke?” she asks.
Greg walks into his closet and returns empty-handed. “Did you hear me?”
Our eyes meet in the mirror.
“I asked where the dog is.”
Chapter Seven
The air is crisp and cool, with the smell of fried things and candy apples wafting through, floating on the breeze like the promise of something wonderful. Tired as I am, I’m glad we came. It was a distraction for the girls, but really for us all, with Rocky missing. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have left him out. Greg tries to calm me by telling me the sirens probably spooked him, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.
He searched the neighborhood on foot while I posted on social media and the neighborhood app. I called, texted, and DM’d every neighbor I could think of. So far, nothing. Rocky has run off before. He always turns up. But this time feels different.
“Greg,” I say, pulling at his sleeve. “Put your phone away.”
When he doesn’t respond, I pull harder.
Finally, he looks up. “What? I’m just checking for news.”
“It’s going to be crowded,” I say, motioning toward the entrance. “You have to watch the girls closely.”