The Glass Wives Read online

  “Evie?”

  “Yes?” She stopped and turned toward Nicole.

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem.” But Evie had a feeling it would be.

  Chapter 4

  EVIE’S BEDROOM WAS DARK AND her eyes were closed, but she felt Sophie’s gaze from the doorway as if her daughter had lassoed her.

  BD (Before Death), Evie had turned off her sixth, seventh, and eighth senses every other weekend. Now they were on autopilot. Always. During her marriage, Evie had known the kids were crying before Richard ever heard a sound. She knew when they were sneaking a cookie, watching TV on mute, or if they’d fed Rex their veggies under the table. Evie relied on her maternal instincts, the switch that flipped when the twins were born. But at some point her marital intuition went haywire. Perhaps it was easier knowing her kids were climbing on the kitchen counter than to accept the unstable nature of her marriage.

  Evie peeked with one eye. Nope, she hadn’t lost her touch, a relief as much as a burden. Sophie stood straight, eyes pried wide against the lure of sleep, her arms clutching a medley of stuffed bears, kittens, and dogs. Evie patted her bed and folded down the blanket: Sophie’s cue. Up she climbed and over she scooted, right next to her mom. Evie welcomed Sophie’s warm body with a leg hug and drew her daughter close and inhaled the light scent of baby shampoo. Are the twins too old for baby shampoo? Sophie draped her arm across Evie’s shoulder, and the duo Eskimo-kissed and giggled. Nothing was funny, but it was familiar and comfortable when so much was neither.

  “I heard a baby crying,” Sophie said.

  “Yes, you did. Luca is teething. It’s nothing to worry about.” Evie said it as if she believed it.

  “A sleepover?!”

  Okay, they could call it a sleepover. “Yes, just one night, and you will see them in the morning. Did you have a good day?” Evie asked out of habit and to change the subject, even though she knew exactly how Sophie’s day had been.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Evie pressed her lips to Sophie’s cheek and led the elephant in the corner into full view. “It’s pretty sad without Daddy, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Sophie looked for direction, permission to continue. Her small body stiffened.

  Evie kissed Sophie’s nose and she squirmed, relaxed, and melted in. “It’s going to be sad for a long time.” Evie didn’t say forever. Forever was too long for a ten-year-old. Forever was too long for a forty-five-year-old. “How about tomorrow we find some pictures of Daddy you can put on your desk?”

  “You mean here? In this house?”

  “Yes, here, honey. This is your house.” Evie pulled back and looked at her daughter. “You can even put pictures of Daddy in the living room. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

  Nice? It would be strange. The day Richard moved out, Evie had packed away the wedding photos and replaced them with images of the twins and herself. The past belonged in the past. Until now, of course, when all the parts of Evie’s life were mixing together like cookie dough in a bowl.

  Sophie nestled her head onto Evie’s shoulder and fell asleep. That arrangement worked until Evie heard loud sniffs—a mother’s alarm clock, no sixth sense needed. She wanted the sound to be coming from a TV, from Nicole or Luca, from anywhere else but Sam’s room. She just wanted to sleep. Evie slid out of Sophie’s sweaty embrace and tucked pillows around her daughter. Evie had only been asleep for an hour but sat at attention. Her brain was awake. Her body, not so much. She arched her back and it cracked. She rubbed her hands together to get the blood circulating. Maybe the sounds would stop, maybe it was her imagination, maybe Sam would sleep all night. It was not her imagination that she ached for sleep. When the twins were little, all it took was a drive around the block in the car and they were zonked out. Now Evie waited, hopeful that he’d fallen asleep. They both needed the break. But there it was, another sniff. Off she went to intervene in Sam’s nightmare.

  Sam looked at her with red, wet eyes. Evie rubbed his head until he turned into the wet pillow and let out a muffled yet bloodcurdling scream that sounded as if it came from the bottom of his soul. She didn’t know such force existed in his eighty pounds. Her hand on the mattress, she felt the vibration. Sam lifted his head, lurched forward, and Evie leaned back, but not far enough. Sam threw up all over Evie, and all over the bed.

  Off came the sheets in one fell swoop while Sam went into the bathroom. Evie made up the bed again as quickly as she could, removing her clothing, soaked through with regurgitated pot roast. And ice cream. Maybe part of a hot-dog-with-corn-chips lunch. When she heard the water running in the hall bathroom, she knew she had time to change clothes and wash up. In the master bathroom, with the door closed to safeguard Sophie’s sleep, Evie scrubbed the ends of her hair and cursed Richard for leaving a legacy of barf. And squatters.

  Sam walked back into his room and fell into his bed, broken, ashen, withdrawn. Evie wrapped her arms around him. For the next two hours he lay on her lap, his clean tears soaking through her nightgown, spreading as if she’d dumped a glass of water on herself. But she sat still. He was a little boy, not even yet a young man. And now he was half-empty instead of half-full. He was depleted and overcome and Evie had no control over any of it. She hated having no control. At least when Richard was alive, they could argue. Too much soccer, too much basketball, not enough violin. Hair too long, up too late, too young for a cell phone. Familiar arguments would have been a blessing.

  Sam was a volcano of raw emotion, his grief flowing like lava. For the moment he was at rest, but no telling when he’d blow again. It was all becoming real. Richard wasn’t coming back, and alone in the night there was no place for the feelings to go. Evie knew it would take time. She rubbed Sam’s back and wiped his forehead in a sequence of patterns and motions employed to focus her attention away from the clock. The minutes ticked by in place of hours.

  “I want Daddy.”

  “I know.”

  “You don’t know anything.” It was accusatory but with no venom behind it. And he was right. She didn’t know. She had never been a ten-year-old boy, let alone one whose father had just died.

  Sam crushed himself to her tighter. “Don’t go away. Promise you won’t go away.”

  Evie held her son. “I will take care of you until you’re old enough to take care of yourself, okay? I’m not going anywhere, ever.”

  She crossed her fingers as she had every night for the past week and a half. She crossed her toes too.

  When Sam started snoring, Evie watched him for a few minutes. He deserved a peaceful sleep. She hoped his dreams were sweet, but not of Richard. Then, Evie untangled herself from Sam’s embrace, walked to the hall bathroom, locked the door, flipped on the fan, and sat on the side of the tub.

  It was the first time she cried.

  * * *

  Morning arrived long before it should have. Rex breathed into Evie’s face. She rolled Sophie off her, tiptoed through the bedroom, and slipped on her once-periwinkle terry-cloth robe.

  She walked down the steps into the dark foyer. Like a film strip from elementary school, a scene played in front of Evie’s eyes: Richard, his face an inch from the grandfather clock in the foyer inspecting it as a possession he’d left behind even though it had belonged to Bubbe. Richard had stepped away when he saw Evie watching him, with his hands up as if under arrest. Evie had made a point of leaning forward from the bottom step and wiping his nose print off with her sleeve.

  Evie wished she could clean the glass now and wipe away her reality.

  She led Rex by the collar through the living room and out the back door. New house rule: Never wake a sleeping widow. So, instead of snuggling into her spot on the couch, Evie turned on the light over the stove and started a pot of coffee. A piece of rugelach called to her from inside the box. Who was she to argue? The stale rugelach was a clear sign the bakery runs had slowed, like the phone calls and visits. Winter break was over in less than a week, and everyone who wasn’t on vacation before was away now
. The people who stayed local were carousing at indoor water parks and piggybacking playdates, not stocking Evie’s pantry.

  Evie sat on Beth’s favorite stool and swung her legs, willing the coffee to drip faster, ignoring Nicole’s snores wafting in from the living room. What Evie couldn’t ignore was the pile of mail she had thrown on the desk a day ago. Even with her back to the desk, she could see it—damn those eyes in the back of her head—and she felt the weight of it in her hands and remembered the solid thud when she dropped it.

  The bills were always paid on the first of the month, coinciding with her once-a-month deposit from Richard and her own from Third Coast Gifts. Evie couldn’t do math in her head before her first cup of coffee—drip, drip, drip—but she knew there wasn’t enough in the checking account to pay the mortgage and the bills and take care of every other expense next month. With extra hours around the holidays last year, her own paychecks had allowed for the extras—the trip to the Wisconsin Dells, Evie’s one-month love affair with knitting, a few trendy outfits, treating Scott to dinner for his birthday, and the requisite, yet yawn-inducing, Moms Night Out. That was the deal she and Richard had struck and then signed. Her checks did not cover gallons of milk or two pairs of gym shoes per child, new cleats, basketball uniforms—or the electric bill. That was all paid for by Richard. Evie had spent her last paycheck on Hanukkah presents. Soon there would be orthodontics for Sam and ice-skating for Sophie and basketball and soccer and, oh, a gallon or two of milk.

  Forget losing Nicole and Luca in their lives, the twins couldn’t lose their house, their activities, or any residual sense of normal. They needed security even when Evie wasn’t wrapped around them. Jeez, she needed that coffee. She also needed something sweet, but not a stale memento of family tragedy.

  Evie walked past the bills. They’d still be there in forty-five minutes, which was strangely reassuring. She plucked out a manila envelope. Midwest Mutual Life Insurance. Richard’s policy! It was part of the divorce, to make sure the kids could go to college if anything happened to Richard. And anything had. There were papers for Evie to sign marked with arrow-shaped sticky notes and lists of documents to include when she sent it all back. She’d compile and sign and mail as soon as the post office opened. The twins would have money for college, and maybe there’d be a little left over. Then she saw another official-looking paper with tear-off edges. Social Security Administration. She ripped open the envelope without following the directions and then pieced together the letter. She clutched it to her chest like a love note. Her kids would get Social Security until they turned eighteen. That money would replace some of Richard’s child support. How awful, yet how awesome.

  * * *

  Evie opened the cabinets one by one, closing them without a sound, gathering ingredients by the glow of the oven light. She lined up everything on the counter and retrieved bowls without a clink or a clank. She measured, poured, cracked, and scooped. But the stand-up mixer would not be the household’s alarm clock. She’d do it as in the olden days, with nothing but prairie determination and a wooden spoon. With neglected muscles, Evie put everything into it, counted every stroke. Then she counted dollars. She would have to count every penny even more closely than when she and Richard were both in graduate school. She didn’t know how much the Social Security would be, but it would help with the daily expenses of raising Sam and Sophie. She would get Social Security too. That was her booby prize for sticking it out and putting up with it all for sixteen years. But would it cover the mortgage? Dog food? Clothes? How would she make up the difference without leaving the house and working full-time, turning their lives upside down even more? She loved working for Millie at Third Coast, selling one-of-a-kind table linens, custom-made jewelry, and designer baby bootees to the North Shore’s finest shoppers. But she needed a career, not just a job. Maybe Third Coast needed a new manager. No, Millie had owned and managed the store for years. Could Evie find something professional in the middle of winter with a gap in her résumé the size of Lake Michigan? She needed extra income right away—and then next month she could be cool, calm, and calculated, if she didn’t implode, or explode, from too many cookies.

  Then, as Evie slid the cookie sheet into the oven, it hit her. The why-didn’t-I-think-of-that-before? moment. Shared marital assets. A legal term had never given her warm fuzzies until the day she saw the bottom line of her and Richard’s joint savings account over three years before. She’d received half of what they’d saved during their marriage. It was just half, but it was Evie’s half.

  Alan had set it up as a long-term investment. After all, with maintenance, child support, and her job, Evie had enough for the monthly mortgage, upkeep, bills, everything she and the kids needed, and some of what Sam and Sophie wanted. Sometimes she even had enough for a splurge on herself.

  Though the savings was an invisible part of her life, it gave her a sense of security, like Spanx. When she allowed herself, she dreamed about a suite at the Drake, and a weekend filled with bubble baths, room service, and lake views. She also considered that the money might one day pay for an Israel trip or a South American cruise. When she was being more practical, she knew it could be a hefty down payment on a non-minivan hybrid. But that kind of thinking would have to wait. Those dreams were a luxury Evie could no longer afford. Her hard-won nest egg for the future had to save them right now.

  * * *

  “When did you bake these cookies?” Sam asked. He was still groggy from his restless night, with the red eyes and bed head to prove it. He held a stack of three cookies in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. Apparently, crying and vomiting works up an appetite. Sophie just stared at the plate.

  “Early this morning,” Evie said, putting her forefinger to her lips. “We don’t want to wake Nicole.” When Luca had made morning noises, Evie had scooped him out of the Pack ’n Play and played nanny. God, I love babies. He was busy with a bottle when the kids walked into the kitchen. The rare, picture-perfect mothering moment could only be more complete if she were wearing a shirtwaist dress, pearls, and an apron. And if her ex-husband’s widow weren’t asleep on the sectional.

  Strange as it was, the vignette gave Evie a sense of accomplishment. She—they’d—made it through another night. Her kids were awake, vertical, and one of them was eating cookies right out of the oven. Although to be honest, these days she got the same feeling from showering and by making her bed before noon. Or at all.

  “Will you make more?” Sam asked with his mouth full.

  Evie let it go this time. Manners could be important tomorrow. “Sophie promised to help me make cookies, didn’t you?”

  Sophie shrugged.

  Sophie never shrugged away a chance to bake. Evie knew the kids would change, it had only been about a week, but when everyday moments shifted, she quaked, unable to find an internal balance.

  Sam was quiet, chewing quickly, swallowing loudly, refilling his fist for the same reason Evie filled her cookie jar—just so it wouldn’t be empty. During the day Sam was composed, almost serene. With his friends he let loose all the good stuff, the laughter with his head thrown back, the shrieks of catching video villains. But the real villains came out to play at night.

  “Morning,” Nicole said from the doorway. Unkempt and unaware, as if she belonged to the house and the family, she walked to Luca and lifted him into her arms. She cradled and nuzzled him as if she hadn’t seen him in a week, then leaned and kissed both Sam and Sophie on the tops of their heads. “You’ve been busy,” Nicole said to Evie.

  “Just passing the time,” Evie said. “Help yourself.”

  She really had to be more careful with her words.

  * * *

  Evie poured a capful of pine cleaner into the toilet and flushed.

  “Are you kidding me?” Laney said.

  “It took you longer to get here than I thought it would,” Evie replied. “I think it’s almost ten.”

  “Very funny. Would you like to tell me this story somew
here besides the bathroom?”

  Laney followed Evie into her bedroom, where in tandem the friends pulled and tugged and smoothed the bed in silence. Then they climbed on top of the covers, creating personal divots Evie would later fix. Laney crossed her legs like a pretzel—or like an Indian if Evie were being old-fashioned and politically incorrect.

  “Well?”

  “Luca was teething. He was screaming. I had Baby Anbesol.”

  “There’s a twenty-four-hour drugstore right on Western Avenue,” Laney said.

  “I felt bad. It was about Luca, not about Nicole. I wasn’t going to let him be in pain to make a point.”

  “And they slept here because?”

  “Because they just did. I don’t have any other explanation.”

  “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Laney climbed off the bed and readjusted the comforter and pillows. Evie did the same.

  “Now what are you warning me about?”

  “You don’t want to do this alone and you’re going soft. You don’t want her help, you don’t need her help. You’ll figure out how to do this on your own.”

  “I’ve been doing it on my own,” Evie said.

  Parenting alone was nothing new. But having someone to talk to and share a cup of coffee with while she made the kids breakfast, that was something new. It was true that being the only adult in the house hadn’t bothered Evie, it had empowered her—walking around the dining-room table while the kids worked on homework, bouncing from bedroom to bedroom at bedtime and when it was time to wake and go-go-go. She chose vacations and meals and wall colors. It would have been nice to have help, but it was also nice to not have anyone looking over her shoulder. And with the Divorce Days came the every-other-weekend respite not only from single-parenting, but all parenting. It wasn’t lackadaisical; it was essential. Evie loved her kids ferociously and ached with the need to protect them, especially now. But she also needed to love and protect herself. How would she do that now? For three years Evie had been granted time to relax and play and refill the well of patience from which she constantly had to draw. Now, instead of having weekends to herself, she would have to restore and regroup between loads of laundry while fending off Nicole in the driveway like a suburban ninja.