Page 9 of The Other Mother

ADAM

S he left the pink blanket on the floor again. I fold it and tell myself not to look at the corner with the faint brown stain. The voicemail chimes. I listen. Then delete it.

Eva is quiet for once. A fist near her face, lips moving like she is still nursing. I should feel everything, but emotion has been useless these last six weeks. Being useful is what matters to me. Sleep windows tracked. Doors locked.

The voicemail had been short. Five seconds of silence, then a breath, then the line cut. Unknown caller. I clear the message and stare at the empty list until my thumb stops shaking.

The house is a refrigerator at night. The air conditioner never quits.

The vent in the hallway ticks as it cools.

In the kitchen, the under-cabinet light I installed last month throws a thin strip across the counter.

There is a stack of medical bills near the fruit bowl.

I do not open them until I have to. I flip them over so the hospital logo is face down.

Claire’s phone is on the coffee table. Screen dark.

If I pick it up, there will be searches I do not want to see.

If I leave it, there will be messages she does not need to read at three in the morning.

I leave it. Boundaries keep people married, that is what a counselor once said.

I never liked that word. Boundaries. It sounds like fences you build when the house is already on fire.

The monitor makes a soft click as the infrared shifts. I angle it toward me so the light does not hit the ceiling. Claire shifts in the chair, a slow sway even in sleep. I want to carry her to bed. I have tried. But she will wake up and look at me like I’ve done something wrong.

The drawer by the stove sticks. It always has. I pull until it gives, then sift past takeout menus and a half roll of painter’s tape to the back. The paper is there. Folded small. My thumb finds the crease where it wants to split. Thick stock, hospital letterhead. I do not open it. Not tonight.

I slide it into my wallet. Front pocket. The back pocket is for receipts and golf tees and things you can forget. The front is for things you carry.

I pour water and realize I have not had anything but coffee and club soda today. The glass smells faintly of lemon from the dishwasher. My stomach turns. I set the glass down and pick up the baby monitor again. Back to the green pulse.

Claire told everyone she labored forty hours.

She does not remember that I held her hand for all of them.

She does not remember the way she begged the anesthesiologist to make it stop.

She remembers other things. Pink blankets.

Wrong rooms. Voices through static. Memory is not a camera.

It is a hallway with bad lighting. You bump into old furniture and call it truth.

The phone buzzes, lighting the counter. I don’t need to read more than the preview, Call me. Now. And below it, the name I told them never to put in writing. I flip it face down. It can wait until morning. I’ve done enough damage for one night.

I walk the perimeter like I do when I cannot sleep.

Front door. Deadbolt. Back slider. Latch.

I check the nursery door and pause with my hand on the knob.

Through the monitor, I can see Claire’s foot, bare and white, tucked under her thigh.

Her toes flex. She is dreaming. I want to know what she dreams about.

I want it to be me. I want it to be a life where we feel like we belong.

In the garage the golf bag leans against the wall where I left it. Two new grips. Clean grooves. I should feel proud of the under-par round. I do not. The grill cover flaps against the side yard gate. Wind will do that here. Rattle you for no reason.

Back in the bedroom, I set the monitor down and watch the pixel fog for a long time. The green pulse keeps time. Claire exhales. Eva twitches.

I open the deleted-voicemail folder and make sure it is empty. Then I lie down and stare at the ceiling like she did an hour ago. I count again. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.

When morning comes, I will fold the pink blanket and put it on the chair. I will tell myself the stain was always there.