Page 73 of What He Doesn't Know

One afternoon, my old cat, Heathcliff, jumped up onto Dad’s desk while he was working. Dad had shooed him off, and in Heathcliff’s haste to get off the desk, he’d slipped on papers and run straight into Newton’s Cradle, throwing everything off balance. The balls clacked too fast before losing their rhythm altogether and then crashing to the ground.

But when Dad picked them back up, he pulled one ball at the far end back, and once he let it go, everything returned to normal.

That’s exactly how I felt those two days I spent alone in the home I’d built with Cameron.

I was always reliable. I was the “yes” girl. I was the hostess, the soft-spoken, compliant friend, coworker, daughter, and wife. And I was perfectly content being in a routine, providing comfort to those around me by being the one constant they could rely on.

Reese had thrown me.

He had swung into my life unannounced, just like Heathcliff, throwing everything off balance in the process. And though I was back in my rhythm again, swinging along like nothing had happened, the truth was I would never be the same. Now that I knew what it was like to swing recklessly, to feel his hands slipping between the crevices of normality — I didn’t know how to just go back to what I’d been before.

I was spiraling.

Reese’s questions spun in my head like cotton candy, thickening and thickening with every pass, leaving behind a sticky residue I couldn’t escape. Was he right? Was I miserable? I surely wasn’t happy. But did that meanhecould be the one to change that? Did I not owe it to Cameron to try to find that happiness again with him?

But I had already tried. And he’d found happiness in someone else.

Why had that gone away so quickly, so easily, for him? For us?

The more time I spent alone, the more I questioned everything. I’d driven myself so insane Wednesday that by the time Cameron got home, I’d convinced myself I hated him. I’d stared at him from across our dining room table with murder in my eyes, debating seriously about telling him right then and there that I wanted a divorce. But then he stood, bringing his plate with him, and sat in the chair next to me instead of the one across. He pulled me close, kissed my lips, and told me he’d missed me while he’d been at work that day.

It was like that kiss had snapped me out of the spell being alone had put me in, and I was right back to sitting uncomfortably in my home of confusion.

By the time Thursday morning rolled around, I was so desperate to get out of the house and away from my thoughts that I went into work a full hour before I needed to. I spent the morning cleaning up my classroom, drawing a new picture on the white board, and adjusting my lesson plans for the week.

And I thought things were going to be fine.

I slipped right back into my routine, thankful for the distraction and familiarity of teaching, and I convinced myself that what I’d felt over the snow days was simply cabin fever.

Everything was going to be okay.

Reese and I would be friends again someday, once we’d both had some time and space, and Cameron and I would work together on our marriage. He was already trying harder, and what I’d done was behind us.

Everything would befine.

But just like before, I was a methodically swinging pendulum, and one little touch was all it would take to send me spiraling again.

Jeremiah wasn’t at school the morning we came back from the snow days.

I’d just assumed his parents had decided to keep him out an extra day out of caution, as some parents did once the roads were deemed drivable. I didn’t even bat an eye at him being gone that Thursday we returned to school, but when I saw him bright and early Friday morning, his little eyes puffy and swollen, his shoulders hunched over his desk, I knew something was wrong.

“Hey, buddy,” I said, leaning down on one knee so I was at his level. He was the first one in the classroom, the rest of the kids still conversation in the halls waiting for the first bell to ring. “You okay?”

He shook his head, eyes on where his little boots were swinging snow onto the carpet under his chair. He had his hands tucked under his thighs and he hadn’t taken off his coat or hat yet. Both were a little damp from the cold.

“Why don’t we take these off and get you warmed up?” I asked, tugging at this coat.

Jeremiah allowed me to help him out of it, along with his hat, and I ruffled up his dark hair before smoothing it out and tucking it behind his ears. He still wouldn’t look at me, and my heart ached for him.

“You can talk to me, you know,” I whispered. “I know I’m an icky adult, but I’m a pretty good listener.”

“You’re not icky, Mrs. Pierce,” he said softly.

I waited for him to continue, hoping he might tell me what was on his mind, but he wouldn’t. I pulled an apple juice from my mini fridge and a little snack pack of powdered donuts that I kept for emergencies just like this one. But Jeremiah wouldn’t eat or drink, either.

He was like that all day.

Though Jeremiah was always kind of quiet, he was even more so that Friday, and he wouldn’t participate in any of the group activities. He stayed silent, working in his notebook when instructed, just getting through the day the best he could. When lunch and recess rolled around, he begged me to let him stay in the classroom.