On the good days – the days I hadn’t even realized were good, until they were gone – the house had echoed with sound. The moment I arrived home from school, I would step into bustle and warmth, my mother in the kitchen keeping one eye on the stove, talking on the phone or singing along to country music on the radio. Now I could only hope for the sound of the TV, if any hint of life at all.
‘Mom?’ I called out, walking slowly down the hall, checking the living room. Nothing. ‘I’m home.’
The house was still, my cereal bowl still in the sink and the trash I’d bagged by the back door, waiting to be taken out.
I climbed the stairs, then paused outside my mother’s bedroom door. ‘Mom?’ I tapped lightly.
No reply.
I longed to keep walking, down the hall to my room. I would make dinner and spend the night watching TV, pretending as if I was really alone in the house instead of just alone in every way that really mattered.
But the door had been closed that morning, and all of the day before.
I pushed it open and stepped into the room.
The drapes were drawn, heavy. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim. There were spaces on the dresser and bookshelves where Dad’s things had been, the closet door open, half empty.
And Mom, curled under the covers, staring blankly at the wall.
‘Are you hungry?’ I strode over to the windows, my voice ringing out, bright and false. I yanked back the drapes, even though it would be dark in an hour. Clothing was scattered on the floor, so I picked it up, dropping it in the laundry hamper. ‘I can fix you something for dinner. Some soup, we’re running low on everything else. Maybe you can run to the store tomorrow?’
Still, silence.
I felt fear bloom in my chest, the metallic edge I’d been keeping at bay all summer long.
‘Mom?’ My voice wavered, cracking. Mom finally turned her head, as if it took all the effort she could muster.
‘I’m not hungry, sweetie.’
‘You need to eat.’
‘I’m fine.’ Mom turned her head again, slowly closing her eyes. ‘I’m just tired, that’s all. You make whatever you want.’
She lay there, motionless. The conversation was over.
I slipped out of the room, walking slowly down the hall to my room. I sat on the very edge of my bed and took a breath. My hands were shaking, and I clenched them into two small fists, looking around the room. I’d started packing already, as if that would make the time pass faster. My books were in boxes, my favourites carefully selected to make the trip out to the East Coast. I’d deliberated for hours, weighing each of my collection like favoured children, leaving the remainders stacked, lonely on the shelf.
It looked like my mother’s room now. Like the whole f**king house. Abandoned.
What would she do once I was at college?
Fear drove me to pick up my cellphone and make the call I’d been avoiding.
It took eight rings for Dad to answer. I almost hung up when, suddenly, his voice came, flustered on the other end of the line. ‘Pumpkin, hi – just give me a moment.’
There was silence, muffled voices in the background and then he was there again. ‘Sorry, we’re just heading out the door.’
I felt the ache in my chest tighten. ‘I can call back later.’
‘No, no, I’ve got time. I’m glad you called. What’s up?’
I took a breath. ‘It’s Mom,’ I said carefully. ‘I’m . . . worried about her.’
It felt wrong, to talk about her like this, behind her back, but I didn’t know what else to do. All summer, I’d been telling myself it would pass, this depression, but instead, Mom was sinking lower, disappearing from sight into that bundle of bedcovers and listless grief. ‘She’s not doing so good, Daddy.’ My voice caught, but I pressed on. ‘I’m really worried.’
‘Chloe . . .’ Dad’s voice changed, impatience replacing his earlier enthusiasm. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you expect me to do. Your mother’s her own woman, she has to make her own choices now.’
‘But . . .’ My protest died on my lips.
‘I know this hasn’t been easy for her,’ Dad sighed. ‘And with you going off to college now . . .’
I froze. ‘Are you saying this is my fault?’
‘No, of course not, sweetie,’ he replied quickly. ‘Nobody’s to blame. We’re all just trying to make the best of the situation.’
I let the words sit there, too tired to even be angry. I often wondered, could he hear himself? Or did he believe the lies, even now?
He told me first.
That was the one thing I couldn’t forgive him for, even as it all unfolded, one unforgivable crime after the next. He’d sat down to dinner one night, splitting a pizza with me while Mom worked late at the hospital, and he’d told me, his eyes fixed on some point just beyond my head. He was leaving. There was a woman in California, they’d met on a business trip. They’d fallen in love. He was leaving to be with her.
‘I was going to wait until you left for college,’ he’d said apologetically, as if the timing was the problem, and not the fact of his betrayal. ‘But it’s not fair on Rochelle, to keep going on like this. I can’t pretend any more.’
I sat there, sick to my stomach with guilt. Because he’d made a liar of me too. For those next few awful hours, Mom was out there, oblivious. She was processing paperwork and going to get coffee; chatting with her co-workers on a break. And all the while, her life was about to fall apart, and I was the one who knew it. I was complicit in my father’s crimes now, and oh, how I hated him for it.
After that, there were tears and yelling and recrimination, back and forth for days on end. Mom, furious then wretched then terrified, and my father, strangely resolute. I closed the door on them, not sure which disgusted me most: the unwavering insistence of Dad that he was leaving, or the naked panic in Mom’s voice as she begged him to stay, try counselling, do anything do make it work again.
And then it came out, the real reason for his urgency. This woman was pregnant. He wanted to go and marry her, and raise this other child.
‘I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,’ he told me, looking weary but self-righteous. He’d pulled his shirts from the closet to fill the cases on the bed, neatly folding them even in the midst of the chaos. ‘Now I’m just trying to do the right thing.’
It still chilled me, that to Dad, this was the noble choice. To switch one wife for another; trade a daughter for his future son.