Page 38 of The Devil You Know
What I don’t say is that I don’t trust myself with him. I don’t say it because it sounds so stupid. I’m a grown woman—married with a daughter. How could I not trust myself with some arrogant surgeon?
But the real reason I don’t say it is because he already knows that it’s true.
Chapter 13
When I pick up Leah from preschool, Mila is waiting to speak to me.
“We have an issue with Leah, Mrs. Ross,” Mila says to me in a grave voice. She called me “Mrs. Ross” instead of “Jane,” which is very serious. Almost nobody calls me “Mrs. Ross” since I didn’t officially change my name, but some people just assume that’s what I go by since that’s Ben and Leah’s last name.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, glancing nervously at my daughter. She seems to be playing happily with her friends. Is there some broken bone that she’s hiding really well?
Mila points to a corner of the room. I see that on the light blue paint of the wall, Leah has scribbled her name. My jaw drops open when I see it. Aside from the E being backwards, she wrote her name perfectly.
“Wow,” I say. “She wrote her name!”
“She wrote on thewall, Mrs. Ross!” Pink circles appear on both of Mila’s plump cheeks. “That’snotacceptable behavior.”
“I know but…” I look at the scribbles in the shape of letters. She’s only three and she can write her name! My child is a legit genius. “It’simpressive. Isn’t it?”
Mila gives me a look. She seems really focused on the fact that Leah wrote on the wall and less so on how impressivewhatshe wrote was. I bet Einstein used to scribble on the walls. And his teacher probably yelled at his mother for it.
By the time Mila finally gets done scolding me and I pry Leah away from the blocks she’s playing with, I’ve wasted a good twenty minutes at the daycare. It’s pitch black when we get outside and the first thing I do is step right in a big puddle of melted snow, soaking my foot. It’s my right foot, so every time I press a pedal on the drive home, I feel the water squishing against my toes.
The house is dark when I pull into the garage—it seems like Ben had to go in to the office today. As much as I resent his easy days when he hangs around the house, I feel a little scared in this big place without him. Ben grew up in a big house with his two brothers, but I was always in a tiny apartment my whole life, so it can sometimes be terrifying here. I flick on all the lights the second I come in, so the house doesn’t feel quite so lonely.
“Hey, Leah,” I say. “Want to try your brand new potty?”
Leah stares at me blankly. “What’s a potty?”
No. She didnotjust say that to me. My (newly discovered) genius child who I have been begging to use a potty for the last freakingyeardid not just ask me what a potty is. This is not really happening.
“That’sa potty!” I practically yell, pointing to theFrozenpotty that I spent a small fortune on. Then I point at the frog potty, “Andthat’sa potty.”
Leah blinks a few times. “Oh.”
I give up.
“Mommy has to go change her socks,” I sigh. “Do you want to watch Dora?”
Leah nods happily and skips off to the couch, singing to herself, “Skip, skip, skip to my Mommy.” I set her up with the television and a snack, then I trudge upstairs to get some socks that aren’t drenched with ice-cold water.
When I get to our bedroom, I peel off my wet socks and toss them in the laundry hamper. I notice that Ben’s boxers are right next to the hamper. I’m not sure why he can’t seem to actually get themintothe hamper. He’s so close—why can’t he get theminside?
I go to the bathroom in my bare feet because I’ve got to go, andIknow what a potty is. Right away, I discover that the toilet paper roll is empty. (Thankfully, I discover thisbeforepeeing.) I know this is a complaint in everymarriage, but I’m not sure why Ben can’t manage to ever change the toilet paper roll. He claims that I use more toilet paper than he does, but that’s absolutely not true. I’ve seen him walk into that bathroom with a full roll of toilet paper in place that’s gone when he exits the bathroom. Honestly, I don’t even know what hedoeswith all that toilet paper. I can’t even begin to imagine. Origami? Fake snow? Am I going to go up to the attic one day and discover rows of toilet paper forts?
I asked Ben to buy some toilet paper a few days ago and he claimed to have done it. So I check under the sink, which is where we keep the toilet paper rolls. And sure enough, there’s a giant pack of twenty-four rolls of toilet paper. Except there’s only one problem: it’s Scout toilet paper.
I’m going to have to call Scout out for being the absolute worst toilet paper in the history of existence. I’m serious—I’d rather wipe myself with some twigs and leaves than use Scout. It claims to be soft but it’s not. It claims to be two-ply, but that doesn’t mean much when each ply is practically nonexistent. Worst toilet paperever.
I can’t believe Ben bought Scout toilet paper. HeknowsI hate it. Now I’ve got twenty-four rolls of completely useless toilet paper. Wonderful.
A door slams downstairs. Ben is home.
I race downstairs without bothering to put on socks, the uncarpeted stairs ice-cold against the soles of my barefeet. Ben is coming into the foyer dressed in his big, puffy black coat. His nose and cheeks are pink since he parked on the street and had to walk to the front door, and when he pulls off his hat, his brown hair practically sticks up straight in the air. He looks so cute that some of my anger about the toilet paper evaporates.
Ben pulls off his coat and hangs it up in the closet, but fails to get his shoes on the shoe rack. It’s like the laundry hamper—if you’re going to put them rightbesidethe rack, why not put themonthe rack?
“Hey,” I say.
