Page 48 of The Other Mother
The phone buzzes. A number I know, but I saved it under a fake name. “Desert Glass LLC.” Nobody installs windows at 11:42 p.m.
I let it ring. The voicemail icon pops up, but I do not press play. I can’t deal with this tonight.
I open a new draft to Legal Admin and type a single line.
Re: Intake Form 2A, the version in circulation was not the one I reviewed.
I stare at it. It is not true, but it’s not a lie either. There were versions. There were always versions. The nameson them changed depending on who needed to see what. The language stayed the same.Emergency. Best interest. Authorization under medical advisement.
I press on the delete button until nothing remains.
The printer kicks on like it wants to help. A test page crawls out, black square through the center like an eclipse. I crumple it and toss it in the trash. But I won’t put it out to the curb. I will burn all the papers there on the grill instead, when Claire takes the baby for a walk tonight. I tell myself it is about privacy, not about erasing what I cannot.
I think about the woman last week watching me hand over an envelope to a man who never says his name. She was nobody. A drunk waiting for a ride. But she looked at me like she knew everything anyway.
I pull up a calendar and scroll back to September. There are red blocks over the first week and notes I wrote to sound like everything was normal.
Site visit 8 a.m.
Spa framing.
HOA call.
If you tilt the screen you can see the word I added and deleted twice.Intake.
The cursor blinks. The house creaks. Out back the wind pushes the rosemary against the stucco, making a soft scraping sound that repeats until I want to tear it up by the roots.
I type to Claire again.
Subject: Tonight
Body: We are going to be fine. The coast will clear your head. Carmel. The inn with the garden. I will book it.
I hesitate about pressing send. This trip would be a bandage that looks like a cure. But I’m not sure we can fix this.
My phone lights the room with a text. Not Legal. Not the man with no name. A different number. The kind people use when they do not want to be found.
Need update on 2A status. Audit mention on call. You good?
I stare at it until it fades.
I type back:Yep.
I do not send that either. I put the phone face down and feel the vibration hum against the wood.
There is a photo on my desk that Claire printed last Christmas. We are in sweaters. My sister took it in front of the tree. The baby is not in it. There was no baby then. She pinned the twinkle lights around the frame and said it made the office feel less like a job site. Then she laughed. I think about that laugh a lot. She hasn’t laughed much since we moved here.
I start one last draft.
Subject: Claire
Body: I will tell you everything after you sleep. I will give you names if you ask. I will take the part that is mine. I will not let you carry the rest.
I sit with it. The side of my thumb presses the spacebar, one soft beat at a time.
The monitor on my phone shows movement. Evakicks her leg and settles again. The camera makes a soft click when the night vision shifts. It sounds like a lock catching.
I close the laptop. The room goes dark. I sit until my eyes adjust to the hallway light, which is only a thin line under the door. I tell myself there were no good choices. I repeat it until the words lose shape.
