“No,” I answered, barely taking the time to look up. “I don’t need anything at all.”

There was no reason for Chris not to work as many hours as he wanted. I was the kind of wife—the kind of mother—who had everything under control at home. And when Jordan came along I attended to her with the same devotion I’d given her brother, working twice as hard to make sure I had enough time and attention for both of them. If Chris ever felt left out, he didn’t show it.

Once Jordan was sleeping through the night, I’d awaken periodically, listening from our quiet bedroom convinced I’d heard a cry or a sound. When I realized everyone was still sleeping I’d wake up Chris and we’d come together quickly. He was always receptive, and making love in the middle of the night was my way of compensating for my absence during those early years of parenting. It had nothing to do with obligation, though; I needed the closeness, the connection, as much as he did. Maybe more.

When I come back downstairs after making sure the kids are tucked in I find Chris rifling through a stack of paper, a pen clenched between his teeth. Even though Chris hasn’t slept in our bed in a long, long time, I make a request. “Come up when you’re done.” I can’t handle a blatant rejection, so I clarify. “I just want you to lie down with me,” I say. “Please.” I hate that I sound as if I’m begging.

He looks up at me and takes the pen out of his mouth. His desire to get back to his spreadsheets is almost palpable, but his expression softens and he nods and says, “Okay. Give me a half hour.”

But in the morning I wake up alone, and when I walk downstairs to start the coffee I find Chris asleep on the couch, spreadsheets and laptop on the floor in front of him.

12

chris

The sound of someone moving around in the kitchen wakes me. I hear the sliding glass door open and Claire speaking softly to Tucker. The water runs and I picture her filling the coffee pot and starting breakfast. I’m still in the shorts and T-shirt I wore to the parade, and I blink a few times, trying to clear the cobwebs; there’s something I didn’t do. My laptop pings, alerting me to an incoming e-mail, and I notice the spreadsheets covering the floor. I remember Claire’s request and the look on her face last night when she asked me to come upstairs.

Shit.

She’s been patient. More patient than I’d ever be if our situation were reversed. And yet I couldn’t even give her the one small thing she asked for, which, quite frankly, is a poor substitute for the real thing.

It will take me a long time to make it up to Claire. Not just for last night, but for last year.

But I will if she can just hold on a little longer.

13

daniel

I stop by the desk of the officer who handles our public works, including speed limit signs. I don’t know him that well, but he seems like a pretty nice guy.

“What can I do for you?” he asks.

“I need you to check a list for me. I know someone who’s waiting for a speed limit sign. Her name is Claire Canton.” I wait while his fingers tap the keys. After the parade I looked Claire up on the online white pages. There’s an associated person in the household named Christopher, who’s obviously her husband. I saw her talking to a tall, blond man after the parade, which is yet another reason why it makes no sense for me to keep thinking about her.

I can’t stop, though.

She really does look like Jessie. And her hair. I don’t remember what it looked like when I pulled her over, but at the parade it was straight, the way Jessie always wore hers. But Claire’s mouth, that doesn’t remind me of Jessie at all. Because Claire has really great lips. They’re full, but they don’t look as if she’s done anything to make them that way. There’s no way to not notice them when she talks.

The officer brings up the list on the computer and scrolls through the names. “It’s gonna be a while. She’s way down there.”

“Can you bump her up?”

He looks at me and shrugs. “Sure. How far?”

“To the top.”

He raises an eyebrow, and I pretend not to notice. “Friend of yours?”

I don’t know what the hell I’d call her. I hardly know her. “Yeah.”

“Done,” he says. “She should have it in a couple days.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I owe you one.”

He laughs. “I hope she’s worth it.”

14

claire

By the fifth month of his unemployment, Chris wasn’t quite as confident about finding a job. He spent hours networking on the phone in our home office and entire days online applying directly to company websites. He had relationships with four headhunters, but only one of them was still returning his calls on a regular basis. He started to pull away from me, his responses to my questions clipped, shorter. Sleep eluded him completely, and I’d wake up in the middle of the night and find him in the office, the glow of his laptop filling the room with a weak, eerie blue light. “Are you okay?” I’d ask.

“I’m fine,” he’d say. “Go back to bed.”

A feeling of unease would wash over me, and I remembered the woman from my yoga class whose husband had lost his job. I wondered if he ever found one. Without a job to go to, Chris simply didn’t know what to do with himself. Our roles, once so set in stone, remained in a constant state of flux and Chris didn’t quite know how to handle it.

In mid-August of last year, as the first day of the new school year drew near, Josh and Jordan needed clothes. They’d outgrown almost everything in their closets and the items that still fit looked decidedly worse for wear. Josh’s penchant for playing football had ripped the knees from most of his jeans, and Jordan had a tendency to ruin her clothes with large splotches of Magic Marker ink. Mindful of our budget, I avoided the stores I normally shopped at and decided it would be in our best interest to economize. My kids’ clothes might not be higher-end, but they’d be free of holes and unmarred by stains. Josh and Jordan didn’t care where their wardrobes were purchased, and I was grateful that they were too young to pay much attention to the latest trends; those days would come soon enough.

We drove to T.J.Maxx instead of the mall. In the girls’ department, Jordan zeroed in on a pink and black plaid skirt and a white button-down shirt with a necktie in the same plaid pattern threaded through the collar. “I want to wear this on the first day of school, Mommy,” she said.

“Sure,” I said, checking to make sure it was the right size before placing it in the cart. “It’s adorable.” The temperature would still be quite warm when school started in late August, so I didn’t need to worry about buying matching tights; Jordan could wear the ensemble with a cute pair of ballet flats. She selected several more outfits, choosing her favorite styles and colors, while her brother fidgeted. “We’ll pick out your clothes next, bud,” I said.

“Okay,” he said, clearly bored and grumpy that the store didn’t have a sporting goods department so he could try and talk me into buying him a new football or basketball. He gave me no input when we finally reached the boys’ department, so I picked out his clothes and decided to be happy that he didn’t have a strong opinion about what he wore.