On the first day of school, after a special breakfast of cinnamon rolls and bacon, I posed them in front of the fireplace and snapped pictures. “I want Daddy to watch us get on the school bus,” Jordan said.

“He will,” I assured her, though one glance toward the closed office door made me wonder if Chris would accompany us the way he always had in years past. I exhaled when the door opened five minutes later, noticing the circles under Chris’s eyes. Had he slept at all? His shorts looked looser, almost baggy, and I made a mental note to make sure he was eating enough.

When it was time to leave, the kids hoisted their new backpacks—also from T.J.Maxx—onto their shoulders and followed me out the door, Chris lagging slightly behind.

Bridget and Elisa were already waiting at the bus stop, cameras in hand. Sam and Skip, looking a bit out of place, wore dress slacks and button-down shirts and looked as if they couldn’t wait to leave for work; this would be their token appearance and it wouldn’t be repeated until the following year. Julia and Justin joined us moments later; I noted her oversize sunglasses, which were hardly necessary because the sky was a dull gray.

“Rough night?” I asked.

“I’m just tired,” she replied. “I was up late.”

Bridget’s four boys were outfitted in Nike athletic apparel from head to toe. I winced when I thought about the cost of the shoes alone, but I’d never heard her complain about money, or more specifically about not having enough. Sam worked at a stock brokerage firm and specialized in options trading, which sounded a lot like gambling except with other people’s money. It was a risky profession in the best of times, and I often wondered how he was faring with the economy in its current state. Whenever anyone commented on the recession or lamented the balance in their bank accounts, Bridget would say, “Sam handles all that. I’m just the one who brings the clothes and shoes and groceries home.”

“Where did you get Jordan’s adorable outfit?” Elisa asked.

“T.J.Maxx,” I said, taking a sip of my coffee.

“It’s so cute,” she said. “Josh looks great, too,” she added.

“Yes, they both look wonderful,” Bridget agreed.

After a flurry of final kisses and hugs, the kids boarded the bus when it pulled up at the curb, and we waved good-bye, watching as they rounded the corner and disappeared from view. The men scattered and I stood there with Elisa and Bridget for a few more minutes, talking about all the things we planned to get caught up on now that school was back in session.

When I walked back into the house Chris was standing in front of the living room window. He turned slowly when he heard me come into the room. “Are discount stores all we can afford now?” he asked, unable to look me in the eye.

“There’s nothing wrong with T.J.Maxx. The kids’ outfits are just as nice as anything I’ve bought at Gymboree or Gap, and I paid a heck of a lot less for them. We’re still recovering from a recession. Everyone is cutting back and if they’re not, they should be. We have nothing to prove to anyone.” I took a few steps toward him, but he turned away. “The reality is that your severance and my earnings won’t be enough to keep us afloat indefinitely. I’m just being cautious. That’s all.”

“Believe me, Claire. No one is more aware of our reality than I am. I’m the one who’s carrying the full weight of it on my shoulders.”

“It’s not just your weight to bear. It’s mine, too.”

“It really isn’t,” he said. He left the room and walked slowly into the office, closing the door behind him.

In all the years we’d been together, I’d never experienced anything quite as heartbreaking as watching the lights of my golden boy fade.

15

claire

The doorbell rings while I’m cleaning up the kitchen after dinner. I finally squeezed in a shower after I fed the kids and my hair is wet and combed back. I don’t have any makeup on, I’m naked under my old, pink bathrobe, the one I can’t seem to part with, and I’m not crazy about answering the door in my current state of undress. Why can’t anyone drop by my house when I’m presentable? I glance out the back window. Josh and Jordan are playing with Bridget’s boys and they look like they’re having a good time, so I don’t bother calling one of them in to help me out. The bell chimes again. It’s probably a neighborhood child or someone trying to sell something, so I decide to answer it myself and send them on their way. But when I open the door what I’m not expecting is for Daniel Rush to be standing there in his police uniform. Mortified, I pull the sash on my robe tighter and stutter out a greeting. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he says, smiling. “I just wanted to let you know that they’ve brought your speed limit sign.”

“Right now?” I guess it’s true what they say: It’s not what you know, but whom. It’s been less than a week since I spoke to him at the Fourth of July parade, and I wonder what kind of effort he had to exert to move us to the top of the list so fast.

There are two squad cars parked on the street. I look beyond Daniel and watch as an officer unhooks a trailer—on which the sign is mounted—and wheels it into position. I’m not sure of the protocol for this kind of service; it seems rude to just say thanks and shut the door, especially after he’s gone to the trouble to help us. But I can’t stand here in my bathrobe another minute. It feels all weird and desperate housewifey. Opening the door wider, I say, “Please, come in.” He steps over the threshold. “Could you excuse me for a second?” I ask.

He nods. “Sure.”

I run upstairs, flinging off the robe as soon as I reach the bedroom. I’d planned on putting on my pajamas after I cleaned up the kitchen, but I rifle through the laundry basket of clean clothes sitting just inside the door until I find a tank top and some shorts. I step into a pair of underwear and once I’m fully dressed, I walk back downstairs where Daniel is waiting patiently in the entryway. I’m suddenly conscious of the fact that I didn’t take the time to put on a bra and I hunch forward a bit. Technically I’m small-breasted enough to go without, and the tank top has a built-in shelf bra that provides a little support, but it’s the air-conditioning running full blast that I’m worried about; I have no idea what it’s doing to my nipples, and I’m afraid to look down and find out. My concern kicks up a notch when Daniel glances at my chest. I turn around, looking for something to cover myself with, but the only item of clothing within reach is Jordan’s Tinker Bell hoodie—size 6X—hanging on the knob of the coat closet near the front door. But when I turn back around I realize that it’s the medical alert dog tag I wear around my neck that has caught his eye, not my nipples. It was probably tucked too far down into my shirt at the parade, but it’s almost impossible to hide it when I wear a tank or swimsuit. I don’t think much of it anymore, and my friends and family are used to seeing it. “I can’t thank you enough for helping us with the sign,” I say. “I really appreciate it, and I know my neighbors will, too.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Would you like something to drink? Iced tea or a Coke?”

“No thanks. I’m good,” he says, smiling at me. He points at my cheeks. “Looks like you got some sun today.”

“Yes,” I say. “A little too much.” I noticed my pink cheeks when I got out of the shower, and I can already feel the sting of the sunburn. I made sure I put sunscreen on the kids but forgot to put enough on myself. I have to stop doing that or my face will look like shoe leather by the time I’m forty. “We spent the day at the community pool.”