hers, as far as he was concerned. Besides, they looked good, so who cared if they were made of plastic? When he’d suggested to Lainey (delicately, he’d thought) that she might want to ask Kristin for the name of her cosmetic surgeon—hell, he’d even offered to pay for her boob job himself—she’d responded by bursting into a flood of angry tears and stomping from the room, yelling something about how Kristin had never had to nurse two babies and he could just go to hell.
“Already there,” Tom said now, taking a deep breath and releasing it, watching it tremble toward the car’s front window. He pulled a cigarette out of the pocket of his shirt and lit it, inhaling deeply and pretending it was a joint. He’d read somewhere that marijuana was supposed to be good for fighting nausea. “Hah!” he laughed. He’d have to remember to tell that to Lainey. She hated it when he got stoned. “It’s illegal, and it’s irresponsible,” she’d say. “Irresponsible”—her favorite word. “What happens if you’re stoned and one of the kids wakes up and wants their daddy?”
As if that’s even in the realm of possibility, he thought. When was the last time either of his children had ever asked for their daddy? His three-year-old daughter, Candy, cried whenever he approached, and Cody, his two-year-old son, who everyone said was his spitting image, would recoil in genuine horror whenever Tom tried to pick him up, as if Tom was just some stranger who’d wandered into the house by mistake. Which was pretty close to the truth, Tom thought now, idling at a stop sign for several seconds before pursuing Suzy down another residential street.
Where was she taking him?
Despite looking like his father, Cody was actually just like his mother, Tom thought. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, nothing was ever good enough. His son would cry and carry on, his wiry little body rigid in his father’s awkward embrace, his arms extended into the air, straining for his mother’s softer, more familiar touch, his round little face getting redder and redder with each successive sob, until he looked like a ripe tomato on the verge of exploding.
Tom shuddered. He’d actually seen a man’s head explode once when he was in Afghanistan. A girl had been lying along the side of the road. She appeared to be injured. As a young American soldier climbed out of his jeep to come to her aid, the girl had reached inside her dirt-encrusted robe. Next thing you knew, severed limbs were flying through the smoke-filled air in all directions, and the helpful young soldier was minus his head.
Tom felt the bile rise in his throat and swallowed several times, trying to force it back down. Where the hell had that memory come from? he wondered, tossing his cigarette out the side window and trying to drag some fresh oxygen into his lungs. It didn’t help. The air was sticky and sat like an expanding clump of cellophane in his throat, threatening to cut off his air supply altogether. He had to stop the car. He needed to get out, walk around, get his circulation going, stop his head from spinning. He needed to get away from this stupid, un-air-conditioned car before he threw up all over himself.
He angled the old Impala toward the curb and was about to open his door when he saw Suzy’s BMW come to a halt halfway down the street, as if she were waiting for him. What was she doing? Was she going to back up? Was she planning to confront him? Just get out of here, he told himself. Get out now.
Except she wasn’t backing up. She was turning into the driveway of a tan-colored bungalow with a white slate roof and a vine-covered double garage. Tom’s eyes shot to the street sign on the corner. Tallahassee Drive, the sign announced. “She’s my Tallahassee lassie,” he grunted tunelessly, forgetting about his nausea as he inched his car down the street.
Her garage door opened, her car hesitating in the driveway. What’s she waiting for?
“Already there,” Tom said now, taking a deep breath and releasing it, watching it tremble toward the car’s front window. He pulled a cigarette out of the pocket of his shirt and lit it, inhaling deeply and pretending it was a joint. He’d read somewhere that marijuana was supposed to be good for fighting nausea. “Hah!” he laughed. He’d have to remember to tell that to Lainey. She hated it when he got stoned. “It’s illegal, and it’s irresponsible,” she’d say. “Irresponsible”—her favorite word. “What happens if you’re stoned and one of the kids wakes up and wants their daddy?”
As if that’s even in the realm of possibility, he thought. When was the last time either of his children had ever asked for their daddy? His three-year-old daughter, Candy, cried whenever he approached, and Cody, his two-year-old son, who everyone said was his spitting image, would recoil in genuine horror whenever Tom tried to pick him up, as if Tom was just some stranger who’d wandered into the house by mistake. Which was pretty close to the truth, Tom thought now, idling at a stop sign for several seconds before pursuing Suzy down another residential street.
Where was she taking him?
Despite looking like his father, Cody was actually just like his mother, Tom thought. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, nothing was ever good enough. His son would cry and carry on, his wiry little body rigid in his father’s awkward embrace, his arms extended into the air, straining for his mother’s softer, more familiar touch, his round little face getting redder and redder with each successive sob, until he looked like a ripe tomato on the verge of exploding.
Tom shuddered. He’d actually seen a man’s head explode once when he was in Afghanistan. A girl had been lying along the side of the road. She appeared to be injured. As a young American soldier climbed out of his jeep to come to her aid, the girl had reached inside her dirt-encrusted robe. Next thing you knew, severed limbs were flying through the smoke-filled air in all directions, and the helpful young soldier was minus his head.
Tom felt the bile rise in his throat and swallowed several times, trying to force it back down. Where the hell had that memory come from? he wondered, tossing his cigarette out the side window and trying to drag some fresh oxygen into his lungs. It didn’t help. The air was sticky and sat like an expanding clump of cellophane in his throat, threatening to cut off his air supply altogether. He had to stop the car. He needed to get out, walk around, get his circulation going, stop his head from spinning. He needed to get away from this stupid, un-air-conditioned car before he threw up all over himself.
He angled the old Impala toward the curb and was about to open his door when he saw Suzy’s BMW come to a halt halfway down the street, as if she were waiting for him. What was she doing? Was she going to back up? Was she planning to confront him? Just get out of here, he told himself. Get out now.
Except she wasn’t backing up. She was turning into the driveway of a tan-colored bungalow with a white slate roof and a vine-covered double garage. Tom’s eyes shot to the street sign on the corner. Tallahassee Drive, the sign announced. “She’s my Tallahassee lassie,” he grunted tunelessly, forgetting about his nausea as he inched his car down the street.
Her garage door opened, her car hesitating in the driveway. What’s she waiting for?
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