Tuesday morning, Hannah is up at six. The day promises to be hot and humid. She pulls on a pair of jeans and a sleeveless navy blue blouse. The morning routine has changed. They now eat breakfast as a family. She brushes her hair and puts on a dab of lipstick and some cover-up under her eyes. Granted, they are miles from being whole again, but she’s determined to show Alicia no one is giving up.
In the kitchen she squeezes oranges for fresh juice. Sam and Adam like to eat scrambled eggs and bacon. Alicia still has Cheerios, trying to keep up the act that eating breakfast with her family is a new sort of torture. Every once in a while, her posture isn’t so hostile. Progress, as expected, is slow.
Sam’s feet swing happily under the table. The eggs are just about done. Hannah puts three strips of bacon on Adam’s and Sam’s plates. She gives the eggs a final swirl.
“Thank you,” Adam says as Hannah serves him.
Sam breaks his bacon into small pieces. He likes to make a design before he eats. Alicia pours milk in her cereal and rolls her eyes at her brother.
“Let’s be grateful that Mom got up and made us this nice breakfast,” Adam says.
“Like she made the box of Cheerios,” Alicia snaps.
Hannah looks at Adam and shrugs.
“Rome wasn’t built in a day,” he says.
She nods and sips her orange juice.
“Guess what?” Sam asks, legs still kicking under the table.
“What?” Hannah replies, just as Adam’s phone, sitting on the kitchen counter, starts screaming the “Chicken Dance.” She hasn’t heard that ring since the day in the mall.
“Bawk, bawk,” Sam shouts.
Adam makes a move to stand, but Hannah is already at the counter. She recognizes his sponsor’s name and shuts off the phone.
“Who was it?” Alicia asks.
One of the stipulations at meals is that there are no electronic devices.
“Someone from Dad’s work,” Hannah tells her. “He can return the call after breakfast.” Then she looks at Adam quickly, nastily, just enough to show him it wasn’t work. She knows she has no right to be angry that his sponsor is calling, yet she is. Is it too much to ask that she get through one meal, one day, without having to think about her husband sneaking around with other men?
“So, slugger.” Adam nudges Sam’s elbow. “What were you going to tell us?”
He sticks a piece of bacon in his mouth. “I get to take home Izzy for the summer.”
“Who’s Izzy?” Alicia tries to sound as if she’s not interested.
“Our class iguana.”
“Gross. I’m not living in the same house with one of those.”
“He’s not gross. You are.”
“Sam,” Hannah says, still feeling annoyed about Adam’s phone, “we need to talk about this before you make a commitment to watching him.”
“I already told my teacher I would,” he whines.
“You’re an idiot,” Alicia tells him. “You can’t tell your teacher until you get a note from your parents. That’s the rule.”
“No it’s not.” He holds his fork as if it’s a weapon. “And you’re a dumb face.”
“Stop with the names,” Adam says. “We’ll work it out.”
Hannah picks up her glass and takes it to the sink. She’s irritated with herself for not being more patient, for not being able to sit and enjoy breakfast with her children. Adam hasn’t done anything wrong, yet she wants to throw something at him. She hates his platitudes—We’ll work it out. She used to have faith in his It’ll be fine and Everything’s okay. But he was lying to himself as much as he was lying to her. And she was a moron for believing him. The glass slips from her hand and breaks in the sink.
“You okay?” Adam asks.
“Fine. Everything’s just perfectly fine.” She gives him another dirty look, then glances at Alicia, whose eyes are squinted. She hasn’t missed the nasty undertones.
Hannah throws out the broken glass. Alicia finishes her cereal. Sam has a bite of scrambled eggs.
“Time for school,” Hannah tells them.
She clears the table. Adam grabs his cell phone, then helps them gather their things.
When he returns from taking them to the bus stop, he comes toward Hannah.
“Sorry about my phone going off,” he says.
She turns on the dishwasher. The whooshing noise is comforting. “Not exactly the best way to role-model no electronic devices.”
“I thought it was off.” He pours himself another cup of coffee and stands next to the counter, his head tucked down.
She detests her irritability, his submissiveness, their worn, tired rhythms, the steps that don’t seem to change.
She sits at the table. Her shoulders slump. Her brain feels like it’s slumping too. “I just don’t know what to do anymore. I thought the group would help, but it turned into a freak show.”
“I’m sorry,” he tells her.
“Bridget said that I push people away. I don’t talk about the specifics of your addiction or the fact that my daughter is a mess and urinated on the floor. The truth is I haven’t been able to talk about much of anything. I just can’t, and I know it makes me seem cold and withholding.” It’s the most open she’s been with Adam in ages.
“You’re warm and understanding.” He joins her. “You don’t push people away.”
“You don’t think I push Alicia away?”
“Of course not. You’re doing everything you can to help her.”
She spins a lone fork that was left on the table. “What if I’m not, though?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what if being a good mother really meant that I should have left you years ago?”
He sighs and moves his hand closer to her. “If you want me to leave, I understand.”
“I don’t know what I want.” She’s back to feeling slumped. It’s hard work, this protecting, defending—pretending. “I blame myself,” she says.
“Hannah, don’t. None of this is your fault.”
“But it is. In part. I didn’t go into this blind. I knew I was marrying someone who was sick, and I chose to believe you were better. It’s what I wanted to believe. It was selfish on my part. I wanted to have children. I wanted to have a normal, happy family.”
He reaches to touch her shoulder, then retracts his hand, knowing it’s against her rules. “There is nothing selfish about you,” he tells her.
“Of course there is. I’m no better than all the rest of the parents who tell themselves they’re staying together because it’s best for the children. If I really wanted what was best for them, I would have left you when they were toddlers, when I found out you’d been screwing around again. When you gave me an STD. But no. I decided to believe you’d work it out. As much as you lied to me, I lied to myself. I told myself you were really going to get better. Because I couldn’t imagine living on my own with two babies.”
“You’ve done everything for them. And you can’t go backward.”
She hangs her head, looks at her blue flats. “True. I can’t know how my life would have been different if I didn’t marry a sex addict, or if I didn’t have children. I think about that. I think about how it was selfish to have kids.”
“Don’t spiral like this. You’re a great mom. We’ll work it out.”
“I hate when you say that. Like it’s all going to be fixed; like it’s just a broken spoke on a bike. What if we can’t work it out? What if I get a call from the principal and she tells me Alicia defecated on the bathroom floor today?” She flicks the fork and watches it careen off the table.
Adam bends to pick it up. “Alicia’s getting better.”
Hannah pushes back her chair and walks to the counter. “Last night at the dinner table, when you were making the mashed potatoes, Alicia called Sam cunt breath. Cunt breath. I mean, where the hell did she ever even hear that? She’s nine, for God’s sake.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was going to. But honestly, I couldn’t repeat the words last night. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. What if she’s just a bad seed?”
“Hannah, stop it. You know that’s not true. She’s—”
“What was that?” Hannah whips around. “Is someone here?” she calls.
Adam walks to the front door, opens it, and glances outside. “Nothing,” he says.
A shiver whispers through her, a warning. Or maybe it was just a cloud passing over the skylight, but when she looks up, all she sees is a relentless blue. She walks upstairs. Alicia’s door is closed. Nothing out of the ordinary. Adam usually closes doors, but she should check anyway.
The moment she looks into Alicia’s room, she sees the movement under the covers.
“Alicia,” Hannah says.
“Get out.”
That’s the last thing Hannah is going to do. “Honey, can we talk?”
“You hate me. You think I’m a bad seed.”
“I love you. I would never, never hate you. And I don’t think there’s anything bad about you. You’re my beautiful, precious girl.”
“You’re a liar. I heard you.” The words are muffled by the blanket.
Hannah tugs the comforter down. Alicia pulls furiously at her hair.
“I’m not lying when I say I love you.” She sits on the bed and pushes Alicia’s hands down. “Both your father and I love you more than anything.”
“But you think the principal is going to call you. You think I’m bad,” she shouts.
“I don’t think you’re bad at all. Maybe you’re going through a rough time. But you’re a wonderful, good person.”
Alicia’s blue eyes glisten with tears.
“Why didn’t you get on the bus?” Hannah asks.
“I forgot my homework.”
Hannah glances at the door. Adam is standing there, a mountain of shock. “Alicia heard some of our discussion,” she says. He walks in, stone-faced, and sits on the desk chair.
“Mommy and I were just talking things out,” he explains. “We love you and your brother. Nothing will change that.” His mouth barely opens when he speaks, although his face softens.
“Mom didn’t even want to have us.”
“No.” Hannah pulls Alicia toward her, holds her. “No, I always wanted you.”
“I’m never going back to school.”
“Of course you are,” Adam says.
She pushes Hannah away. “Leave me alone.”
“We’re not going to leave you alone,” Adam says. “We’re going to do everything we can to help you.”
“I don’t need help. And I hate that lady Beth. And I hate you.” She kicks her legs. “And Sam.”
“I thought you liked Beth,” Hannah says.
“Well, I don’t.” She pouts.
Adam scoots his chair closer to the bed. “Alicia, life isn’t always easy, and right now you’re going through a tough time. When you get through it, you’ll be stronger. But you know how you have to take medicine if you’re sick? Well, now the medicine doesn’t come in a bottle. You have to see Beth. And you have to go to school. It might be hard today, and tomorrow. But if you don’t go, it will only get worse.”
“What kind of medicine do you take?” Alicia asks Adam.
“I don’t take medicine,” he tells her.
“What’s a sex addict?” she asks.
Hannah sighs. “Where did you hear that?”
“You said it. You said Dad was one.”
“It’s something that…” She doesn’t have the slightest idea what to say.
“It’s something you’ll learn when you’re a grown-up,” Adam says.
“You think I’m stupid. I know what sex is,” she yells.
“And how do you know that?” Hannah asks, staring at one of the purple polka dots on the comforter.
“It’s on the computer.”
“What do you mean?” She keeps staring at the dot until it’s charred into her brain.
“Sometimes Sam turns it on when he’s playing his stupid games. He thinks it’s funny.”
Hannah glances from the dot to Adam. He knows computers and porn.
“What kind of things does he watch?” Adam asks.
“Gross stuff. It’s disgusting. People who do that are disgusting.”
“Does he watch it every day?” Hannah asks.
“I don’t know. Ask him. He thinks it’s funny. Like he thinks farting is funny. So now do you believe me? That I know what sex is?”
“I think you might know the wrong things about it,” Adam tells her. “After school we’ll sit together and have a talk.”
Hannah shakes her head. “I just don’t understand how he got onto those sorts of sites.”
“What’s important now is that Alicia goes to school.” Adam sounds measured. Hannah wonders if this is what people like Adam can do. Take all the stuff they don’t want to think about, zip it up, tuck it away, and act like life is fine. She can do it to a degree, but not as cleanly and efficiently as Adam.
“I’m not going back to school,” Alicia says. “Ever.”
“Of course you are,” Adam tells her.
“You just want to get rid of me so you can do what those people on the computer do.”
“No, we don’t want to get rid of you,” Hannah tells her.
Adam walks to the bed and picks Alicia up. “It will be good to think of schoolwork and see your friends.” He’s firm, yet soothing.
“I don’t have any friends.”
“You have loads of them,” he tells her as he carries her out. “We’re going to have something yummy to eat, then Mommy and I are going to take you to school.”
Adam sits with Alicia in the kitchen, gives her a bowl of ice cream, and tells her a few knock-knock jokes. It takes about twenty minutes, but eventually she smiles and agrees to go to school.
On the ride there, Hannah keeps glancing back at Alicia. Her knees bounce, and her skin is pale. When they get to the building, Hannah instructs Adam to wait. She’ll walk Alicia in. No child wants a two-parent escort.
In the office, Hannah tells the secretary that Alicia wasn’t feeling well this morning, but she is much better now. Then she squats and hugs her.
“I love you.” She kisses her cheek.
Alicia shuffles away, defeated, head down.
Hannah wants to run after her, but she tells herself that taking Alicia back home right now wouldn’t help. Under that rationalization there’s another feeling, a feeling that terrifies Hannah—relief that she’ll have a few hours’ break from her daughter.
She gets in the car with Adam. As soon as they’re out of the parking lot, she screams, “Fuck.”
“No shit,” he says.
“And how do they see that kind of filth on the computer? I thought it was hard for kids to access.”
Adam shakes his head. “It should be. I really thought I had everything blocked.”
“What are we going to do?” she asks.
“We need to set up an emergency appointment with Beth.”
“Agreed.”
“We need to come up with a plan of exactly how we’re going to explain all of this,” he says.
“Goddammit. Why didn’t you ask her if she had her homework?” she asks.
“I did.”
“I can’t believe we didn’t see her.”
“I know,” he says, and grips the wheel.
They glance at each other. For the first time in forever, she feels like they’re actually on the same side.