chapter two

Jamesburg, New Jersey

Megan Riley—hair sopping, bath towel clinging—burst into the kitchen, beckoned by the howling smoke alarm. Her eyes darted around the room. No visible fire. No visible husband. Only Angel, their youngest, a petite child who had recently turned five. She stood peacefully beside the toaster admiring the rising smoke, like steam from the geysers they had visited in Yellowstone Park last summer, except today it was dark and sooty.

“Angel! Where’s Daddy?” Megan hollered, pouncing toward the plug. There was no need. The appliance popped on cue, perhaps in surrender, to give up its burnt offering.

“Don’t know, Mom,” Angel answered with an innocent shrug. “But his toast is done.”

Although the toaster may have ceded, the smoke detector was just getting started.

Megan tugged a chair beneath the alarm, balanced on it like a scantily clad circus performer, and fanned one-handed. The clamor did more than ignore her: the half-circle vents molded into the detector’s puck-shaped face seemed to grin down.

Brad, barely sixteen and dark-haired like his father, turned the corner. He halted. His mother, dripping hair, tippy toes, clad in a tenuous towel, was flapping anxiously at the ceiling.

“Now, there’s something you don’t see every day,” he deadpanned to Angel.

Megan ignored him, reaching instead with a single finger on her free hand toward the one button on the blaring contraption that would silence the racket once and for all—and then she would find Dave.

Just another inch and . . . her chair tipped backwards.

Megan screamed.

• • •

The trash in the kitchen was overflowing—yet again—and running it out to the large can in the garage, before Megan had to ask, seemed like a given. The toasting bread had started out frozen, the other children hadn’t yet come down, and besides, he’d be back in less than two minutes.

In the garage, Dave straight-armed the can open and dumped, careful not to dirty his pressed shirt and silk tie. He dropped the lid, scooted back around his car, and then paused at the door. It was a beautiful thing, a BMW 650i coupe, purchased seven months earlier. Expensive? Sure, but it was his dream machine, the first sports car he’d ever owned. He was embarrassed at the time—to approach forty and buy a red sports car was such a cliché. Lately, he couldn’t care less.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sound coming from the kitchen. Was that the smoke alarm?

It took only seconds after he’d pushed through the door for his eyes to scrunch, his forehead to furrow, his feet to spread. Light reflecting off the room had already traveled down his optic nerve to deliver the scene to his head, but his brain was having trouble sorting it all out. There was smoke in the kitchen, the smell of burnt toast, a deafening alarm—that all made sense. But why was Megan sitting in the middle of the floor with her knees pulled tightly against her chest, trying frantically to gather herself in a towel?

Brad was the first to speak. “Dad, I . . .” He raised his voice to be heard above the noise, but then the smoke alarm, perhaps growing bored, silenced itself. “Dad,” he repeated, not wasting the moment, “I believe your toast is ready.”

Dave’s eyes were still looking for answers. He reached down to help Megan up, but she wouldn’t reach back. Dave turned instead to his youngest daughter.

“Angel, I asked you to watch the toaster!” he chided.

Her tiny yet determined voice was adamant. “I did watch it, Daddy! I watched it the whole time!”

Silence swept the room—an eerie stillness, like one might expect in a death chamber. Then Megan, still double-clutching her towel, began to giggle uncontrollably.

• • •

The family had tried to schedule daily breakfasts together, but with people heading in so many different directions, it was not working out. Dinnertime hadn’t been much better, with baseball, piano, and dance lessons all making their demands on the family.

While Megan finished getting ready, Dave checked his watch, then quick-stirred a pan of scrambled eggs.

Brittany, their middle child, entered, apparently completely unaware of the morning’s fiasco, though Brad would contend she was unaware of everything but boys.

Dave scooped eggs onto her plate while Brittany settled into her chair. She was their child who never rushed—despite always being late. After all, it was only school. She had all day.

She tossed back her long brown hair, the color of her mother’s, in a gesture that reminded Dave of Megan—and of the fact that his daughter was growing up.

“Did Mom tell you who I like?” Brittany asked.

“No. Should she?”

“I told her not to.”

“So, who do you like?” Dave asked, taking the obvious bait.

“Promise not to tell?”

Dave tried to picture anyone who would care. He couldn’t. “I promise.”

“Jason Wilson. He’s hot!”

“How old are you again?”

“Duh, Dad. I’ll be turning thirteen in a year.” Dave opened his mouth, but decided silence was his best ally.

Brad hustled back through the room. “I’m outta here.” He bent close to stare into Dave’s eyes. “Dad, listen! Don’t forget—game tonight—six p.m.—at the field.”

“I didn’t forget last time,” Dave replied, every word protesting. “I was just running late.”

Brad ignored the man to holler up the stairs. “Pick me up at three, Mom?”

Megan’s voice echoed from a distant corner of the house. “Do you have everything?”

“Yeah. Try not to be late!” He snatched his baseball mitt, backpack, and the three remaining pieces of toast, and, like a tailgating teenager late to a party, he was gone.

Dave’s phone alarm beeped. He would be late as well if he didn’t leave now. Then, as if she’d been watching, Megan stepped in, dressed for the day and carrying Dave’s coaching uniform. She folded it inside his briefcase and clicked the lid closed.

“I’ve got to run,” Dave announced, picking up his suit coat.

“I know, honey. I’ll see you at the game?” It was meant as a reminder, not a question. She continued, “We’ll grab pizza on the way home after, if that’s okay.”

She leaned up to kiss him lightly on the lips, though his was a halfhearted kiss in return. He shifted his weight. It appeared he had something to say.

She waited. He remained silent.

“I love you,” she added, pointing to his watch.

“Yeah, I know. I love you too.” He took a breath, forced a turn, and paraded once again to the garage.

• • •

The car flaunted style, power, and sophistication. Dave let the leather surround him, rescue him, whisper its encouragement. Driving to work was one of the few moments of sanity he would have all day. He checked the car’s clock, undecided as to whether he should slow down and savor the moment or press the gas pedal to the floor. He chose the gas.

He glanced in the rearview mirror and then eased his foot down. If he drove fast enough, it was harder for the anxiety to keep up. Perhaps I’ll just keep on going today, he mused. I’d miss my wife and family, sure, but at least I’d have my car. His tease brought a grin.

Megan, on the other hand, was a minivan holdout, a vanishing breed of mothers who refused to join the modern age and trade up to an SUV. Though he appreciated her rebellious stance, what he couldn’t grasp was her rationale—she actually liked her van. “It’s practical, and I love the color,” she would say.

Dave turned onto the New Jersey Turnpike.

She wasn’t much younger than he—three years plus a month. Why was she so happy all the time when life had become so hectic, so crazy? And with burgeoning demands at the office, things were only going to get worse.

Dave was the dad, he was in charge—why, then, did he feel like the captain of the Hindenburg? Life was passing fast and it was all he could do to breathe. Some days were fine, but on other days, he felt like the desire had been sucked right out of him.

How could he explain it to Meg? She would retort with, Life is short, so enjoy it. But she still looked fabulous—he was the one growing old.

Ten more minutes and he’d be at the lot where he’d park his car to catch the train to Manhattan—he and a million other clones. On occasion, he’d brave city traffic and drive the entire way. He considered it today, but finding a place in the company lot this late would be all but impossible.

The train ride was the part of the commute he dreaded the most. It had become necessary when the firm had moved to Manhattan the previous fall—one more thing to complicate his life. He clicked on the stereo and selected his favorite playlist: Billy Joel.

Ironically, the song that played first was “Running on Ice.”

There was always a new account at the office, more activities for the kids, run to this, late to that—and what did he have to show for it? More gray hair. He needed to slow things down, but how?

At times when he was alone in the car, Dave would sing along with the lyrics. Not today. Today he turned up the volume.

“Seriously?” he mumbled as he pulled into the lot. “Am I really going to be forty?”