Chapter 12

Friday, February 14, 2014

Colleen

Valentine’s Day, and the last day of school for the kids before February vacation. We don’t have any plans for the week; the three of us will just relax and make it up as we go, and next weekend Eric is taking the kids skiing. For Valentine’s Day, the kids made me cards, and I bought myself a box of very expensive chocolate at the fancy food store in Newburyport and charged it to Eric’s credit card. Truly, it’s the least he can do. I am making the kids a nice dinner; I invited Alex too, but she says she has a headache and is going to bed early. I hope she’s not coming down with something. Well, it will be a nice, quiet evening at home with my favorite people. I slice mushrooms and onions for beef Stroganoff and listen to cheesy love songs on the doo-wop radio station. Valentine’s Day is not going to drag me down.

And yet, I am on edge. I finally talked to Nate Hensler. He texted me while I was in the drive-through line at Dunkin’ Donuts; so, I parked and talked to him.

“I found your sister,” he said. “She’s safe, as far as I can tell. She’s living in a nice apartment on the Upper East Side. It belongs to someone else, but she’s there alone and she has a key, so I think she’s borrowing it. But Mrs. Newcomb, I have reason to believe your sister is using drugs.”

“Oh, shit,” I said under my breath. “What do I do next? How do I reach her?”

“Frankly, I’m not sure what to tell you,” he said. “I’m concerned that if you approach her, there’s a good chance she’ll just run away from you again. And I don’t know her mental state. It could be that if she feels pursued, she’ll feel forced to do something drastic.”

I sat parked in my car, overlooking the traffic circle at Route One, sipped my hot caramel macchiato, and thought about my sister. I remembered trying to explain her algebra homework to her when she was twelve and I was sixteen. She let me help for a few minutes, but then she got frustrated, shouted at me, grabbed her homework, and ran outside, slamming the door behind her.

His instinct could be spot on.

“Maybe it would be better if you could watch her for a few more days,” I said. “And let me know if anything changes.”

“I can do that, but this week I have another case that needs attention,” he said. “So I won’t be able to follow her as diligently as I did last week. But I will check on her.”

“Well, wait, I don’t want her to do something . . . destructive or dangerous while you’re not watching her.”

“Mrs. Newcomb,” he said. “If you are worried, feel free to call the police. But I can’t babysit her every minute. I’ll see what I can do, and I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

I rolled my eyes. I shook my head. I didn’t like how this was going. “I don’t want to call the police,” I said. “I hate that these are my only choices.”

“I’m sorry I can’t do more,” he said. “You’re welcome to contact someone else. Maybe a psychiatrist, or a treatment center. Or call a private intervention service; you could probably find one online.”

I guffawed. Sure, send a stranger in to talk to her. That would not go well.

“I just feel so helpless,” I said.

“You’re welcome to explore your choices,” he said. “Won’t hurt my feelings a bit.”

I thought about it, and we talked about it, and I drank my coffee and watched the gulls fly overhead. In the end, I told him to stick with the case. Do what you can, I told him. And send me an invoice because I don’t like expenses to come all at once out of the blue.

After that, I went to the grocery store and called Alex and filled her in. Then I called Dad. By the time I got to the checkout, my cart was full but I had no memory of putting anything in there.

But now I have a pit in my stomach; things are out of control. I hate it when things are out of control.

Maddie comes into the kitchen just as I am draining the noodles. “Dinner’s almost ready.” I tell her. “Can you call your brother?”

“Sure,” she says, sampling the sauce with a spoon. “This is good, Mom.”

“Glad you like it,” I say.

She goes to the doorway and shouts, “Ethan!” at the top of her lungs.

Ethan runs up from the basement, abandoning his Xbox for food. He gives me a big hug, even while my hands are clad in giant pot holders that make them feel like lobster claws. “I love you, Mom,” he says.

My sweet kid. He has no idea how much I needed that. “Thanks, Ethan,” I say. “Me too.” I hug him back and press my face against his hair and smell. It smells faintly of shampoo and the earth after a rainfall. Or maybe I’m imagining that part; it’s how he used to smell when he was a baby. I never thought those days would feel so far away.

I kiss Ethan’s head. “You two set the table in the dining room.”

After dinner I give Ethan and Maddie the night off from chores, and I load the dishwasher. The radio is on while I rinse the dishes, but I don’t hear it. I am thinking about Riley: how she is found but still lost, plus Maddie’s story of how Riley stole into her room on that Thanksgiving night all those years ago. I don’t know what to make of it, and I don’t know what to do with it. Does the story hold a clue about what’s happening with Riley now? If it does, I don’t know how to decipher it.

Later that night I don my flannel nightgown and thick socks against the cold, then climb into bed alone on Valentine’s Day. I turn on the TV and watch the news. My head is starting the familiar throb. The feeling clogs my ears, creeps into my temples, and stretches them hard until my head feels like it might burst. Tylenol PM will get me through the night and keep the poison head-wheels from turning. Two rooms away Ethan is playing video games online with his friends, and so I put on the puffy sleep mask that covers my eyes and my ears. In one moment, everything becomes dark and I fall fast asleep.

But this is no dreamless sleep; my mind is riddled with visions of Riley, filled with images from magazine ads. The camera flashes, and I see her, her face drowning under so much makeup, cheeks dark red, eyes purple-gray, her hair platinum and blowing around. She looks wild and absurd, and when I look closely, Riley is not there at all. Where she was standing a moment earlier, there is now only a column of smoke drifting in a dark room.

I want to keep searching for her; maybe she’s just on the other side of the smoke. I feel like if I look deeper, I might see little Riley, stretching her hand to me to help her cross the street. I reach into the smoke, but all goes black. I stand in darkness, complete and sudden. Slowly, I come to, realizing that Maddie is beside me, shouting, shaking my body.

“Mom,” she says. “Mom, you have to get up!”

An alarm is blasting. Ethan stands beside his sister, coughing hard. I sit up in bed. It’s pitch dark except for the light from a flashlight that Maddie is holding.

“It’s a fire,” Maddie says. “We have to get out. I already called the fire department.”

With that, I am awake. No more useless words. We go.

I grab Maddie’s hand, and she grabs Ethan’s. The halls are filled with rancid chemical smoke, thick and foul. It feels solid, like a wall, but we squat down and try to keep our bodies low to avoid breathing smoke. Breathing is not possible; our lungs will not accept the hot gasses that surround us. My eyes sting and water; the smoke burns my throat. I taste charring like toast.

We hunch down as far as we can and crawl carefully down engulfed stairs. My body hurts, desperate to breathe. I spit and sputter and keep climbing through the tar-paper blackness. When we reach the bottom, there is some relief. This staircase leads directly to the front door, a door we never use. But tonight I unbolt it, and we spill into the night air, gasping for breath, all of us freezing in our pajamas and bare feet. But out and alive. Thank goodness for that.

And then I see it through the side windows of the house: the kitchen is engulfed. The siren of approaching fire trucks overcomes the blaring smoke alarms, and I am granted one blessing. The car, parked in the driveway and not in the garage, and I remember: the keys are in it. Last night I left them in the car. I know that, suddenly, clearly and confidently, as though I can see the keys.

I look at my children, their faces painted with a fear I hoped they’d never know, coughing, sputtering, freezing. They grip their elbows and forearms and huddle together against the February wind, their breath breaking into the air like puffs of the smoke we just escaped.

“Come on,” I say, and they follow easily; nobody argues with me now. We three fugitives run across the lawn to the car, like a lifeboat, a gift granted by my five-p.m. self to my three-a.m. self.

My hands do not fumble, and I am amazed that they do not, that I am able to function at all. One moment before the fire trucks pull in front of the house, the keys go into the ignition, turn, and we back out. We drive in reverse down the driveway—a million times I have done this, but this is the only one that matters—and pull onto the street and across it to park. The car is cold but sheltered from the wind, and the air will grow warm in a few moments.

“What happened?” Ethan says from the back seat, coughing.

“It was me,” Maddie says from the front passenger seat, tears in her voice. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Mom.”

“Shh, honey,” I say. “Just tell us what happened.”

“I was on my iPad watching the Olympics. Lindsey was watching too, and we were Facetiming.” She’s so upset, she’s heaving.

“Sweetie, just breathe,” I say.

Her long brown hair hangs limply around her red face. “I went to make popcorn on the stove, like you always do. But then I went upstairs for something, and then this amazing speed skating competition came on, and . . . I forgot all about the popcorn.”

“Did you hear the smoke alarm?” I ask.

“I had my earbuds on,” she says, squeaking through tears. “By the time I figured out what was happening, it was all . . . happening.”

Why didn’t the alarm sound in my room? Why didn’t it wake up Ethan? I don’t know. What matters now, I tell myself, is that we are alive. This is all that matters.

I take Maddie’s hand in mine to comfort her, but I am in shock myself. What now? Where will we live? Eric—how will I contact Eric? My phone is inside. I rub my eyes; they are scratchy with smoke, and I stink with it. Do I have to go through all this by myself?

Firefighters climb out of the truck; two walk around the house, and one hooks up the hose to the hydrant.

“I have to go talk to them,” I say. “You two stay here. The car will warm up soon.”

“Mom,” Maddie says. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know you are, baby,” I say. “Don’t worry, we’re safe and everything’s going to be okay.”

How will it be okay? I have no idea. But I need to tell the kids that it will. And if I tell them, I ought to try and believe it myself.

I leave the sanctuary of the car and run in my long flannel nightgown and bed socks through the icy night to the firefighters. I find the chief and tell him that we are safe; and no, we don’t have any pets; and no, there were no guests and nobody else inside. The neighbors are starting to come out of their homes. They all ask if everyone is okay. Yes, I say over and over. We are okay. We are all out of the house. Someone wraps a warm coat around me and hands me boots. Another gives me a thermos of hot tea. Who gave me what? I cannot remember the faces, only the hands and the warmth. I am grateful beyond measure.

The lights from the trucks—eventually, three of them arrive—and all the neighbors swarming around make this feel like a big party. A radio inside the fire truck buzzes and beeps, garbled, disembodied voices. An ambulance arrives. We go over; they give Maddie and Ethan sweatshirts, socks, and cheap sneakers. The EMT checks us all for smoke inhalation. I am coughing but I’m all right. Ethan needs oxygen. Seeing him sitting there with the cup over his mouth is the moment when I fight back tears. Maddie sits beside her brother. Her face is pale; she’s so upset. She takes his hand in hers, and suddenly, they both look like babies. Please, God, please, help us get through this.

Someone calls my name and runs toward me across the sea of faces and yards and houses that are not on fire. Our neighbor from down the street, Corinne, the mom to two kids the same ages as mine.

“My God, I came to see what was happening, but I didn’t expect . . . Is everybody okay?”

“We’re all out,” I say.

“Thank goodness,” she says, gripping her elbows. Her winter jacket over her pajamas is nothing in this kind of cold. “When everybody’s in the clear, send the kids over to our house. They can get some rest, and eat something, take a shower, whatever they need.”

I look at Corinne; the lines in her face are deep with concern. I should take her up on her offer and send them with her, but it’s too close to the one I accepted all those years ago, refuge at a neighbor’s house, where I went to drink chocolate milk while EMTs dredged our mother from the bathtub. I cough hard into my fist and realize my jaw hurts from trying to hold it steady against the shivering.

“Thanks,” I say. “I want to keep them close right now.”

“All right,” she says. “But let me get you all something to eat. I’ll be right back.” Then Corinne disappears into the fog of everything. I sit on the edge of the ambulance with Ethan and Maddie, watching the mayhem. What happens next? I have no idea. Will we be able to rebuild? A couple of months ago, Eric mentioned something about our insurance policy, but now I don’t remember what he said. Where is Eric? How can he not know what we’re going through?

Several minutes later Corinne reappears with blankets, a stack of them, plus a thermos of hot Swiss Miss and several wrapped granola bars for the kids. I am overwhelmed—by everything, but in this moment, it’s her kindness, everyone’s kindness, that sends me over the edge. I start to cry. Corinne puts her things on the ground and wraps her arms around me, holds me while I fall apart for a moment.

“You’re okay,” she says. “Everything’s going to be okay. You got everybody out of the house. Nothing else matters.”

“I know,” I say and wipe my eyes. I remember then that our neighbors do not know about my marriage, except that there’s a certain car they might not have seen in a while. And Eric is not here now—Valentine’s Day night—which must be a very obvious sign. But Corinne does not ask where he is, and this, I know, is an act of tremendous compassion.

“Have they told you anything about the house?” she asks. “Remember, everything can be rebuilt. That’s what insurance is for.”

“I know,” I say. I look at the house, smoke pouring out of the windows that the firefighters smashed. My body is cold to the core, my throat and teeth hurt. This house. My house. The place where I was safe. It smelled the way I wanted it to smell; the furniture I’d chosen over so many years. It was all right. Curtains I sewed. Treasures I loved. Closets filled with stuff that I amassed. All of it now dissolved into smoke and ash, rising toward the starry sky in a frigid night where the hours are passing so slowly. A night that will never end.

I gasp as the sobs rise into my throat. I almost wish Corinne would go away and stop being so nice to me. In the face of such kindness, all I can do is weep.

“Please let the kids come to my place,” she says. “It’s no trouble at all, and you’ll know exactly where they are in the morning. We’re here to help. Truly.”

I sniff and wipe my tear-covered face with my arm. “Thanks, Corinne,” I finally say. “That would be great.”

When Ethan finishes with oxygen, he feels a little better, but Maddie is still visibly upset. I tell them that they are going to Mrs. Rossman’s house, and they look relieved; they are ready to go. Big hugs; I love them, I say. Everything will be okay. I will see them later.

As I start to pull away, I see Maddie watching me; there are huge tears in her eyes. “What is it, Cupcake?” I say. “Are you all right?”

“Mommy, I’m so sorry,” she starts, and then big tears start rolling down her cheek. “I wish I could pay for this, but I don’t have enough saved . . . and I’m just so sorry.”

I hold her close, then I look her straight in the eye. “Maddie, I need you to listen to me carefully,” I say, calm and serious, focusing intently on her. “Yes, you were careless, but I know you didn’t do this on purpose. You made a small mistake, and, unfortunately, this time, it came with big consequences. We’ll talk about how to be extra safe in the kitchen, but for now, I need you to rest and relax. And don’t let this fester in your brain. We have a problem that we need to take care of. But if you make yourself sick worrying about this, it won’t help anything. You called the fire department immediately, that’s the important part. And you helped all three of us get out of the house. Because you did those things, we’re okay. If you hadn’t reacted so quickly, it could have been a lot worse. All right?”

My sweet girl sniffs her tears away and nods her head.

I hug her again. “You two go with Mrs. Rossman and just rest. We’re going to be okay.”

I feel reassured hearing myself say it, for that reminds me that it’s true; as long as we are safe, everything else will be okay.

Then, I stand alone, freezing but watching fire. The worst part is the fumes: they’re awful, toxic, like the stench of all our possessions melting into the manufactured, formless plastics beneath the surface of the things themselves. A neighbor gave me a cell phone and now I am trying to call Eric. Eric. Eric. He does not answer. I send a text.

Please pick up. It’s Colleen calling from another phone.

I call again, but still no answer. I consider getting in the car and driving into town, but I’m not supposed to leave here, and anyway, I cannot leave while all this is happening. Even if I wanted to.

The fire is beginning to die down, or that’s how it appears. I can barely look at the house; the whole back side is black. Broken windows, a gaping hole in the roof. I cannot believe this is my house. It’s surreal.

The fire chief talks to me for a while about the cause of the fire. I explain about Maddie and late-night stove-top popcorn and Olympic speed skating.

“Did you talk to a board up company yet?” he asks. “Call your insurance; they might have a restoration company they work with.”

He keeps talking about what I do next, and I only nod. I have a million questions, but if I open my mouth to speak, I will start crying. Mostly, I want to know, where is Eric? Talking to the fire chief should be his job. Calling insurance and finding a restoration company should be his job, no matter what state our marriage is in. The fire chief pauses and looks at the house. Only one truck remains now, and they look like they are getting ready to move out too. This part is almost done.

“The damage is pretty extensive,” he says. “It’s not a washout, but you’ll need some serious reconstruction. Could take a couple of months. There’s a lot of water damage inside, and a lot of smoke. Once things settle down, we’ll need to inspect it. If it’s structurally safe, then you should be able to go inside and get a few things. That usually takes a day or two.”

“Okay,” I say.

He looks at me; I must look like I am about to fall apart. “I know this is hard,” he says. “You’re going to be okay. Believe me, I’ve seen people come through much worse.”

I only smile. He probably says that every time.

The fire chief finishes his pep talk, and I am left looking at my broken home. Around me, in the half light, neighbors are waking and emerging, wandering through a perimeter beyond me, asking each other the same questions: What happened? Is everyone all right? An insurance adjuster thrusts his cards into my mittened hands. My eyes ache. My cheeks burn from the wind. I wish I could get in my car and simply drive home, but I have no place to go. This was my home. Was it beautiful? It was so beautiful. And it’s not a “was,” it’s a house that needs repairs. Insurance will cover it. It will be lived in again.

Corinne appears before me once again, a cup of hot coffee in her hand. She takes the cold cup that I have been holding for hours from my hand and hands me the hot one. “Doughnut?” she says, holding up a bag. I shake my head. “How are you holding up?” I can only shrug and sip hot, glorious coffee.

“Thanks for the coffee, Corinne,” I say. “Thank you for everything.”

“The kids are fine,” she tells me. “They took showers and put on warm clothes and now they’re resting.”

“Oh, that’s a huge relief,” I say. “What time is it?”

“A little after six,” she says. “I can stay with you as long as you need. If you want to come over and shower, or rest, or anything, you’re more than welcome. Okay?”

Stop being nice, I think. I can’t really stomach it right now. “Thank you so much. You don’t need to stay with me. I’m all right.”

She puts her hand on my back. “If you need anything, just come over, okay?”

Corinne walks back to her undamaged house, and I stand looking at my fallen one. Then I am thinking about things, items, possessions, so much has been lost. Photo albums of our babies, which were kept in the living room; those might be okay. Our wedding album was in the same bookshelf as those. Some clothes might be intact; maybe I can recover those when the fire chief gives the okay.

I remember another thing, something packed away in a closet, which I dearly hope is not damaged: the only painting I own by my mother. I never put it on the wall; I couldn’t stand the idea of looking at it every day, but I wanted it close by. Now I want to see the painting, the way I want a mother’s hug.

The mayhem is over, the fire department is gone, and even the neighbors are dissipating, floating back into their houses to take hot showers and drink familiar coffee in warm kitchens. The Red Cross gave me some jeans and a sweater earlier; now I need a place to change. Maybe I’ll go to Panera.

Sitting in the car, ignition on for warmth, and I get out this phone—who does it belong to? I’ll have to look at the contacts later and try to figure it out. The next thing is to track down Eric. I breathe. I am keeping it together. I seem to be functioning and not weeping, and at this I am supremely amazed.

Eight a.m. Panera has supplied me with a breakfast sandwich and coffee, paid for by a stash of emergency cash I keep under the seat in the car, and a clean bathroom where I changed into the most unattractive, ill-fitting pair of jeans I have ever seen. I’ve had a chance now to sit and collect myself, and I’m ready to call Eric again. Finally, he answers.

“Hi, Colleen,” he says. “Sorry I missed your calls earlier. Listen, I’m getting ready to go for a run, can I call you later?”

“Eric, wait,” I say. And that’s all I can say before my breath catches. Hearing his voice, so normal, so familiar, triggered something involuntary, and now the tears flow.

He hears my voice and understands. “Colleen? Are you okay? The kids?”

I shake my head and twist up my face to hold back the tears. “The kids are okay, we’re all safe,” I say. Deep breath. One, then another. “We had a fire last night. The house.”

“Oh, my God—”

“Nobody was hurt,” I say.

“Colleen, where are you? What happened?”

I blow my nose. It’s all catching up to me. “I’m at Panera. It started in the kitchen. The rest of the house is . . . filled with smoke but basically standing.”

“What about the antiques?” he says.

The question first shocks me and then irritates me. “What?”

“The antiques?” he says. “The family heirlooms. No, scratch that, how are you doing? Oh my God, this is not what I was expecting this morning.”

“That makes two of us,” I say. The tears are gone. I realize I am talking to another man who cannot help me.

“How did this happen?” he asks. “Were you cooking something?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” I say. “Eric, can you contact our insurance company?”

“Insurance,” he says, speaking slowly as though he’s thinking about something. I can almost hear him rubbing his forehead.

“Eric?”

“We might have a glitch to work through there,” he says. “Technically speaking, we might not exactly have insurance right now.”

I feel the blood drain my face, the breath leave my lungs. “What?”

“Don’t panic,” he says. “I was having a dispute with our agent about the fact that they were charging us for some cyber thing I never authorized, and I refused to pay until he fixed it. This is their fault. The guy even acknowledged it. It’s just that . . . as of a couple of months ago, our insurance was . . . technically . . . canceled.”

Insurance canceled? I feel hyperventilation starting in, but I can’t let that happen. If I lose control, there’s nobody to fall back on. “You fix this, Eric,” I growl. “You fix this today.”

“I will. I have emails from the guy promising to resolve the whole thing. It’s just that, when last I heard, it hadn’t yet been resolved.”

“Jesus, Eric, I cannot believe you would let this happen.” Now my voice is rising, I am almost shouting. When I notice people turning to look at me, I turn the volume down, but now I’m hissing expletives. “I’m not kidding. You fucking fix this today.”

“Colleen, I will do what I can,” he says. “Who knows if I can even reach someone on a Saturday.”

Now I’m rubbing my forehead. Here comes the migraine. “You will reach someone on a Saturday. You will call them, and you will reach someone, and you will fix this. Look, Eric, I really need a shower. I’d like to go to the condo and rest for a bit.”

“Oh,” he says, again sounding doubtful.

“Actually, if we don’t have insurance, we may all be moving in there, just like the old days.”

He clears his throat. “Colleen, you can’t come here now. Someone’s here.”

“Who? Did you get a roommate?” I say. But the words get out of my mouth, then I realize what he’s saying. I can’t go to the condo. Someone is there. “Oh,” I whisper.

He whispers now too. “I just started seeing her, and last night she . . . I figured you had the kids this weekend, so we were planning . . . No, listen, just give me twenty minutes.”

My house burned down, we have no insurance, and apparently there’s a woman in my husband’s bed. I stare out the window at the cars zooming past.

“Are you still there?” he says.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Colleen, I’m so sorry. This isn’t how I wanted this to come out.”

Now I know why, very late on Valentine’s Day night, he was not answering his phone. He was celebrating the holiday in a more . . . traditional fashion.

The phone beeps; another call is coming in. It’s some name and number I don’t know, but the timing is good because I can’t talk to Eric right now.

“I’ll call you back,” I tell him, and I hang up but click a button to ignore the call. Then I make another call. My friend Peggy answers immediately.

“Colleen, my God, I’ve been calling you all morning,” she says. “Someone posted about the fire on Facebook. I saw the house, and I thought, ‘That can’t be Colleen’s,’ but then I saw the address. Oh, honey, I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Where are you now?” she says. “Are the kids okay? What can I do?”

Again, the tears surge into my throat and lodge there so I can barely speak. “I need clothes, Peggy. I’m sitting in Panera wearing these jeans that the Red Cross gave me and they’re . . . big, they’re droopy, and they’re really, really bad.”

She laughs. “Only Colleen Newcomb would worry about having charity jeans that aren’t cute enough.”

“I guess if I eat enough breakfast sandwiches, eventually they’ll fit fine,” I say. We both laugh. “But, oh God, Peggy, Eric’s gone. It’s over. We’re getting a divorce.”

“What? Since when?”

I can’t answer. I cannot speak at all. “He moved out a few weeks ago . . . but now I think it’s really over.”

“Wait, so you’ve been on your own through this whole thing?”

I nod, aware that she can’t see me. “I need a shower, Peggy. Oh my God, all I smell is smoke. It’s all over me. I feel like a sausage.”

“Okay, you, get over here,” she says. “Whatever you need, it’s yours. Shower, food, booze. All of it. Just come.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I say. “Oh, hey, could you text me the number for Corinne Rossman? The kids are there, and I need to call them.”

“You got it,” she says. “See you in a few.”

A moment later she sends Corinne’s number to this phone I’m borrowing. So I call to check on the kids. They’re okay, she says. Her husband made everybody pancakes, and now they’re all slumped on the couch, watching TV. I tell her that I’m going to get cleaned up and be over to pick them up probably in about an hour.

Eric might be waiting for me to call him back, but I don’t care. The phone rings again. It’s Eric. I don’t answer. And I won’t, not until I go to Peggy’s house and let her take care of me. Now I get it, Eric, you’re not one of us anymore. And I don’t care if you met this woman before you left or after, yesterday or two years ago. You’re gone, and I can’t care right now because I am done.

I get in the car, but driving on autopilot, I end up back at my house, my lovely, wounded house. I get out of the car and stand in front of it, breathing in the cold, smoke-filled air. Now that the fire is over, I want to torch everything that ever belonged to Eric: his clothes, his books, his stupid stack of Economist magazines that he refused to either read or get rid of.

Are the antiques okay? Those antiques, those lovely family heirlooms, the ones that were untouched in our house fire. They will not survive my rampage.

The fire chief said that I would be able to go inside at some point; I just had to wait for them to declare the structure stable. But I won’t wait. I don’t need permission to walk into my own house. I open the front door and go inside, just like always, except that this time, the stench of smoke saturates everything—noxious fumes that hurt my throat when I try to breathe. If I look to one side of the house, I will see the total destruction, so I don’t look over there. On this side, windows are smashed, furniture and rugs are soaked, but much remains.

I want the clock. Eric’s grandmother’s antique mantle clock, the pretty one with the wooden case and the bronze fixtures, the inlaid detail and the Roman numerals. On its face is written its origin: “A. Golay, Leresche & Fils, Geneve.” Made in Geneva a hundred years ago. I find the clock sitting where it has always been, on the mantle over the living room fireplace.

Poor little thing. I have always dusted it with extreme care, and gently wound it during the holidays so that its quiet ticking would be the heartbeat counting down until Santa came down the chimney. This time I grab it, take it outside; suddenly, in the warming daylight, the loaner coat feels heavy. I’m sweating in the twenty-degree air, that’s how mad I am; I throw the coat off. I toss the clock on the lawn and think about someone sleeping in the condo that I actually own part of. She’s blond; she is obviously blond. And young. And lovely with a long neck that curves when he strokes her back. With a grunt, I lift up my foot in my Red Cross sneakers and stomp the clock. It creaks and groans. Another stomp, and it breaks under my weight; that feels good, like a taste of blood. I pull off the glass cover and stomp its pretty face.

Now the wood is cracked and brass bits of motor spills out, but it still looks like a clock. I need a tool to finish it off. The garage is intact, so I walk in and find a sledgehammer. It’s cold and heavy in my hand. Am I strong enough to wield it, even after a sleepless night? Oh, yes, I am. I swing up high, then pound hard. It only takes a couple of knocks to smash that pretty little antique horologe like a bug in the dead winter grass. Cars drive past my lawn; I can only imagine what the neighbors think.

And then my phone rings. I have to put the coat on to find the phone in my pocket. Peggy.

“Are you okay?” she says. “I thought you were coming over. Do you need me to pick you up?”

I stand and throw down the sledgehammer. I am panting with the exertion, sweating from the thrill. “No, thanks,” I say. “I just had to take care of something at home.” I wipe my damp head with the arm of my coat and begin to walk toward my car. “I’m on my way now.”

What am I going to do next? First thing is to go to Peggy’s and shower and change. Then I’ll call Eric, because we need a plan. I need to pick up the kids. Where will we all sleep tonight? I’m not sure. Anyplace but a hotel; it would be too much like the night after Mom died. Little Riley jumping up and down on the beds.

I can’t think about hotels right now. The kids are safe and resting at Corinne’s house. Once I feel more like a human being, I will come get them, and we’ll figure out what to do. But I leave the clock’s carcass on the lawn for all to see. The neighbors will see it or maybe they won’t notice; probably they’ll decide it has something to do with the fire. Eric will see it, I hope, because at some point, he’ll come to the house to see the damage.

And I hope he will know that the carnage on the lawn is something he caused. Happy Valentine’s Day, my own dear husband.