I am in my pajamas and brushing my teeth when I hear the three-noted chime of the alarm system—someone has just entered the house. I freeze, focused on my startled reflection, as I take a quick head count: Ross and Ryan are away at school, and neither is likely to come home on a Monday night, no matter how desperate they are for clean laundry or a free meal. That leaves Michael, who should have been home long before this. …
I resume my teeth brushing when I catch my husband’s eye in the bathroom mirror. “Sorry to be so late.” Michael walks into the room, his hands behind his back. Then he pulls out an armful of long-stemmed red roses wrapped in cellophane. “Didn’t think the meeting would run so late, but this grant is complicated.”
“Oh, hon—dose are beaugydlfhl.” My words come out in a toothpaste-suds garble until I lean over the sink and rinse. “You didn’t have to bring me flowers.”
“I feel terrible leaving you alone so much.” He sets the roses on the edge of the bathtub and smiles at me. “And I hate that you had to eat by yourself.”
“I didn’t know when to expect you”—I pat my chin with a towel—“so I didn’t make anything for dinner. But I could whip up some pasta or something.”
“Don’t bother; we had food brought in. But I’m getting awfully tired of Caesar salad.” He reaches down and scoops up a handful of leftover bath bubbles, then idly blows them in my direction. “We’ve barely made a dent in the research, though, so we’re still meeting tomorrow night. Even worse, Dr. Collins wants me to attend a conference in Atlanta this weekend.”
I drop the towel and turn to face him. “Atlanta? I hope the college is covering your hotel expenses.”
“I’m sure they will. So you don’t have to worry.”
“Actually, I’m not that worried. I have good news—Grandmother Lillian’s house finally sold. If you don’t mind, I’m going to drive down there this weekend, meet my sisters, and help them empty the place. I’ve had my eye on Grandmother’s antique piano, so unless Rose or Penny wants to wrestle me for it, I’ll probably rent a trailer and bring it home.”
“Why do you want that thing?” Standing, Michael shrugs out of his jacket and unknots his tie. “I can’t believe you’re talking about renting a trailer.”
“Why should that be a problem?”
“Have you ever driven one?”
“How hard can it be?”
“Never mind. Do what you want. All I want to do right now is sleep.”
I lean against the bathroom vanity and study his profile, pondering the motives and meanings behind his last statement: either he doesn’t want to watch TV, doesn’t want to make love, or doesn’t want to hear about my weekend plans. But Michael never goes straight to sleep, so …
“Are you feeling okay?” I step toward him and press the back of my hand to his forehead. As our gazes meet, I can’t help noticing a flicker of unease in the depths of his eyes.
“I’m fine.” He catches my wrist and gently pulls my hand away. “All I need is a solid eight hours of rest.”
I walk back to my sink and open a tiny jar of ridiculously expensive face cream, trying to remember the last time Michael slept eight hours straight—maybe when he had the flu? He’s always functioned well on five or six hours a night, and he never drifts off until after the networks have surrendered their programming to infomercials.
Watching in the mirror, I see Michael vanish into the depths of the walk-in closet. I push my bangs from my forehead and lean forward, searching for developing wrinkles. “I thought this day would never end.” I raise my voice to be heard at the back of the closet. “The kids in every single choir were wound tighter than clock springs; I think they were excited about school starting next week. Nobody wanted to sing, and nobody even wanted to think about the Christmas program.”
When Michael doesn’t answer, I wonder if he heard me. But then he steps out of the closet, already dressed in his pajamas. “Who wants to sing Christmas carols in August? It’s still eighty-five degrees outside.”
When did he start undressing in private? I watch my suddenly modest husband move to his sink, where he picks up his toothbrush and peers at his reflection.
“It’s almost September,” I answer, studying him. “Besides, if this program’s going to be better than last year’s, I have to plan ahead. I have to find a middle schooler who’ll be suitable for the Virgin Mary and won’t have braces on her teeth in December.”
Michael squirts toothpaste onto his brush. “You’ll pull everything together. You always do.”
“But next month I’ve got that fund-raiser for the crisis pregnancy center. My middle school choir is supposed to sing a full program, but my kids barely know three songs. Reverend Howe specifically asked for thirty minutes of music, but most of the new sixth graders are so raw they don’t know the difference between melody and harmony.”
Michael only grunts in reply.
I cross my arms as he brushes his teeth, a picture of normalcy … except for the circles beneath his eyes and the slump in his shoulders. My poor baby has been working too hard … or are these signs of weariness due to something else?
I shrug away the idea. Michael is fine, and thinking otherwise means I must be crazy, paranoid, or even more tired than I realized. So what if my husband wants to go to bed early? Who cares if he puts on his pajamas in the closet? That’s where I keep the hamper. Maybe he’s trying to make things easier for me.
I touch two fingertips to the fragrant face cream and dot the miracle stuff at points around my eyes and jaw. How in the world did I get a wrinkle at my jawline? I’m not surprised to see a few crinkles on this forty-nine-year-old face, but what would cause a line along my jawbone?
I force a smile, and watch as the wrinkle deepens into a verifiable crease. That settles it, then. I simply have to stop smiling so much.
But smiling feels natural when you have a husband who brings you red roses.