Pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, I contemplate my options. I could call the police. I mean, what is the policy on parents that fail to pick up their children from daycare? Do they send them to social services? Does the owner take them home? I struggle to remember the director’s name — Dieter. Did she even give me her last name? Either way, I need to get to a phone and fast.
I drive home like I am the Fast and the Furious — and careen my car into the driveway. My urgency is audible as I run through the door, not bothering to close it, and head for the kitchen counter where I left my phone. It’s not there. My head swims. I was so sure that’s where I’d left it. I am going to have a killer hangover tomorrow. Think! For the first time, I regret not having a landline. Who needs a landline anymore? I remember saying to Caleb right before we got rid of it. I spin around to head for the stairs, and my heart seizes in surprise.
“Looking for this?”
Caleb is leaning against the doorframe watching me. In his hand is my precious iPhone. I study his face. He looks calm — that means he doesn’t know that I don’t have Estella with me — or maybe he thinks she’s with my mother. I haven’t told him that I took her to the airport this morning.
“You’re home early,” I say in genuine surprise.
He doesn’t smile or greet me with his usual warmness, instead he keeps his eyes trained on my face — the phone pinched between his fingers and extended toward me. I take a few precautionary steps in his direction, being careful not to let my remaining buzz show. Caleb reads me like a low-grade novel. I stand on my toes to give him a quick peck on the cheek before plucking the phone from his fingers. Now, if only I could get outside, I might be able to figure something out, call someone ... FIND THE BABY!
I back up a few steps.
“You missed a call. Fourteen, actually,” Caleb says casually — too casually — like the calm before a storm. The low, rumbling growl before the wolf rips out your trachea.
I swallow. There is sand in my throat and I’m drowning … suffocating. My eyes dart around the room. God — what does he know? How am I going to fix this?
“Apparently, you forgot to pick Estella up at daycare …” his voice trails off. An invisible hand cracks open my jaw and pours fear down my throat. I choke on it.
“Caleb — ” I start. He holds up his hand for me to stop, and I do because I’m not even sure what excuse I can give.
I dropped our daughter off at a seedy daycare because…
Fuck.
I’m not that creative. My mind sieves out all of the possible excuses.
“Is she … is she here?” I whisper. The most expressive part of Caleb is his jaw. I use it to read his emotion. It is square, manly — only softened by his overly full lips. When that jaw is happy with you, you want to trace it with your fingertips, reach on your tiptoes to run kisses across it. The jaw is angry with me. His lips are white anger pulled tight. I am afraid.
Caleb doesn’t say anything. This is his fighting technique. He heats up the room with his anger and then waits for you to sweat out a confession. He’s never been violent toward a woman a day in his life, but I’d bet my life that little girl could make him do things he’d never considered.
I make the mistake of looking in the direction of the stairs. It makes him really angry. He bounces off the wall and walks toward me.
“She’s fine,” he says between his teeth. “I came back early because I was worried about you. Obviously, you were not the one I needed to be worried about.”
“It was only for a few hours,” I rush to say. “I needed some time alone, and my mother just up and left me…”
He studies me for a few beats, but not because he is gauging the truth of my words. He is asking himself how he could marry someone like me. I can see the utter disappointment. It scratches into the self-righteousness I am cradling to my chest. It makes me feel like a failure. Well, what did he expect — that I was going to be a good mother? That I would fall right into a role that I don’t understand?
I don’t know what to do. The alcohol is still babysitting my brain, and all I can think about is the fact that he’s going to leave me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, looking at the floor. Acting contrite is a cheap shot, especially since I’m sorrier for being caught than the actual deed.
“You’re sorry for getting caught,” he responds.
My head snaps up. Fucking mind reader!
How dare he think the worst of me? I am his wife! For better or worse, right? Or did the worse refer to the situation and not the person?
“You left your newborn daughter with complete strangers. She hadn’t eaten in hours!”
“There was breast milk in the diaper bag!” I argue.
“Not enough for seven hours!”
I frown down at the tiles. “I didn’t realize,” I say, defeated. Had I really been away for that long?
I feel a surge of self-righteous anger. Was it my fault that I wasn’t adhering to parental bliss like he was? I open my mouth to tell him so, but he cuts me off.
“Don’t, Leah,” he warns. “There are no excuses for this. If I had any sense, I’d take her and leave.” He turns and walks toward the stairs.
My thoughts blur as my anger rushes in. “She’s mine!”
He stops. It’s an abrupt stop, like my words have just freeze-sprayed his legs.
When he turns back around, his face is red. “You pull a stunt like this again, and you’ll be screaming that in court.”