23. GHOSTED

GHOSTED

A n audiobook droned on in my earbuds about the minds of children and how to integrate their brains and get all the parts working together harmoniously to create a solid and stellar human being. Which would be great fucking information, if I could remember any of it. Would this entire book not be better as a fridge magnet? I silently griped. Occasionally, I'd lean over my notebook to add a bullet point, a reminder of how to do things "the best way." And with every book I ticked off of my list, I noticed that there were a lot of "best ways," and I wasn't sure how to implement them all, or if it was even possible.

I dragged another laundry basket in front of me and started the task of matching tiny socks. Victoria and Olivia sat at my feet, coloring with paint sticks on a canvas spread on the floor of the playroom, elbowing each other back and forth with increasing hostility. Eventually, one would snap and tackle the other. Then they'd go full-on Thunderdome until I separated them. Five minutes after prying them apart, they'd make up as if nothing had happened and focus their energy on being pissed at me. Repeat a thousand times throughout the rest of the day.

Colorado was covered in snowflakes and frost, the heater groaned, the girls argued, and branches rustled outside. An occasional yap from the neighbor's terrier interrupted the winter ambiance and the calming effect of the classical radio station that I never turned off in the living room. Classical music was not my favorite, and I didn't know much about it, but I hated a silent home and needed something to bring the air to life. I leaned back against a llama throw pillow, noticing the way it softly pressed against my lower back. It reminded me of Andras's powerful and soft hands, of how he'd held me when we had been together.

I must have been smiling, lost in my happy thoughts, because Victoria exclaimed loudly, "Mommy, you look happy!" She tilted her head, her mouth wide, and curved into an adorably, goofy, jack-o-lantern grin.

I brushed Victoria's cheek with the back of my fingers.

"I am! Because I'm here with my two favorite people ever."

"We're not jackasses," Olivia asserted for no reason at all, without bothering to look up from her drawing of what seemed to be a family on fire. Horrifying .

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"That's what you call people you don't like when you're driving."

"Hmm, yeah, some people are just terrible drivers and, uh, that's not school language, okay?"

Olivia giggled and went back to doodling.

Groaning, I got to my feet, feeling the strain and ache in my calves from a long run that morning around the glassy, duck-filled lake in Washington Park. A light snowfall had coated the ground to form a slick powder that made it an effort to stay upright. I felt pretty proud that I'd only fallen on my ass once. But the awkward balancing atop the frosted trail had done a number on my legs and they just wouldn't stop throbbing.

"I'll be right back, I'm just going to get a drink of water," I explained before padding into the kitchen in my giant slippers to check my phone for any missed calls or messages. Andras had been on my mind all day while doing dishes, taking a shower, and staring at myself naked in the mirror. I got that drink of water, then checked my phone screen again, blowing out a heavy breath when he still hadn't texted me. Of course, he hadn't. Neither of us had messaged each other apart from that one time he'd sent the photo of Bethany, who now seemed to be pretending I'd died and no longer even sent necessary school PTA information. I pivoted away from the counter and then walked in a circle before coming back, like a dog trying to get comfortable before lying down. Don't do it! I admonished myself.

Steven argued with someone on the phone and paced in front of the kitchen window, "can you puh-lease tell me when exactly the units will be finished." He over-enunciated the way people used to with my dad after he'd immigrated from Iran. As if speaking more than one language (albeit imperfectly) somehow makes you an idiot? Asshole . I took another sip of my water, a small stream drizzled down my chin, and I used my sleeve to dab it before setting the glass in the sink. Clink. You cannot text your mind-lover crush while your ex-husband is pacing around the house.

A powerful wind rippled across the windows, howling into the nooks and crannies of the exterior bricks, filling the house with a goosepimpling draft. I shivered, then padded to my bedroom to grab my robe from its hook. Pulling the plush robe around me, I paused in front of the mirror. A dark tendril of hair hung over my brow, and it looked the way my father's sister's (my aunt Zahra) hair used to look first thing in the morning when she visited. In my reflection, I saw my mother there, too, or at least the heavy tug of loneliness on my features. The silence in my home for the past few years and the lack of companionship had been unbearable. It reminded me of the home I grew up in. I swore I'd raise my girls differently and had envisioned a better life for them: an affectionate space, a safe haven, and a place of acceptance and unconditional love. Shame had been riding me hard for years, for not marrying and having children with someone kinder.

"If it makes you hysterical, it's probably historical," I muttered. It was a mantra I'd learned from my therapist, a reminder that if something triggers big feelings, it's probably coming from the past. I closed my eyes and imagined the pressure of Andras's body on mine, comforting me like a weighted blanket, enveloping me like this cashmere robe.

I opened my eyes and moved towards the kitchen with purpose, taking the stairs quickly to swipe my phone from the counter on the way back up to the playroom. My sore legs shook from going up and down the stairs so many times. Why did we buy a house with stairs again? I paused outside of the playroom to cradle the phone in my hand and type out a message.

"I'm confused about what's going on in my life. It's messy. But could we see each other again, soon?" Sent. My pulse quickened. I tucked my phone into my robe pocket and went back to my chair to finish folding the mountain of laundry, to bury myself in the smell of "fresh jasmine garden," to keep my mind focused on my hands.

A few moments later, my phone buzzed, and I stilled for a heartbeat before reluctantly pulling it out of my pocket and flipping it over in my hand. When I saw that it was a message from Janet, the peppy as fuck PTA mom who inexplicably shouted in every message she ever sent, the exciting flutter in my stomach turned into annoyance.

"HELLO, PARENTS! IT'S JANET NEWSBIRIED HERE! JUST A FINAL REMINDER THAT IT'S TIME TO VOLUNTEER FOR THE HOLIDAY PARTY! ICE SCULPTURES, DONATION DRIVES, GIFTS, AND MORE! I'D LOVE TO KICK OFF THE FESTIVITIES WITH A STATEMENT OF GRATITUDE. I AM GRATEFUL FOR OUR SCHOOL (GO WOLVES!) AND ALL OF YOU! HOW MANY HOURS CAN I PUT YOU DOWN FOR? THANK YOU FOR DOING YOUR PART TO GIVE BACK TO YOUR COMMUNITY."

I immediately copied the message and forwarded it to Jess, who responded so fast it was frightening with, "Fucking Janet. Does she just have unlimited free time? Also, my favorite thing she's ever done was the grandparent-themed appreciation ball, where she raised money for a retirement living facility for everyone's grannies. This is a class of toddlers. Their grandparents are barely sixty, lol."

"Dad died way younger than that."

"Died sis, not retired in a senior living community. OMG, do you think she'll raise money for their funerals next year?"

"Probably."

"I've gotta meet this lady."

"Hi, Janet." I replied to the screaming PTA mom, "Put me down for a financial donation and two hours of time. Thanks so much for organizing." I slid my phone back into my pocket and folded a pair of tiny leggings in half.

How did so many parents seem to have it all together while I forever floundered in survival mode? Moms like Janet or dads like Niel and Brandon hosted themed cocktail parties and organized sock drives or retirement fundraisers for people who were not even retirement age. My phone buzzed again, and I rolled my eyes, whispering, "What the fuck, Janet?" Under my breath. I added the little pants to a basket for Victoria and reached for my phone. This time, it was not Janet.

My heart sank.

"I'm sorry," the message from Andras began, "I'm going to be away for a while." I sucked in a breath before reading on, my stomach twisting. "But I'll be in touch. Take care of yourself."

Take care of yourself. So distant and formal. Oh shit. He got what he wanted, and now he's done. Gods, it would make sense, after all, he has so many people in it, a constant turnover of warm bodies and fresh blood.

I read the screen again, jaw set, teeth grinding. How had I been so stupid not to see it? The rejection stung. Glancing down at the hardwood, at my toes that had slipped free from the pillowy slippers. The chipped white toenail polish, a reminder that we were in a very different place in our lives; we lived in very different worlds. Andras was a vampire . A very, very, old vampire. And I was home folding tiny clothes, for the tiny humans in my care. I inhaled deeply, wiggled my toes, and focused on my body to stay present, to stop the sadness from setting in and consuming me, at least until later when I could grieve in the darkness of my bedroom.

Victoria and Olivia screeched, signaling that one of their paint sticks had successfully been weaponized. For once, separating them was a gift, a welcome distraction until I could figure out how to feel and what to do about Andras. The sane and logical part of my brain wanted to focus on my kids, myself, being single for the first time in a long time, and my art. A petty and proud part wanted to march over to his house to give him the finger. Yet an inner voice whispered concern. Go, it urged. Go.