SIXTY

SIXTY

WHEN I WAS IN high school, our health teacher tried to give us an idea of what it's like to care for a baby. She gave us an egg, and we had to carry it with us for a week without ever letting it crack. Everywhere I went, twenty-four hours a day, I had to make sure nothing happened to that egg. Walking to school, sitting down for a meal, getting ready in the bathroom — always I had to preserve that fragile little oval egg.

That's what it feels like now — balancing an egg in the palm of my hand — as I navigate land mines, as the earth quakes beneath me, as I shoulder the winds of a hurricane, as people known and unknown hurl objects at me and try to force me into a fail.

Except that now the precious cargo I hold in my hands is the lives of my children. Everything I do from this point forward must be with an eye toward Grace and Lincoln. I have to keep them safe. I have to prepare them for the possibility of a life without a father and the fact that their lives will never be the same again.

But first, I need to get through this problem, a problem I do not fully understand, one I must navigate without David's help. I don't know who wants what. I don't know whom to trust. I know a few things, and I suspect a few others. I am flying on a wing and a prayer.

All these thoughts run through my mind as I sit inside a bathroom stall in the hospital with the police outside demanding answers to questions — some of which I can't give them, some of which I won't.

I will not think about the fact that the man I have called my husband has lied to me repeatedly over the years — lies of omission, outright lies, you name it. I will not think about the fact that my entire adult life has been a hoax, a fraud. I will not panic. I will not engage in self-pity. I will not even entertain anger.

Those will be for later. I have to remain completely focused and on mission. I have to have eyes in the back of my head. I have to stay two steps ahead of the police and the people who want to hurt us.

What am I willing to do for my kids? It's a question all parents ask themselves — a rhetorical question usually. Would you give your life for your children? Almost every parent would say yes. Would you lie for your children? Almost every parent would say yes.

Would you break the law for your children? Would you kill for your children?

Questions I've never confronted. Never thought I would have to confront. But now I do.

I leave the stall and face myself in the bathroom mirror.

The answer is yes to both questions. I know it now with a certainty that straightens my spine, that sends adrenaline to my every limb. I would break the law for my kids. I would kill for my kids.

Waiting outside the bathroom for me is Sergeant Kyle Janowski, my old flame, the man I once thought I'd marry. Now, first and foremost, he is a law enforcement officer who may or may not have my best interests at heart.

"Ready to talk?" he says.

I am physically tired, emotionally spent, stressed, and unsteady. I'm about the furthest thing from ready to talk .

"Ready," I say.