of her stomach and entered the eighth circle of hell. According to Dante, the eighth circle was the provenance of Fraud, which made perfect sense because she'd have brief moments of elated good health following a trip to the bathroom before queasiness rose up once again.
Now she was glad she was alone with the kids because she couldn't imagine wanting anyone to see her like this: worn down, lank-haired and sweaty around the edges.
There wasn't a name for the next level of hell, the one in which the baby finally caught up with the rest of them and started throwing up too. It was his first experience with the oh-so-unpleasant activity, and clearly it frightened him, even though Tess had been prepared enough to unearth another plastic bowl.
He cried through the whole procedure.
Sitting on the living room couch, she cried afterward, silently though, so as not to frighten the kids. Mom needs to be strong, she reminded herself. Mom can go it alone. While Russ kept up a low whimper, she half dozed and held him close to her heart, the bowl in her lap at the ready.
When the baby's weight lifted from her chest, she thought the sudden change was part of a dream. Since David's fortieth birthday, rarely had anyone taken Russ from her when he was fussy - and she'd asked for help even more rarely. An almost-fatherless baby shouldn't have his mommy pass him off too.
Time passed. Minutes probably as she drifted into the dream where there was a male voice murmuring and a male presence moving about the small house. Occasionally a note of a child's voice would spike through her slumber, but that couldn't be real either, because there was no one home to take that responsible shh-shh tone of voice. She allowed herself to fall into sleep because she knew she needed her strength. And because she knew that her kids would make a riot if Mom was really needed. They only had her.
Then a new sound poked her into wakefulness. Baby Russ was retching again, and her hands registered he wasn't with her. And that his bowl still lay in her lap. What?
Tess lurched from her sprawl on the couch. Her eyes opened as she stood and there was a figure in front of her. She blinked a few times to put it into focus. Her husband. David. He was holding her baby.
She might think it was still a dream, but little Russ's body was moving, undulating in that way -
"The bowl," she said, holding it out.
But David ignored her, murmuring to their baby and cradling him close as their smallest son puked all over David's favorite high-tech, fancy-fiber, sweat-wicking spin shirt.
She stared. "The bowl."
"It's all right. He's not so scared when I'm holding him like this."
Another moment passed, then she heard sounds from her bedroom. With her hand on one wall, she made her way to her other sons. Looking more bright-eyed, Duncan and Oliver were propped up on pillows and watching cartoons on the flat-screen TV across the room. Each had a glass of what looked to be water in hand, a bent straw ready for a small mouth.
Oliver noticed her, sketched a wave. "Mommy."
She echoed the movement. "Sweet boy."
Duncan sipped his water and then glanced over. "Daddy's home."
"I see that," she said. Then a wave of sickness slammed into her, and she ran for relief.
Bout over, she checked in on Rebecca. There was a glass of water and a bent straw beside her cell phone. The teenager was sleeping. The sound of a shower running drew her to the end of the hall. Through the half-open door, she saw her husband holding her youngest in the shower, both of them fully dressed.
"What are you doing?" she croaked out. But she realized he couldn't hear her over the rushing water and his own crooning voice as he sang to their son.
"'Hush little baby don't say a word, Daddy's goin' to buy you a mockingbird.'" David had sung to all their children when they were small. A story, a song, and then good-night. Once Rebecca had begged for "A Hundred Bottles of Root Beer on the Wall," and she'd made it to twenty-seven remaining before dozing off. He'd never fallen for that again.
Watching him now, Tess was absolutely positive she'd never fall for anyone else besides him.
She pushed open the door the whole way as he stepped onto the bath mat in his dripping clothes. "Give me Russ," she said, reaching