mental protestations, familiar images float to the surface: Chris and Jackson playing baseball in the backyard. Chris walking a five-year-old Jackson to kindergarten or taking him to a Cubs game. Chris and Jackson surprising me on my birthday with a homemade, lopsided birthday cake. All things I would never be able to see but can feel as if they have already happened. Like it’s an alternate universe that I can step into anytime I want.
A footstep. The water slaps the porcelain as I hurriedly sit up.
“Hello?” I strain to hear and half stand in the bath. Silence. I wonder if I imagined it. I’m ready to settle back into the cocoon of water when the wood groans again. But there’s no wood in the bathroom. The realization smacks me in the face: it’s not coming from my bedroom. It’s coming from the baby monitor.
Run.
I manage to explode out of the tub without slipping, throw on my bathrobe, and hustle toward the nursery. I step toward the cracked door, except I ram right into it. I falter. I left Jackson’s door cracked.
I always leave it cracked.
“Oh my God.” I fumble with the doorknob. It slips in my damp palm. I twist it again and charge into the room. “Jackson?” I slap the empty space and hurry over to his crib. “Please be okay, please be okay.” I gently lay my hand on his chest. The measured rise and fall of his breath is a comfort. I sweep my trembling fingers over his cheek, step back, and open his closet. I plunge my hands under his hanging onesies to make sure no one is hiding. I stab the corners of the empty room with a bare hanger, and after a few minutes of listening, I waver between carrying him downstairs without his carrier, or just locking his door with the spare key at the top of the door frame. If there’s an intruder in this house, I don’t want to announce that I have a baby. I close and lock the door, drop the key in my pocket, and hurry toward the stairs.
I take them too fast and hurtle down the final few steps. The unforgiving wood jams into my tailbone. Crystal’s warning flickers and dies. I pull myself to standing and massage my lower back. The front door is secure. The door leading to the garage is too.
In the kitchen, I listen for lurking dangers. To be safe, I slide a serrated knife from its block and silently pad down the hallway toward the dining room. I extend the knife in front of me and enter and exit each room with more authority than I feel.
At the back door, I check the lock, then lurch backward and drop the knife. It clatters on the tile as I rotate in a circle. It’s unlocked. I fall to my hands and knees and search for the blade. I made sure to lock it before I left to meet the girls. That horrible sense that someone is watching crawls over my skin like a rash. I grip the blade’s handle in my hot palm. “Who’s there?”
My phone rings. I jump and almost drop the knife again. I retrace my steps to the bedroom and answer.
“I just had a quick question about the party.” Jess’s perky voice slices through my fear.
“I think someone is in my house,” I whisper.
“What?”
“I was in the bath, and I heard footsteps on the baby monitor. I went to Jackson’s nursery and the door was closed, not open. I always leave it open. And the back door is unlocked, but I know I locked it before I left. I’m … I’m really scared.”
“You need to get out of your house right now and call the police, Rebecca. This is the second time something like this has happened in less than a week. Can you activate your alarm from the inside? Like a panic button?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Do you want me to call Officer Hot Pants?” She’s attempting to keep her voice light, but I sense panic beneath her snarky tone.
“No, no. Don’t call him. Just let me finish walking through the house with you on the phone.” I hold the knife in one hand and the phone in the other. I open and shut every door, check all the windows, locks, and even reach under the beds. Everything is secure. Back upstairs, I unlock Jackson’s door, check on him, relock the door, and collapse on my bed, drained from the unexpected