shakes her head and sighs. “I’ll make some oatmeal for her, if she feels like eating.”
She starts to go into the kitchen, then pauses to look at me. “Dean, you don’t look as if you’re doing all that great yourself.”
I suppress a wave of irritation. What the fuck does it matter how I’m doing when my wife is so sick she has to crawl to the bathroom?
“I’m fine.” I walk down the remaining stairs and go into the sunroom to join the kids at the table.
They’re busy with a snack of cheddar crackers, grapes, and milk. Claire starts bustling around the kitchen, so I take the opportunity to sit alone with my children. I ask them about school, their friends, what they did at recess, and for a few minutes I’m able to conceal my bone-deep despair.
“Where’s Mommy?” Bella asks.
“Upstairs. She’s not feeling well, so she needed to take a nap.”
“I want to show her my bird sculpture.” Nicholas gets up and goes to rummage through his backpack. “It’s blue and red.”
“She’ll want to see it, but let’s wait until she wakes up.”
“I see her now,” Bella says, a faint whine in her tone.
Not only does Liv need to sleep undisturbed, I don’t want the kids seeing her so sick. We’ve been honest with both of them about what’s happening and haven’t tried to hide the effects of chemo, but I still want to protect them from the worst of it.
My heart is brittle, on the verge of shattering. I reach out to straighten my daughter’s crooked pigtails. There’s a half-circle of milk on her upper lip. I wipe it off with a napkin.
“Look, Dad.” Nicholas comes over with his brightly colored, cloth bird sculpture, which is on a wooden stand and has real feathers sprouting from its wings.
“That is so cool.” I take the sculpture and study it from all angles. “How long did it take you to make?”
“We’ve been working on them all month.”
“I want Mommy,” Bella says, her voice more determined this time.
“Hey, Snowbell, why don’t you make a list of things you want to tell Mom when she wakes up?” I suggest.
She shakes her head, her pigtails waving. “I want to see her now.”
“You can’t see her right now, honey.”
Bella gives me the mutinous look that precedes the start of a tantrum. In two seconds, she jumps off the chair and darts toward the stairs. Knowing how fast she is, I run after her and catch her on the stairs, grabbing her arm to stop her.
“Bella, I told you you can’t see Mommy right now.”
“I want her.” She pulls at her arm, trying to free herself from my grip.
“I know you do, honey, but she’s really sick and needs to sleep.”
“Mommy!” She kicks at me and grabs the stair railing to hold her ground.
“Bella, stop it.” My tone hardens. I tug her arm to get her to come downstairs. “Come and finish your snack. You can see Mommy when she wakes up.”
“Now!” Bella yells, her face reddening with the effort of clinging to the stair railing.
Frustration slams into me. I latch my arms around her.
“Let go,” I order.
She shrieks and grips the railing harder. What little patience I have left snaps like a twig.
“Bella, enough!” The words come out on a roar that shocks me as much as it does her, but suddenly I can’t stop, and next thing I know I’m yelling. “We are leaving your mother alone. Let go and come back downstairs. Right now!”
My daughter lets go of the railing. And stares at me, her brown eyes filling with tears. Before the guilt can claw at me, I pick her up and carry her back to the sunroom. She sobs and wiggles free, then throws herself facedown on the sofa.
I stand there, my breathing too fast, my fists clenching and unclenching. Nicholas is still at the table, silent and watchful.
I drag my hands over my face. Guilt surges, raw and jagged.
“She’ll be fine,” Claire says gently.
“I…I’m going to get some work done in the garage,” I tell her. “Will you be here awhile?”
“Yes, until dinnertime.” She squeezes my arm, as if she’s trying to tell me that it’s okay.
But it’s not. It’s not okay that I lashed out at my daughter for wanting to see her mother. It’s not okay that my son is looking at me warily, like he’s afraid of what I might do next.
“I have my cell.” I grab my jacket from the back of a chair. “Listen for Liv.