Rewrite the Stars by Christina Consolino (classic fiction TXT) 📗

tendency to shove items into his pants’ pockets (and forget them there), I’d been more than lucky with Charlie. Changing his childhood experience—making sure I didn’t place too much responsibility on him when it came to Theo’s needs—needed to take center stage.

I placed a kiss on his forehead. Charlie wrapped his arms around my neck and snuggled in against me.

“I love you, Mommy.”

“I love you, too, Charlie.”

“I love you too.”

Charlie added the last “I love you” as he always did, like a reflex, then fell back against the pillows and grabbed the top book from the stack, ready to read for the afternoon. My heart was full, warm, and content as I rose from the bed and closed the door.

 

.    .    .    .    .

The headlights of my car illuminated the outside of Jackie’s Cape Cod, marking a sharp contrast to the dimness within. During my conversation with Charlie, a moment of indecision had washed over me: I loved my family and really didn’t like not being at home for them, but Jackie and Pete were counting on me.

Using the key Jackie had provided the day before, I unlocked the front door and shut it behind me. Quietly, I tugged open the foyer closet door, hung up my thin sweater, and removed my flip flops, which were slick from a hard summer rain. The tick of the clock on the mantle in the living room and the whir of the air conditioner threaded themselves throughout the silence. Another noise, a consistent and even thrum, pulled me toward the kitchen at the back of the house.

“Oh dear.”

Jackie sat slumped over the kitchen table, asleep, breast pump still siphoning the liquid gold from her chest.

“You must be tired, honey, if that motor hasn’t jostled you out of your dreams.” I rubbed circles on Jackie’s back, trying to wake her without scaring her, and she raised her head to meet my gaze. Imprinted lines from the table ran across her forehead, and relief flooded her features. “Go, sweetie. I’ll take care of all this.” I patted her back once more.

“But the milk!” A panicked look flew across her face as I reached to turn off the breast pump’s motor.

“Really, I’ve got it. I’ll check the current stock of breast milk in the fridge, and if there’s enough, I’ll freeze this batch. Sound like a plan?”

“Yeah, sorry. And thanks.” Jackie handed me the parts of the breast pump, taking care, despite her fatigue, to keep every drop of milk within the bottles. She readjusted her pajama top, ran a hand through her matted hair, and hugged me.

“By the way,” Jackie mumbled, “Pete and I are sleeping in the basement tonight. It’s practically soundproof in there, and with the baby and the rain, that’s what we need. Silence.” She trotted with soft footsteps to the basement stairs. The click of the doorknob rang as she shut out everything behind her.

The large kitchen sink held all the washable parts of the breast pump plus a few random glasses that remained on the counters. The hot water poured into the sink, and the detergent slithered from the bottle; upon contact with the water, the cascade of blue liquid transformed into a layer of foam. An errant bubble escaped from the cluster, rose above the sink, and wound its way past my face before falling against the kitchen window, instantly bursting. “Such fleeting beauty...” The bad habit of talking out loud had worsened with age, reaching gargantuan levels in those moments when I spent time alone.

A slight rustling echoed over the transmitter of the baby monitor. “Before I get started, I’ll check on Clara.” And stop talking to myself. The door to Clara’s room stood open about a foot, a space that granted adequate access for viewing the baby. The small room was big enough for a crib, a dresser, a rocking chair, and a tidy changing table. Opposite the door, Clara rested on her mattress, asleep on her back in her thin cotton sleep sack, tiny arms extended above her head.

“Why do babies always sleep like that?” I tiptoed across the room, taking care not to wake her as I placed two gentle fingers against her tiny sternum, satisfied at the rhythmic movement. In the wee morning hours, I often repeated the same action at home with my three kids.

Content she was safe, I exited Clara’s room and placed my feet strategically on the floor as I made my way down the hall—creaking floors and babies never went together. Framed pictures hung in the narrow space, and the glass reflected a few twinkles of the dim hall light. Younger versions of Jackie and Pete in wedding garb, laughing at the base of a tree, stared back at me and brought a smile to my face. The couple looked so tender, so in love; nostalgia rushed through me.

A few steps away, Pete had suspended the new family portrait: Clara sat in a basket between her adoring parents, who both gazed at her with wonder and awe. Tears welled in my eyes, and in my haste to walk away, I skimmed my big toe against the small bucket of nails standing at the base of the wall—items Pete had possibly long forgotten. I bent to retrieve the bucket and the hammer, which I’d so deftly avoided, to find their rightful places.

As I walked toward the kitchen, my thoughts focused on the pictures and babies and weddings and love and...

“Dishes, lady. Right now.” Yet another round of talking to myself.

“Dishes? I love doing dishes.” The deep voice, familiar to my ears, sounded from the foyer. Soon, the man I’d been thinking about too much came around the corner, his laughing brown eyes crinkling at the corners. My heart stuttered.

“We meet again.” Grocery Store Man stood before me, dimple flashing.

“For the love of...you’re kidding, right? How? What?”

“Something must be in the cards. Perhaps this time I can get your name?”

Right. Third time meeting this guy and still, no names. “That would