The Dead Husband by Carter Wilson (best summer reads of all time .txt) 📗

I start to protest, ready to launch into a verbal attack. He cuts me off with a raised hand.

“There is nothing more important than this right now,” he says. “You hear me? This requires our full attention.”

I want to defy him, tell him things are on my terms now. Tell him I don’t want to take his orders. But I don’t say any of these things.

Because he’s right.

If I have any chance of reaching the sister I used to love, of tapping into that tiny bit of humanity I know she still has left, it has to happen now.

Reach her, or stop her.

Tonight.

Forty-Nine

12:14 p.m.

The day fills, threatening to rise over my head and drown me.

Max slept in after I told him school was canceled, then bundled up and played outside long enough to make a snow fort. When he realized there were no other kids to play with, he came back inside and stuck his nose in a book.

A snowplow service came and dug out our driveway while municipal crews plowed the streets. Few cars have ventured out; it’s as if we’re all hunkering down and waiting for some threat to pass.

More snow from the same system is due this afternoon, lasting into the evening. As much as another ten inches. The Weather Channel has named the storm Jayden, but given its timing, it feels a lot more like a Cora.

I call Alec and ask him if he has Micah tonight. He says he does, and when I ask if Max can have a sleepover, he agrees before even asking why. I’m poised to tell him my prepared excuse about my father being ill and not wanting Max to be exposed but instead say nothing. It feels good not lying.

I fix Max grilled cheese for lunch and tell him about the sleepover. His reaction is what I expect.

“What? Why? I barely know Micah.”

“Well, this is a good chance to change that,” I tell him.

“But why?”

“Because I have a meeting tonight.” This is the truth after all.

“Can’t I just stay here?”

“No,” I say, using a tone that’s firm but calm. “You guys can maybe watch a movie. Stay up a little later than usual. Could be another snow day tomorrow.”

He studies my face, knowing something’s wrong, something’s different, but he can’t figure out what. Normally this is the point where he’d start whining about having to do something he doesn’t want, and maybe that’s coming, but in the moment, he’s silent and observational.

I decide to tell him more. Not about tonight but about the future beyond that.

“I’m thinking maybe we should go back to Wisconsin.”

Max’s eyes grow wide. “To visit?”

“No, to live. Move back there. Back home.”

“Really?” He smiles but holds something back, as if I might tell him I’m just kidding. The thought of doing something like that breaks my heart.

“Yeah, really. Would you like that?”

“Yes.”

“Not the same place,” I say. “Not the apartment. But back to the same area. To your regular school.”

He leaps out of his chair and starts jumping around like a cartoon character. There’s not much subtlety about Max. When he’s sad, he’ll sometimes throw himself on the floor in despair. Often when he’s happy, he’ll literally jump up and down for joy.

He stops for a moment. “When? When can we go?”

“Soon. Real soon.”

Another Snoopy happy dance and I’m smiling, my cheeks stretching. A sensation I’ve grown too accustomed to living without.

I reach out and pull him in toward me. In my ear, he says, “Just you and me. Back home. That’s all I wanted.”

That’s enough for the tears to start spilling. Silent tears he can’t see. In this moment, I see a future. A life beyond tomorrow. Even happiness.

I found out Riley was cheating on me in January, and thoughts of a happy future have eluded me until now. What a long and wearisome abstinence.

Max gives me an extra squeeze, one so hard it hurts, but I don’t complain.

“Why?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Why are we going back?”

I pull back and look at him. He sees my tears now. “Because we’re not happy here. That’s all that matters.”

He thinks about this, then a cloud passes over his face. “Are you still in trouble? Like about the stuff Willow said. The stuff with…Daddy?”

I shake my head. “There might be a few more questions I have to answer, but that’s it.”

The cloud becomes a thunderstorm. “What if they don’t believe you? What if they take you away?” He looks at the ground, his default position.

“Max, look at me.” He doesn’t. “I’m not going anywhere. It’s you and me from here on out. We have to take care of each other, and the best way I can take care of you is for you to listen to me. Really listen to me, Max, and do what I say, okay?”

He mumbles.

“Max, look at me.”

It takes a moment, but he does.

“This is really important. Just because we’re going back doesn’t mean life will suddenly be easy. There’ll be some tough times ahead, and that’s why I need you to always listen to me. More than ever, okay?”

“Okay,” he says.

“Good. Now, I need you to have a sleepover tonight with Micah with no complaining. Got it?”

His face scrunches in the way it always does before an argument, but then he relaxes it again. “Got it.”

I want to bottle this moment up in a leakproof container, because there’s magic here. There’s hope, which I’ve all but abandoned since a detective from Milwaukee sat down in my father’s living room and asked me if I loved my husband.

But I can’t bottle this. Can’t cage it. Can’t contain it in any fashion. Because hope, like everything that lives in the wild, dies if it’s not given the space to thrive.

Fifty

2:47 p.m.

I’m the only one on the road, driving inside a snow globe. The second round of flurries promised by the late afternoon has arrived early, coming down in large, puffy flakes that pile on top of those already fallen.