Chapter 23: The Dark House

Craig's mother took Eli for the night.

She stood on my porch at five with a bag of his favorite cereal and said, "Please. Let me do one decent thing."

I gave her my number and told her to call at bedtime.

When her car backed out of the drive, the house went entirely quiet.

I locked the front door.

I did not turn on any lights.

Erik stood in the dark hall with his coat still on, not touching me.

"You said I'm staying," he said.

"I did."

"I want to be told what that means."

"It means come upstairs."

At the top of the stairs I stopped in front of the nursery door.

The paint on the frame had gone dull, and the brass knob was cold in my palm.

"I haven't opened this in fourteen months," I said.

"You don't have to."

"I do." My voice was steady, and my hand was not. "I want to see it with someone standing behind me."

"I'm right here."

I turned the knob.

The room was a soft, pale yellow.

A white crib stood against the far wall, with folded blankets stacked on the dresser.

There was dust on the sill.

There was a mobile of paper stars that I had hung myself.

I had hung it the first spring, when I still believed the house would fill up.

I walked in and sat down on the floor in the middle of the rug.

Then I cried.

It came up from somewhere I had kept shut for fourteen months, and it was not quiet or tidy.

I cried for the first baby and for the second one.

I cried for the woman who had said "thank you" every night to a thermos.

Erik sat down behind me on the floor and pulled me back against his chest.

He didn't say it would be all right.

He put his arms around me and held on while it shook me, and his face was wet against my hair.

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