The Trouble with Being Saved

By Thursday, I knew three things about my son.

He hated the skin that formed on hot milk. He believed socks were a personal insult. And he could tell whether I meant to leave a room before I stood up.

The first two problems were manageable.

The third was harder.

Dr. Naomi Feld came on Friday afternoon. She was a child therapist with a soft voice and a canvas bag full of toys that looked nothing like expensive solutions.

She watched Leo play while Rico and I sat nearby.

"He doesn't need you to prove that nothing upsetting will ever happen," she told us afterward. "He needs repeated experiences of being told what happens next, and finding that it's true."

Rico's shoulders tightened.

I knew what he wanted to promise. No one would ever get close enough to hurt us again. He would put another man at the gate, another camera in the hall.

Naomi glanced toward Leo, who was putting a plastic dog to bed.

"And he needs both of you to be people he can come to when he's upset. Even when you're upset too."

That evening, Rico canceled a meeting to help with bath time.

Leo insisted on washing his father's hair with an empty cup.

Rico bent over the tub in a shirt that probably cost more than my old rent and allowed himself to be drowned by imaginary water.

"This is an excellent service," I said from the doorway.

"The attendant is very demanding."

"He takes after someone."

Rico looked at me. A slow smile changed his face.

For a second, I forgot to look away.

Later, Leo asked for a story. I chose one about a bear who couldn't find his hat, and Rico sat on the other side of the bed.

On the shelf beside his bed sat a small blue biscuit tin. Leo had moved it twice while we chose a book, always putting it where he could see it. I left it alone. This house was full of things people needed near them.

Halfway through, my phone rang.

Marcus.

I silenced it, but my hands had started shaking.

Leo noticed. "Are you going?"

"No. I'm staying until the end of the story."

He leaned against me. I finished the book with Rico's knee touching mine beneath the blanket.

When Leo was asleep, I found Rico in the hallway with my phone in his hand.

"What are you doing?"

"Dante needs the number."

"Then he can ask me."

Rico looked at the screen. "The man kept you from your son."

"I know what he did."

"We don't know everything he did. That's the problem."

I held out my hand.

After a moment, Rico returned the phone.

His expression had gone flat. I recognized it from the restaurant: the face he put on when he expected the world to obey.

"I'm trying to keep you safe."

"And I'm trying to understand my own life without another man taking my phone and deciding what I'm allowed to know."

That landed. I saw it.

Still, he said, "Marcus isn't calling to wish you good night."

"Then sit with me while I call him back. Don't do it instead of me."

He looked toward Leo's door.

"Not here," he said.

We went downstairs.

Marcus didn't answer. I left a message asking him to explain why he had told me my child didn't exist.

There was no cleverness in it. My voice broke on the word child.

Rico stood beside the fireplace, watching me.

When I hung up, he said, "You don't have to speak to him again."

"I might need to."

"I can get the answers."

"I believe you. That's not the same thing."

He rubbed a hand over his jaw.

"You're making this difficult."

"I'm sure I used to do that too."

A reluctant breath escaped him. Almost a laugh.

"Constantly."

The next morning, I discovered he had canceled my shifts for the following month.

Marco told me when I called to confirm my schedule.

"Mr. Moretti said you needed time. Your wages are covered."

I went looking for my husband.

He was in the kitchen, feeding Leo blueberries. I waited until Dante took the boy to look at a delivery truck outside.

Then I put my phone on the island.

"You called Marco."

Rico set down the bowl.

"You were exhausted."

"I asked for a few days."

"Take more."

"You keep saying things as if wanting them makes them settled."

"You don't need that job."

I stared at him.

He knew it was the wrong thing before I answered.

"I needed it when I thought I had nobody. Rosa was the first person who didn't make me feel stupid when I forgot something. Marco gave me work when I couldn't explain the gap on my application. You can't erase that because you've got a nicer house."

"I'm not trying to erase anything."

"Then stop tidying up my life while I'm asleep."

Silence spread through the kitchen.

Rico looked at the blueberries, then at me.

"I watched you disappear once," he said. "Every time you walk out of this house, I can see the road where they found your car."

My anger changed shape. It didn't vanish.

"I understand why you're frightened," I said. "You still have to let me make a decision."

He sat down.

For a moment he looked much older than thirty-four.

"Call him," I said.

His gaze lifted.

"Marco. Tell him you spoke too soon. I'll arrange my own time off."

He took out his phone.

I stayed until he had done it.

That afternoon, he drove me to my appointment instead of sending Dante. He waited in the car while I spoke to the doctor, who offered no magical promises, only careful questions, access to my existing records, and a plan for support.

When I returned, Rico held a paper bag.

"Lunch," he said.

"Did you buy the bakery?"

"Only two sandwiches. I exercised restraint."

I laughed despite myself.

He watched me as though I had opened a window.

We ate beside the river with the heater running. He didn't ask what I had told the doctor. After a while, I told him anyway.

"Some memories might come back. Some might not. There's no timetable."

He nodded.

"You don't have to turn back into someone by a deadline," he said.

I looked at him over my sandwich.

It was the first thing he'd said that week that made me want to kiss him.

That was going to be a problem.