Page 38 of Then Came the Fall
Chapter thirteen
Present
Old habits die hard.
It comes as a surprise to exactly no one when I end up returning to Matt’s house the next day, and the day after that. Before too long, I become a fixture there. He’s magnetic, pulling me in just by being himself: funny with a hint of sarcasm, strong but gentle, my missing piece. I feel it most during stolen moments, like when we hold hands in the blackness of the movie theater at the Disney remake ofSnow Whitewith Brett, or when we go to the library for story hour and his knee brushes against mine. I try not to think about his health, but with Matt out of work and still unable to drive, it’s hard not to. Every day I make a conscious effort not to spiral while I wait for agood morningtext that lets me know he made it through another night stroke-free. The low-level hum of anxiety surrounding Matt is oddly reminiscent of a bug zapper.
One wrong move and he's dead, it warns.
That doesn’t stop me from rearranging my daily schedule. I still go into work at noon and leave around 7:30 p.m., but every night I head straight to Matt’s and usually get there in time to help with Brett’s bedtime, reading a chapter aloud from one of my old favoritebooks, likeRamona the PestorCharlotte’s Web. Matt sits on his bed, leaning up against the headboard, with Brett curled up on her pillow next to him and me sitting by their feet, reading, holding up the book to share illustrations with them in the lamplight. I can’t help but notice that Matt closes his eyes, letting my voice soothe him with the predictability of old stories we both know so well. He comments that Brett sleeps more soundly now, which makes me happy. They still sleep in the same bed, but who could blame Brett for wanting to stay close to the one parent she has who’s still here?
After bedtime, we slip out into the kitchen and have dinner together. Sometimes he cooks simple things like grilled cheese or chicken soup; other times, he orders food from DoorDash or Uber Eats. Matt’s appetite is notably improving, and though it appears he’s not losing any weight, he hasn’t gained much back either. Dinners are peaceful and full of conversation. Seven years is a lot to catch up on. Matt shares baby pictures of Brett. I talk about my job. Sometimes we ask each other hard questions: he wonders how my dad is doing. I ask him to share a time when things were happier for him and Leyla. Every day we talk on the sofa or at the kitchen table until around eleven, when I head home. Matt ends each night the same way, with the promise of tomorrow and a gentle kiss.
It isn’t cheating. We’re not having sex or anything. We’re just friends. Okay, yes, I get chills when I’m near him, butterflies when I think about him, and I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t on my mind every night before going to bed. But we’re friends, like we used to be, and I’m grateful to be able to be there for him. I’m sure Leyla wouldn’t appreciate the depth of our encounters, and I can’t help but worry that Brett might say something during their after-school Facetime sessions. According to Matt, though, Leyla’s too busy recounting her own adventures to let Brett get a word in edgewise.
Also, I often remind myself,sheleft.
One slushy, cold Sunday, we stay inside, unwrapping a brand-newChutes and Laddersgame and alternate between playing that and building a castle out of old Amazon boxes, toilet paper rolls and craft paper. While Matt naps, Brett and I curl up on the couch to watchSplash,a movie from the 1980’s about a man who falls in love with a mermaid. We make Jiffy Pop on the stove, a first for Brett, and she squeals with excitement as the bag grows bigger and bigger until it’s stuffed to the brim with fresh, hot popcorn.
The following weekend, I have to work on Saturday night running a dance I’ve been planning for months at the center, called “A Midwinter Night’s Dream.” Matt finds a reptile encounter at the library that he’s excited to take Brett to go see on Sunday, so we plan a day-date. I show up at 9:30 to drive them over for the 10:00 a.m. event. However, when I pull up in front of the house, a new car is parked in my spot: a shiny, white Lexus with a bumper sticker that readsThe best moms get promoted to Grandma.
The prospect of seeing Diana Thompson sets my nerves on edge. When I knock, my throat tightens. An older woman answers. Her previously golden hair is now ash blonde, streaked with lines of silver and white, shoulder-length and coiffed. She meets me at eye-level; the statuesque beauty I remember so fondly seems to have shrunk a few inches in recent years. But her eyes still sparkle, and she recognizes me immediately.
“Taylor! Hi!” Brett exclaims, squishing past her grandmother to offer a hug. “Grandma’s coming with us to the snake show!”
“Taylor? Is it really you?” She holds her soft, aged, manicured hands out and places them on my upper arms, giving me a little squeeze. The distant kitchen light looks like a halo above her head.
I nod. “It’s me.”
“You’re simply stunning. It’s so good to see you, sweetheart. How long has it been now?”
The funeral. Of course.“Fourteen years, I think.” I count in my mind. “Fifteen in August.”
As she cocks her head to the side, Mrs. Thompson’s eyes look like they’re filling with tears. In response, my chest cavity floods like a broken engine that someone’s tried to start too many times. I take a deep breath in a moment of awkward, silent musing.
“Well,” Mrs. Thompson sighs. “Come in, dear. Let’s get you out of the cold.” She takes a careful step back, one arm outstretched, offering the same, gracious welcome that’s been burned into my brain from childhood.
The house smells of sugary cinnamon French toast and rich, salty bacon. Remnants of Brett’s feast are left on the kitchen table. The counter is lined with platters of food, as if someone just cooked breakfast for a small football team. A fresh pot of coffee and a full carafe of orange juice sit side-by-side; a bowl of mixed fruit separates them from the hot food items. Brett resumes her place at the table set for one.
“Are you hungry, Taylor? Please. Sit with Brett. Let me fix you a plate.”
Where is Matt?I wonder, looking around.Bathroom, maybe?I take a seat at the table. “Hey, sweetie. Where’s Daddy?” I say to Brett, who happily shovels a forkful of French toast into her mouth.
“Sick,” Brett replies, gulping down a swig of orange juice. “He threw up in the night.” She takes a hearty bite of bacon. “I got scared, so I called Grandma and she came over.”
“Is he okay?” I ask, receiving a plate of food that will be hard to eat now that I’ve lost my appetite.
“He’s fine.” Mrs. Thompson nods inconspicuously at the recycling bin next to the door, which has close to 10 empty Coors Light bottlesin it. “He was worked up overnight and must have just tired himself out. But Brett and I slept in her room, didn’t we, love?” She smooths out Brett’s silky, dark hair and plants a kiss on her head. “We had our own little sleepover, me and my girl.” I notice the exhaustion in the woman’s eyes, the slight hunch she carries in her upper back as she walks back over to the kitchen counter. “Coffee, dear?” she asks me.
“I’m okay, thanks. I had a cup earlier.” My mind swirls with questions.Did he drink until he got sick? Why? Where’s Mr. Thompson? Should we call his doctor? Are we going to the thing at the library without him?The sweetness of butter and maple syrup sours with the bitter taste of worry in my mouth.
“I’m going to go freshen up a touch,” Mrs. Thompson says. “You girls finish up and then, Brett, please put on your shoes. We’ve got a date with some reptiles!”
“Okay, Grandma,” Brett smiles, as Mrs. Thompson disappears into the bathroom.
“So,” I say to Brett, “you had a busy night, huh?”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “Grandma came quick, though.”
