The Dead Husband Carter Wilson (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📖

“Pretty early in the morning,” I say.

“I never slept,” he answers. “Far as I’m concerned, it’s still night.”

He walks back and sits in his chair, this time fully upright. In command. He takes a sip of his drink, closes his eyes for a moment, and a faint rush of color comes to his cheeks.

“Mmm,” he says.

“Don’t leave this room until I’m gone,” I say.

“Why?”

I look him up and down. Logan Yates. My father. Drink in hand, in his favorite chair, surrounded by books he’s never read but desperately wants people to think he has.

“Because this is how I want to remember you. Just like this.”

“Rosie, I’m not going anywhere.” With that, he raises his glass to me. I hate him but want to tell him I love him. But there are no I love you’s in this house. Not even if it might be the last thing you ever say to each other.

Petrified wood, this Yates family tree.

I turn and walk away.

Once I’m out of the study, I have a sudden and altogether different energy. Frantic, mixed with a bit of excitement. Freedom.

I’m getting the hell out of here.

Sixty-Two

Up the stairs, first to Max’s room, then to mine. I throw things into our suitcases, packing them tight. Rush back to the kitchen to grab a couple of Hefty bags for the overflow, the things we’ve acquired since being back in Bury. There’s no order to anything, and it doesn’t bother me in the least.

Finished.

I take everything to the garage, load up the black Suburban. The keys are already in the ignition. I go to the passenger side and open the glove compartment.

There’s not just a little money inside. There are four rubber-banded stacks, each at least an inch and a half thick. I take the top one and flip through them. All hundreds.

Christ. I don’t know how much is here, but more than I’ve ever held.

In the driver’s seat, I place my hands on the steering wheel and take a few deep breaths. Do I have everything? Purse, keys, and all our bags thrown in the back. And money. Lots of money.

My pulse pounds like I’m running away, but I’m not. I just want to get away from this house. I’ll go pick up Max, and then we’ll start the long drive to Milwaukee. What happens from there? The only certainty I have is I’ll finally be done running away.

I back out over the soft padding of snow in the driveway and into the street.

One last look at 1734 Rum Hill Road. The place I grew up too fast.

Good riddance.

I shift into drive and lurch forward, and as I roll along the blanketed street, I don’t even look in the mirror.

The driving is slow; the quiet residential streets haven’t yet been plowed. All the rooftops breathe steam into the freezing morning air. I want to push the pedal down, race as fast as I can to Max, but I’ll do my son little good if I kill myself trying to reach him.

I make it to Alec’s house in one piece, park in the street next to the patch of grass where three months ago I tripped and fell in front of him. The grass is now dormant, covered in snow, and the tree Alec was pruning that day has only a few remaining leaves, holdouts that will lose their grips before too long.

I ring the bell, my stomach doing flips.

Alec opens the door, flannel pants and a baby-blue V-neck T-shirt, the picture of softness and warmth. We all live our own inner turmoil, but if Alec has any, I cannot see it, not now, not here. I see a man who has a snow day, just like his boy. I picture them playing board games by the fire after downing a stack of pancakes and, when they get the energy, donning layers to venture out and make a snow fort. I see a man who’s my friend and maybe could have been my lover. I see a human being with whom I could share the truth.

For once, I just want to tell the truth.

But I won’t, not now, not yet, so I don’t, and the weight of that must show on my face, for he looks at me with questioning eyes and asks if I’m okay.

No, I tell him. I’m not. Not now, not yet.

I walk inside, making no small talk because the idea of wasted words is unbearable in the moment. If I can’t confide in him, I at least won’t diminish whatever relationship we have with idle chatter. He lets the silence last, and I’m awash with a belief that this is a man with whom I could have shared a forever love.

The beauty and the sadness of it all.

Max races from the living room and hugs me.

“I called last night,” he says. “You didn’t answer.”

Because Cora shattered my phone before I shattered her. Another torch of bile rises in my throat, and I swallow it down.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I was scared.”

I don’t console him as I normally would because I’m already holding enough fear for both of us. “I’m sure there was nothing to be scared of,” I say.

“I…I just don’t like it when you’re away.”

“I’m here now, and we need to get going.”

Winter jacket zipped up over pajamas. Boots pulled over bare feet. Max thinks we’re going back to Rum Hill Road, and I say nothing to him yet. A fresh outfit waits for him in the Suburban.

I tell him to go out and get into the car, that I’ll be there in just a moment. He doesn’t argue.

At the front doorway of Alec’s house, I hear cartoons from the other room, knowing Micah must be plopped in front of a screen, zoned out, happy and safe.

I have one foot inside the house and one foot out, and if that’s not some kind of metaphor for my life, then I don’t know what is. Alec stands a few feet inside the foyer, smiling,