Lay Me Down

17. Good mother.

{Mel}

The morning of the pre-trial, Melanie woke up completely alert. She stretched her arm out to the side without opening her eyes—Pete's side of the bed was empty and cool. He was up before six some days; she would have been surprised to find him still there. Still, she reached for him on instinct.

The light in the room seeped in, blue and pale, around the blinds. Mel sat up, pushed her hair back from her face and put her feet into her slippers beside the bed. Lately, she felt as if she were wrapped in a scarf of rain, damp and grey. She went numbly about her days, trying to make meals and be normal for her girls and leaving Jon to Pete. It was all she had the energy left to do.

She was awake today because somehow, Cary was one of the few things left she had energy for. His angular face, closed tightly on his secrets, woke something inside her that was as hot and dark as her own heart's blood. He had stepped into a hole that no one should have been able to fill, reminding her of the son they had lost—and for that reason, she was going to look into the face of the man who had been able to cut Cary out of his family, leaving Cary with bloody tatters of attachment trailing after them.

She wrapped her old sweater around her body and went into the kitchen. She could hear the girls in their room, chattering about their clothing choices for the day. Pete's second pot of coffee was percolating noisily on the counter. She took down her favourite mug, the pottery feeling pleasingly rough under her fingertips, and pulled the coffee pot off its perch mid-perk, heedless of the hiss of protest from the drips that fell onto the burner.

Jon was smiling at her from his place at the table, a confused twist between his fine, brown eyebrows. "Mom? You're up early."

It was as if he could hear what she said to herself each morning: You're a mother. You should be up with your children. These days are going to fly away, and you will have missed them, lying in your dark room with the covers over your head.

She did her best to shrug it off, saying, "Am I?" She noticed he was reading his Bible, his crumb-filled toast plate at his elbow, and she was pleased to think he was growing into a person whose faith was important to him. She was unable to say so, as if the mist had wrapped itself over her mouth and stopped her tongue. She took a hot mouthful of coffee to clear it. "Is Cary awake?"

Jon shrugged, turning his attention back to what was on the page. "Yeah. He doesn't do breakfast."

She stood with the small of her back against the counter, nursing her coffee while her family swirled around her, getting breakfast and backpacks and bag lunches. Jon did most of the work with the girls while Pete stayed in his makeshift study in the basement. Cary came into the kitchen in the midst of the bustle, went silently to the coffee maker and poured himself a cup. He took it out to the deck and sat with it steaming beside him while he lit up a cigarette. She watched him from the corner of her eye while he finished, studying the newly built garage like he was considering an additional room.

"Bye, Mom!" Bea collided with Mel's legs, and Mel set her half-finished coffee on the counter before giving Bea a kiss to go. Tabitha waved from the front door, then took her sister's hand and hurried them both to the bus stop.

Jon dropped into the chair with a sigh once they were gone, moving the ribbon of his Bible to mark his place and smoothing the book shut. She thought it was time to give him a Bible cover. Something sturdy and manly—maybe leather with a zipper. The thought of shopping for such a thing made her abruptly exhausted.

Pete came into the kitchen and checked the coffee pot. He gave his son a smile. "Thanks for taking care of the girls again today, Jon."

"Sure," Jon said.