At dinner, Sonia talked about spelling practice while Elena smiled and nodded, and every time I looked at my wife I felt as though I were staring through a wall, sure that something huge was on the other side but still unable to break through it.
Elena asked whether I was feeling okay.
I said I was tired.
It was the kind of lie people say when they do not yet know how much truth is about to cost.
Before bed I stopped at Sonia’s door.
Her room smelled faintly of crayons and
baby shampoo.
She was already under her blanket, one hand tucked beneath her cheek.
— Have you really seen him every night?
She nodded.
— He comes when it’s very dark.
— Did Mommy talk to him?
Sonia thought for a second.
— Not really.
She just looked sad.
Sad.
I remember that word landing somewhere inside me and vanishing beneath everything louder.
Anger was louder.
Fear was louder.
Pride was louder.
So I kissed my daughter goodnight and went to my room carrying the wrong emotion like a weapon.
Elena came to bed at eleven.
She smelled like soap and something clean and sharp that reminded me of a clinic.
She asked if I had taken my sleeping pill.
I told her yes.
In the bathroom I turned on the tap, spat the pill into the sink, and slipped the wet tablet into the pocket of my pajama pants.
Then I crawled into bed, turned my back, and began breathing with deliberate heaviness.
She did not sleep either.
I could feel it.
Her breathing was too careful, too measured, as if she were waiting for something and trying not to let me hear the waiting.
At 1:13 the bedroom door opened.
A strip of hallway light slid across the floor.
A man stepped inside carrying a narrow black case.
He moved with the confidence of someone who knew the room and the route to our bed.
He closed the door without letting it click.
He did not come near me.
