Chapter 2: The Walk Past The Staircase
The handles of the suitcases were already warm from my grip. The wheels caught for half a second on the edge of the rug under the dining table, then rolled free onto the marble of the foyer. I kept my left hand on my belly. The chandelier threw light across the cream walls and the gold in the staircase railing, and everything was too bright and too quiet at once.
My daughter stayed against my right side. She had her teddy bear pressed flat to her chest with both arms, the way she held it when she was trying not to drop it. My son came right behind her, his little bow tie slightly crooked, his hand finding the side of my dress and holding on. I didn't have to tell them to follow. They just did.
I could hear Grant behind me. His shoes on the marble. He hadn't expected the suitcases to actually move.
"Hey," he said, low. Not loud enough for the table to hear clearly. "Hey, stop."
I kept walking. The foyer was longer than it looked when you weren't trying to cross it with two rolling cases and two kids and thirty-four weeks of weight pulling low in your front. I breathed through my nose and focused on the front door ahead, dark wood with the brass handle halfway lit by the outside porch light.
Grant caught up at the edge of the staircase. He didn't grab my arm. He reached for the handle of the suitcase closest to him, just laid his hand over the telescoping bar to stop its roll.
"We're not doing this in front of the kids," he whispered. His voice was tight, that smile still stuck on for anyone watching from the dining room. "Put the bags down. We'll talk upstairs. Tessa can wait in the other room. Come on."
His hand was white-knuckled on the handle. I looked down at it, then at him. His white shirt had come untucked a little on one side where he'd been standing with his arm around Tessa. He was still trying to keep it small, to keep his voice even so the kids wouldn't hear the shake in it.
I didn't raise my voice. I just shifted my weight and eased the suitcase out from under his hand. The wheels clicked.
"Don't touch their things," I said. I kept it quiet too, for my daughter's sake. She was watching us, her face tucked halfway behind the bear.
Grant let go like I'd burned him. He glanced back toward the dining table. His mother had her napkin still folded in her lap, both hands holding it. His brother stood half out of his chair but wasn't coming closer. Nobody moved. The plates were still set, gold chargers and crystal glasses untouched, and they all just watched us in the foyer like if they stayed still enough this wouldn't be happening.
Tessa hadn't moved from where I'd left her near the staircase. She stood with her hands together in front of that green sequined dress, not stepping forward, not stepping back. She looked at Grant, then at me, then down at the floor. She didn't say anything. For once that was the right call.
My son tugged my dress a little harder. "Mommy, are we going to the car?" he asked. His voice was small in the big entryway.
"Yes, baby," I said. "Just to the door first."
Grant tried again when I started moving. He stepped around in front of me, not blocking the door exactly but putting himself in my path near the base of the staircase where the railing curved out. Close enough that I had to stop or walk into him.
"You're eight months pregnant," he said, even quieter now, trying to sound reasonable. "You can't just walk out at night with two kids and no plan. Think for one second. Where are you going to go? Let me get your coat. At least let me carry those down the steps."
He reached out again, this time toward my elbow, and stopped himself mid-air when my daughter pressed closer to my leg. I felt her bear bump against my dress.
I adjusted my hand on my belly. The baby had shifted hard to one side and I had to breathe through it.
"I'm going to the entry," I said. "That's where I'm going."
He stared at me, that surprised look still on his face from the dining room when I'd said to call his lawyer. He'd walked in expecting me to cry or yell or make a scene he could manage. He hadn't packed a response for me just leaving.
"You're making a mistake," he said. It wasn't a plea. It was a warning, but it came out thin.
Behind him, the front door waited. I could see the deadbolt, the chain, the little rug we'd put down for shoes. I still had six feet of marble to cross with both suitcases. My daughter's hand slipped down and found two fingers of my right hand, holding on while still clutching the bear with her other arm. My son stayed at my other side, his shoulder brushing my hip.
I stepped to the side, just enough to go around Grant without touching him. He didn't move to grab me again with both kids watching. He stood there at the staircase, his hands at his sides now, his jaw working.
May you like
I pulled both suitcases the last few feet until the wheels bumped the entry rug. The brass handle of the door was right in front of me, catching the warm light from the chandelier. I hadn't opened it yet. I didn't need to rush that part. I just needed to get us there, together, with our things, where he couldn't quietly steer me back to the table without everyone seeing it.
Grant stayed two steps behind me on the marble, close enough that I could hear him breathing, not close enough to stop me without making it obvious to the room that he was trying to.
