Free Apart at the Seams by Marie Bostwick Page B

she’d step in, grateful when she did.
    â€œBobby,” she said calmly, “your father is coming to New Bern, and he wants to see you, but he can’t stay at your house. It’s more like he’s coming for a visit.”
    â€œWhen is he coming? How long is he going to stay? Can we go down to the dock and pick him up?”
    â€œDock?” I asked. “What dock?”
    â€œThe dock at the ocean,” he said simply. “Where they park the ships.”
    Sheila gave me a quick glance, as if thinking I might be able to explain what was going on in Bobby’s mind, but I had no clue. She figured it out, though, and a lot quicker than I did.
    â€œBobby, where do you think your dad is right now? On a ship?”
    â€œUh-huh. On an aircraft carrier. In China. He’s in the navy. That’s why he’s been gone so long. China is really far away, like on the whole other side of the planet.”
    Sheila kept her eyes on Bobby’s as he spoke, nodding slowly. “I see. Did you figure this out on your own? Or did somebody explain it to you? Your mom?”
    Bobby shook his head vigorously. “No. Bethany said that it makes Mommy sad to talk about him, so I shouldn’t.”
    â€œThen, Bethany told you about your father? That he went to China on an aircraft carrier?”
    â€œUh-huh,” he answered solemnly, then turned toward me and grabbed my hand. “But he’s coming back, so you can stop being divorced now. Okay?”
    For a minute, I just didn’t know what to say. He looked so hopeful and innocent, because he was. I held out my arms, and he immediately snuggled into them, the way he always does.
    I kissed the top of his head. “I love you, Bear. Do you know that?”
    â€œI love you too, Mommy.”
    Sheila, sitting in the chair opposite from us, folded her hands under her chin and gave me a questioning look. I nodded. I was going to have to tell him the truth; I already knew that.

7
Gayla
    F or about a week, I became somebody I didn’t recognize.
    The first three days were taken up mostly with crying, drinking, and chain-smoking. There was also a certain amount of ignoring calls from Brian, then answering the calls and bursting into fresh waves of sobbing as soon as he started talking, after which I would hang up on him. Eventually, I just switched the phone off.
    That was the really pitiful part of my pity party, those first three days. When the scotch ran out and when I had cried so many tears that you could have twisted me like a pretzel and not wrung out one more drop of liquid, I started cleaning. And cursing. And breaking things.
    I had to do something.
    Trash bag in hand, I banished the last traces of Christmas, throwing out the greeting cards, a bright green tin still containing a litter of cookie crumbs and sprinkles of red sugar (no wonder we had mice), a terra-cotta pot containing a dud of an amaryllis bulb, crumpled ribbons and wrapping paper, and various other bits that had been overlooked in our rush to beat the post-holiday traffic back to the city.
    I scrubbed all traces of visiting rodents from the countertops and appliances, emptied the refrigerator, and wiped down the cupboards. I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed the wood floors and baseboards with such vehemence that I broke a sweat and raised splinters. I moved furniture and rolled up rugs. I swept and mopped and wiped and scrubbed, working until my hands were raw and my eyes watered from bleach fumes. When that was done, I started cleaning closets. My life was a shambles, but my closets would be in perfect order.
    The first box I opened was filled with dozens of how-to books that I’d bought and never really read or used. There were books on how to make candles, scrap quilts, jewelry, knitted scarves, woven baskets, homemade bread, pasta, and pickles. There were books on how to plant a garden—grow herbs, flowers, and vegetables—make compost,