Confessions on the 7:45(8)

She answered the call to see her boys crowding to get both their faces on the screen. She lowered the volume, rose and walked to the space between the bathrooms.

“Mom,” said Oliver. “Where are you?”

“I’m stuck on the train, buddy,” she said, voice low. “So sorry. Did you guys read a story?”

“Dad read The Boy with Too Many Toys,” he said.

“Again,” chimed in Stephen.

Graham was not the preferred story time parent. He didn’t read with the requisite enthusiasm, only read one book, which he chose, no negotiation. Whereas Selena was in there for an hour, letting each boy pick a book, then often lying on the floor a while as they drifted off. Sometimes she fell asleep in there, too, and Graham had to retrieve her.

“I’ll come in and give you guys a kiss as soon as I get home,” she said. “I hope it won’t be much longer.”

She looked around again for a sign of the conductor, or someone to ask. But there was no one. What was the fucking hold up?

Stephen, blond, two front teeth missing, started talking about how a boy in school cut his own bangs with scissors and had to go home he was crying so hard. Oliver hadn’t liked his snack, and could he have raisins tomorrow. Finally, Graham cut in.

“Okay, guys,” he said. “Time for bed.”

He took the phone as the boys protested, then yelled in unison: “Love you, Mom!”

“Love you, boys!” she said. “Be home soon.”

“What about me?” said Graham. Now it was his face on the phone. Dark eyes, stubble, his crooked nose (broken in a football game, never healed quite right), hair tousled. That smile, devilish, rakish. “Do you love me?”

“I do,” she said, trying to sound light. “You know I do.”

She tried to block out the image of Geneva on top of him, but it came unbidden. It was, in fact, on an ugly loop in her brain, a television on in another room, a song she heard through the wall. There was an unpleasant squeeze on her heart. He must have seen it on her face.

He frowned. “What is it?”

“I should go,” she said.

“Okay,” he answered, rubbing his eyes, then looking back at her. “Keep me posted.”

He was oblivious, no idea what she’d witnessed. And what was more, if she hadn’t seen it, there was nothing in his demeanor that would suggest anything off. He was exactly as he always was—tone, expression, body language. What did that mean? That it was nothing to him; that he’d forgotten all about it? Or that he was such an accomplished liar and cheater that he was able to bury any feeling of guilt or regret. For a moment, on the screen, he looked like a stranger.

“Graham.”

“Yeah?”

“If there’s laundry in the washing machine, will you put it in the dryer?”

He rolled his eyes like it was the most gargantuan task in the world. “Yeah. Okay.”

She ended the call without another word, his face freezing on the screen, then disappearing into nothing.

Selena returned to her seat, sitting heavily, and Martha handed her back her little bottle. She took another big swig.

“Sounds like you have a nice family,” said Martha. She lifted a palm. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

“I’m very lucky,” said Selena.

Because that’s what you were supposed to say, right? We’re so blessed. I’m filled with gratitude.

It was true; she did think that most days. Until she moved the nanny cam.

Her mother had warned Selena—carefully, gently, as was her way—after the Vegas incident: He’ll do it again, honey. Cheaters keep cheating.

But Selena hadn’t listened. Graham was nothing like her father, she reasoned, who’d had affair after affair. Her mother, Cora, had stayed in the marriage, enduring, she said, for the sake of Selena and her sister, Marisol.

But that was her parents. Selena’s situation with Graham was different; the first incident wasn’t an affair—exactly. They’d had therapy. It was just—not the same. That’s what she’d told herself then, anyway.

“So, what are you going to do?” asked Selena, eager for the distraction from her own life. “About your boss.”

Martha shrugged, shifted back so that they could see each other better, weren’t just sitting side by side staring at the back of the seat in front of them. Her eyes—heavily lashed, lightly shadowed, almost almond-shaped—were searing, hypnotic.

“Don’t you ever just wish your problems would take care of themselves?” Martha said with a sigh.

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” asked Selena. She glanced at her bottle to find that it was almost empty. That had gone down fast. She felt looser, her shoulders less tense.

“Like maybe he’d just lose interest in me, you know?” she said. “Meet someone else.”

Something about the words hit Selena the wrong way, and she felt all the sadness she’d tamped down rise up. When the tears came, she couldn’t stop them. The nanny, of all people! What a cliché!

“Oh, no,” said Martha, looking stricken. “What did I say?”

“I’m sorry,” Selena managed, fishing tissues out of her bag and wiping at her eyes.

“Tell me,” said Martha. “Since we’re playing true confessions.”