Read Online Shelter Us: A Novel by Laura Nicole Diamond - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laura Nicole Diamond
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have? I roll out of bed and go downstairs to my family to collect curative kisses and hugs, palliatives for what ails me.
“Good morning! Happy anniversary,” Robert greets me.
I look at him, perplexed. Our anniversary is in June. It’s February. Robert winks at me. Oh,
that
anniversary. I smile at the memory of our first “date.”
“We’re all set for tonight. My mom’ll be here at six,” he says.
“Oh, I meant to call her—”
“No problem. It’s all taken care of. She’s looking forward to it.” He turns to the kids. “Do you know what tonight is, boys? It’s a very special night!”
“Is it my birthday?” Oliver asks. He looks confused about why he’s just now being told.
“No, not quite that special. It’s Mommy and Daddy’s anniversary. And you get to play with Grandma Joan.”
“Not special at all,” Oliver proclaims. I think he may be developing a Don Rickles sense of humor.
“I’d better go,” Robert says, and rushes off to get dressed for a day of teaching, meetings, and office hours. We kiss Robert good-bye. I push the woman and baby to the bottom of my consciousness, and move on with my day.
The doorbell rings at 6:00 p.m. Joan and her punctuality.
“Are you ready, Sarah?” Robert calls up.
I am standing in front of the mirror in our bedroom, dissatisfied.
“Almost! I’ll be right down!” I have tried and rejected three different outfits. They lay on the bed in a heap, and I am at a loss for what to try next. I hear the children greet Joan. Even their noncommittal “Hi, Gramma” cuts a swath of jealousy through my heart; I wish it were my mom they were greeting.
I look once more in my closet and take what’s left: black boots, black dress. They’ll do. I brush my teeth, apply mascara, and check my reflection in the bathroom mirror before I go downstairs. It’s not that bad. My wrinkles aren’t shouting out tonight, and my hair seems to like whatever is going on with this February wind. The dry, cold air has made my lips red but not yet chapped, and I even found lip gloss in the bathroom drawer. My cheeks are pink in just the right places. I allow myself a moment of satisfaction. Then I gird myself and go downstairs.
“Hello, Sarah.”
“Hi, Joan. How are you?”
“I’m well, Sarah. I’m always happy to spend time with my grandchildren.” She swallows the last word. It’s always there.
Before we leave, I kiss the boys, my sacrament for safety. “I love you,” I say, holding them too tight.
Robert has suggested we walk to the fancier Italian place in town, so we do. It feels good to not be in a car, to hear the sound of our footsteps on the sidewalk, to move at a human pace. The chilly night wakes me; the uncommon wind tricks me into feeling like I’m somewhere else, someplace mysterious—vaguely European, even. We hold hands. I let the darkness disguise the physical reminders of where and who I am, blur the edges of my usual signposts.
When we arrive at the restaurant, Robert opens the door for me. A woman wearing a crisp white button-down shirt and pleated, shiny black pants asks and answers, “Two?” and leads us to a table in the corner. I do my reflexive scan of the room. When I see that I don’t know anyone here, I relax.
I pick up the menu. “What are you having?”
“Ha,” he answers.
Robert hasn’t looked at the menu since our first time here.
Mista
salad, linguine
pescatore
, chardonnay, every time. I spend five minutes reading the menu and order the special, lobster ravioli, and merlot. After the waiter takes our menus, Robert reaches for my hands. His are warm, solid. He looks at me with a lascivious twinkle and asks the annual question that stirs ancient memory: “Remember Kip’s?”
We tell people that we met in law school, but we leave out a tiny detail: we met in a bar while in law school, and our relationship started as a one-night stand. It was Valentine’s Day, the middle of our second year. My friend Carolina and I
“Good morning! Happy anniversary,” Robert greets me.
I look at him, perplexed. Our anniversary is in June. It’s February. Robert winks at me. Oh,
that
anniversary. I smile at the memory of our first “date.”
“We’re all set for tonight. My mom’ll be here at six,” he says.
“Oh, I meant to call her—”
“No problem. It’s all taken care of. She’s looking forward to it.” He turns to the kids. “Do you know what tonight is, boys? It’s a very special night!”
“Is it my birthday?” Oliver asks. He looks confused about why he’s just now being told.
“No, not quite that special. It’s Mommy and Daddy’s anniversary. And you get to play with Grandma Joan.”
“Not special at all,” Oliver proclaims. I think he may be developing a Don Rickles sense of humor.
“I’d better go,” Robert says, and rushes off to get dressed for a day of teaching, meetings, and office hours. We kiss Robert good-bye. I push the woman and baby to the bottom of my consciousness, and move on with my day.
The doorbell rings at 6:00 p.m. Joan and her punctuality.
“Are you ready, Sarah?” Robert calls up.
I am standing in front of the mirror in our bedroom, dissatisfied.
“Almost! I’ll be right down!” I have tried and rejected three different outfits. They lay on the bed in a heap, and I am at a loss for what to try next. I hear the children greet Joan. Even their noncommittal “Hi, Gramma” cuts a swath of jealousy through my heart; I wish it were my mom they were greeting.
I look once more in my closet and take what’s left: black boots, black dress. They’ll do. I brush my teeth, apply mascara, and check my reflection in the bathroom mirror before I go downstairs. It’s not that bad. My wrinkles aren’t shouting out tonight, and my hair seems to like whatever is going on with this February wind. The dry, cold air has made my lips red but not yet chapped, and I even found lip gloss in the bathroom drawer. My cheeks are pink in just the right places. I allow myself a moment of satisfaction. Then I gird myself and go downstairs.
“Hello, Sarah.”
“Hi, Joan. How are you?”
“I’m well, Sarah. I’m always happy to spend time with my grandchildren.” She swallows the last word. It’s always there.
Before we leave, I kiss the boys, my sacrament for safety. “I love you,” I say, holding them too tight.
Robert has suggested we walk to the fancier Italian place in town, so we do. It feels good to not be in a car, to hear the sound of our footsteps on the sidewalk, to move at a human pace. The chilly night wakes me; the uncommon wind tricks me into feeling like I’m somewhere else, someplace mysterious—vaguely European, even. We hold hands. I let the darkness disguise the physical reminders of where and who I am, blur the edges of my usual signposts.
When we arrive at the restaurant, Robert opens the door for me. A woman wearing a crisp white button-down shirt and pleated, shiny black pants asks and answers, “Two?” and leads us to a table in the corner. I do my reflexive scan of the room. When I see that I don’t know anyone here, I relax.
I pick up the menu. “What are you having?”
“Ha,” he answers.
Robert hasn’t looked at the menu since our first time here.
Mista
salad, linguine
pescatore
, chardonnay, every time. I spend five minutes reading the menu and order the special, lobster ravioli, and merlot. After the waiter takes our menus, Robert reaches for my hands. His are warm, solid. He looks at me with a lascivious twinkle and asks the annual question that stirs ancient memory: “Remember Kip’s?”
We tell people that we met in law school, but we leave out a tiny detail: we met in a bar while in law school, and our relationship started as a one-night stand. It was Valentine’s Day, the middle of our second year. My friend Carolina and I
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