The Family Across the Street by Nicole Trope
36
Katherine
His lips are moving, counting, and she knows she has to move before he gets to zero, just before.
Glancing at her children, she tries to take in their little faces, to breathe in their sweaty, sweet smell. She has so much more to tell them, to teach them, so much more love to give them. If only she had written some of it down so that they could find it after she’s gone. She looks at their faces and tries to picture the man in George, the woman in Sophie, and understands that the best she can hope for now is that they remember how much she loved them and that they understand her sacrifice. My life for theirs,she sends up in a silent prayer, and to her it seems a fair enough trade. My life for theirs.
George will blame himself. Her little man, her deep thinker. He will blame himself. They are not allowed to open the front door without an adult present. It’s a rule of the house, even in this safe suburb.
‘Do not open the door without me,’ she has shouted whenever the bell chimes. But children are impulsive; George is controlled but always interested. Who might it be? Is it a delivery, a box with contents to guess at? Or is it Gladys, who comes bearing cake?
This morning his curiosity got the better of him, and she was in the laundry, the washing machine filling, rushing water drowning out the chiming of the bell.
George opened the door.
But even if her son hadn’t let him in, Katherine knows she would have. She would have welcomed him into her home.
Please don’t blame yourself, George. I would have done the same thing.
She closes her eyes and assesses the pain in her body, her cheek, her mouth, her wrist. She has to find a way to get her children out of this house. Tears prick at her eyes and she takes a deep breath because she doesn’t want to cry in front of her two silent, frightened children. She must find a way to get them out.
As she breathes out, she hears a click, just a small click from the kitchen. It is the sound the kitchen door makes when it’s opened. There is a small piece of wood at the bottom of the door that has split away. John is going to putty it up at some point but he hasn’t done it yet and so whenever it opens, no matter how quiet the person opening the door is trying to be, there is the small click of the wood catching. She doesn’t even hear it anymore. It’s simply become one of the sounds that are part of her everyday life. But she has heard it today, with her eyes closed and her heart filled with despair. She has heard it today. She opens her eyes to find George staring at her, his green eyes wide, his fist clenched, and she knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that her son has heard the click as well. He pays attention, that’s who he is. And right now, as the heat strangles the air, he has heard what she has heard.
Someone is in the kitchen. Someone has opened the back door.
She can see George rising a little from the sofa. He wants to run, to see who it is, but she knows they need to wait.
She has no idea who it could be and she wonders if it’s actually someone breaking into the house. There have been some burglaries in the area but mostly those take place at night when the homeowners are out. The irony of it is that she would welcome a burglar right now.
George opens his mouth a little and she gives her head a slight shake. ‘Wait,’ she mouths. She mouths it three times before he nods that he has understood.
They need to wait.