The blue diaper bag sat empty on the kitchen counter while Ryan zipped a brown leather duffel bag. I measured three scoops of powder into a plastic bottle, careful not to spill a single grain. A single can of infant formula cost thirty-six dollars now, and we went through four of them a week.
“You never mentioned a beach trip until last night,” I said, keeping my voice deliberate.
Ryan adjusted the brass buckle on his duffel. He rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand, his thumb catching on his collar.
“It was a last-minute thing with the guys from the office,” he said.
He did not look at me. He looked at his phone screen, his thumb scrolling rapidly.
“I cannot do this alone for five days, Ryan.”
“You have my mother down the road,” he said, lifting the bag. “And your brother Shaun is always looking for something to do.”
“Shaun works sixty hours a week at the lumber yard,” I said.
“Then you’ll manage,” Ryan said. He checked his watch. “The traffic on Route 8 is already backed up.”
“We only have twenty dollars in the jar,” I said, setting the bottle down.
“I’ll transfer some money tonight,” he said.
He walked out of the kitchen without waiting for me to answer.
By three o’clock, the summer heat in the living room was thick. I sat on the slipcovered sofa holding Luna, who was wrapped in her faded pink blanket. The flannel was soft, printed with little blue lambs that had nearly washed away over thirty years of use. Her tiny fingers curled against my collarbone, warm and damp.
Ryan stood in the doorway with his sunglasses already on. He pulled out his phone and pointed the camera at us.
“Hold still for a second,” he said, tapping the screen.
“She has a slight cough,” I said, shifting Luna to my other shoulder. “I wanted you to look at her chest before you left.”
“She looks fine to me,” he said.
The flash blinked once, leaving a small green spot in my eyes.
“The pediatrician checkup is this week,” I said. “We need grocery money before you go.”
“There is plenty in the joint account,” he said.
He leaned down, kissed the top of Luna’s forehead, and walked toward the front hallway.
At seven, the kitchen was quiet. I stood at the basin, scrubbing the plastic threads of the bottle caps with a yellow brush. My fingers were pruned and smelled of dish soap.
I reached for the hand towel and saw my gold wedding ring sitting on the window sill. I had taken it off to wash the bottles, just like I did every night.
I picked up the ring. It felt light, almost hollow, in the palm of my hand.
On the kitchen desk sat a thick blue folder the hospital had given us when the triplets were discharged. It held their birth certificates and the immunization records. I opened the cardboard cover, slid the gold band into the front pocket, and pressed the folder shut.
In the nursery, Bodhi began to cry, his high, thin wail instantly waking Soleil. I walked into the dark room, my feet heavy on the rug. I lifted Bodhi first, rocking him against my shoulder while using my foot to nudge Soleil’s crib.
The hum of the baby monitor on the dresser was the only constant sound in the house.
I held my breath, listening for any sign of a car returning, any indication that Ryan had changed his mind. I had always believed he would eventually step up as a partner, that the weight of three babies would make him see what I needed.
The silence in the rest of the house was absolute.
I carried Bodhi to the front window, parting the white curtains with my elbow.
The red taillights of Ryan’s SUV glowed in the dark driveway.
The sound of his tires crunching on the gravel driveway as he drove away.
I tipped the woven basket on the hallway console table upside down. Two hair ties, a receipt for lawn fertilizer, and three copper pennies spilled onto the dark wood, but my car keys were not there.
The three baby car seats were lined up by the front door, each one strapped and ready. I had forty-two minutes before we were expected at Oak Creek Pediatrics, and the drive took twenty.
I checked the ceramic dish in the kitchen where Ryan usually dropped his spare change. Only a paperclip and a dry ballpoint pen lay inside. I walked back to the hallway, my shoes making no sound on the runner rug.
My purse was empty except for a pack of tissues and three receipts from the grocery store. I checked the pockets of my light summer jacket hanging on the wooden peg. Nothing but a clean pacifier.
The low rumble of my mother’s Buick sounded in the driveway. I opened the door, carrying Bodhi in his heavy plastic carrier, while my mother, Martha, walked up the concrete path. She wore her beige cardigan despite the July heat, her eyes immediately scanning my face.
“The diaper bags are ready,” I said, setting Bodhi down on the porch. “But I cannot find my keyring.”
My mother adjusted her glasses, her eyes shifting to the empty driveway where Ryan’s truck usually sat. “Did you look in your purse?”
“Twice,” I said, lifting the second car seat. “We have waited three weeks for this checkup.”
“We will take my car,” she said, reaching for Soleil’s carrier. “But we are going to have to squeeze three seats into the back of a LeSabre.”
We spent ten minutes in the driveway, sweating under the midday sun as we threaded the seatbelts through the plastic bases. My mother’s hands were steady, but she kept looking back toward the road.
“Did he leave them in the kitchen?” she asked, tugging a strap until it clicked.
“I checked,” I said. “They are not on the counter.”
We drove in silence, the air conditioning in the old Buick blowing a thin stream of cool air. In the back seat, the babies were quiet, lulled by the motion of the heavy sedan.
The waiting room of Oak Creek Pediatrics was quiet, smelling of floor wax and lavender soap. I sat on the vinyl bench with Soleil on my lap while my mother rocked the double stroller near the reception desk. A poster of a cartoon giraffe lined the wall opposite us.
Dr. Gray, a tall man who had been our family doctor for a decade, walked out from the back corridor holding a yellow folder. He stopped in front of us, checking the top sheet of paper.
“They are all gaining on their curves, Chloe,” Dr. Gray said, looking down over his reading glasses. “Bodhi is up another pound since we saw you last month.”
“And Soleil?” I asked, adjusting her pink knit cap.
“She is doing wonderfully,” he said. “The nursing is going well?”
“Yes,” I said. “We are managing.”
“The cost of formula has gone up again,” my mother murmured from the stroller. “Thirty-six dollars a can now. It is a good thing she is still nursing two of them.”
Dr. Gray nodded slowly, making a note in his folder. “It is a heavy load. Let us get them into exam room three so we can do the physicals.”
We moved into the small room where the scale and the paper-covered table sat. My mother helped me lift the babies one by one, untying their tiny shoes.
Dr. Gray listened to Bodhi’s chest, the metal of his stethoscope glinting under the lights. “Is Ryan working today?”
“He had some time off,” I said, keeping my voice level.
“He has missed the last two visits,” Dr. Gray noted, writing a figure on the chart. “We like to see both parents when we discuss the six-month developmental milestones.”
“He is out of town,” my mother said from the corner, her fingers tapping against her leather purse.
Dr. Gray did not look up from his clipboard. “We will need to schedule the next round of immunizations for late August.”
“I will check my calendar when we get home,” I said, holding Soleil close to my chest.
“Make sure Ryan is available for that one,” Dr. Gray said, offering a small, sympathetic smile. “You should not be doing all the heavy lifting alone, Chloe.”
