Karen Cleveland: Need to Know

“Are you fighting?” he asks in a small voice.

“No, sweetie,” I say. And my heart breaks for him, though my mind can’t fully process why. “We’re just having a grown-up conversation.”

He says nothing, just watches us, and for the first time I realize I can’t read his expression, can’t tell what he’s thinking. He’s Matt’s son, he’s always going to be Matt’s son. Maybe I’ll never know what he’s thinking, whether he’s telling me the truth. I have an unsettling sense that my whole life is slipping through my fingers and I’m powerless to stop it.

“Dad, can we play catch now?” he asks.

“Not now, buddy. I’m talking with Mom.”

“But you promised.”

“Buddy, I—”

“Go,” I say, interrupting him. It’s what I need now. Him gone. Time to think. I stare at him evenly, then add more quietly, “You wouldn’t want to lie to him.”

A wounded expression crosses his face. But that’s what I intended, right? Let him be hurt. It’s nothing compared to the hurt I feel.

And I stare evenly back. Suddenly I’m angry at him. So angry. He betrayed my trust. Lied to me, for a decade.

He looks like he’s about to say something, then stops. Still has the hurt expression on his face. He stands up wordlessly, walks around the table, over to where I sit. I continue staring straight ahead, at the wall now. He hesitates next to me, then puts a hand on my shoulder. A shiver runs through me at his touch.

“We’ll talk about all this,” he says. His hand stays on my shoulder a moment longer, and then he drops it, follows Luke out of the room. I stay at the table, staring straight ahead, and I listen to them put on jackets, round up mitts and a ball, walk outside. I wait until the door shuts behind them, then I get up, shift Caleb to my hip, and walk over to the sink. I watch them out the window. Father and son, tossing a baseball back and forth in our backyard, dusk settling around them. A perfect snapshot of America. Only one of the two isn’t American.

And then it dawns on me, hits me with such force I grip the edge of the sink to steady myself. This isn’t just betrayal. This isn’t something that’s going to be solved by a fight or a conversation or anything like that. It’s not solvable, period. I need to turn him in. He’s a Russian spy, and I need to turn him in. The anger seems to melt away, morph into a river of despair.

My gaze drifts to my phone, sitting on the counter. The one that holds an endless chain of texts with Matt, countless pictures of our family, our life together. I should be picking it up. I should be calling Agency security right now. The FBI. Omar.

I look back outside. He’s smiling at Luke as he winds an arm back, slowly, and lets the ball fly. So relaxed, so comfortable. And it’s wrong, all of this is wrong, because sleepers run. They try to get on planes back home before the authorities can stop them.

But Matt’s not running. He’s not going anywhere.

Caleb yawns, and I shift him in my arms so he can lay his head against my chest. He snuggles down and lets out a little sigh.

I continue to watch Matt through the window. I see him show Luke how to keep legs loose and bouncy, bring the arm back just so. He looks completely normal.

He finally casts a glance back at the house, at the kitchen window, right at me, like he knew I’d be there. I meet his gaze and hold it until he turns away, back toward the game. Then I look at the cellphone again. He knows I’m in here, alone, with the phone. A sleeper wouldn’t let that happen. A sleeper would protect himself. All the more proof this is Matt. My husband, the man I love. Someone who’d never run.

We’ll talk about all this . His words ring in my head. That’s what I need, isn’t it? I need to hear what he has to say. And then I have to turn him in.

I turn away from the phone. I can’t pick it up. Not now. Not until I’ve talked to him.

And he knows that, doesn’t he?

The thought comes unbidden and lodges itself in my mind. He knows me. He knows me better than anyone. What if he’s not running because he knows I wouldn’t pick up the phone right now, wouldn’t turn him in?

I feel numb. This can’t be happening.

I shake my head and walk out of the room, away from the window, away from the phone. I step into the family room. Ella’s curled up on the couch with a coloring book, crayons splayed on the cushions. I set Caleb down on the floor, next to his toys, and sink down onto the couch beside her. I feel her forehead, warmer now. She brushes my hand away and I wrap my arms around her.

“Stop, Mom.” She half-heartedly pushes me away, then stops and acquiesces, crayon poised in midair.

I kiss the top of her head, the hair that smells like baby shampoo. Her words from earlier are echoing in my head. Where’s Daddy? And then another phrase, one she never uttered but that I can imagine her saying nonetheless. Why did Daddy go away?

Caleb’s entertaining himself on the floor, banging the lid of his shape sorter against the base, a steady rhythm. Chase has crawled over and is gnawing on one of his stacking cups. They’re too young to even remember this, aren’t they? The normalcy of our lives now. I watch Ella scribble, the thick crayons clasped tight in her fist, a look of fierce concentration on her face, and tears sting my eyelids. God, how I wish I could protect all of them from this.

I hear the back door open, Matt’s and Luke’s voices midconversation, something about Little League. Matt’s going to coach this year. Was going to coach. I stand before the tears well any further.

“Hi,” he says to me when he walks into the room. He looks hesitant, uncertain.

“I’ll go bathe the twins,” I say, avoiding his gaze. I scoop them up, one in each arm, turning my back to Matt. I bring them up to the bathroom, run the water, pour in the capful of bubbles, let the water fill while I undress them, peeling off clothes and diapers. I set Chase in the water, then Caleb, absentmindedly run the washcloth over their soft skin, dimpled thighs and bottoms, chubby cheeks, double chins. It seems like just yesterday they were tiny newborns, preemies, that we were bringing them to the doctor for weight checks. Where did the time go?

Matt’s voice drifts up from the family room. A story, one I know I’ve read to the kids but can’t place right now. I hear Ella giggle.

I lean back on my heels and watch the twins play. Chase is grabbing the edge of the tub, pulling himself up, laughing gleefully. Caleb’s sitting quietly, mesmerized, marveling at the splash as his little hands hit the water again and again. We only bathe them when we’re both home, when one of us can focus on the babies and one on the older kids. It’d be so much harder without Matt.

Everything would be so much harder.

I get the twins toweled off and in their pajamas, and I hear Matt in the next room getting Ella ready for bed.

“What about my bath?” she says.

“No bath tonight, princess,” he says.

“But I want a bath.”

When has she ever wanted a bath? “Tomorrow night,” he says.

Tomorrow night. Will he be around tomorrow night? I try to picture bathing all the kids myself, somehow entertaining the twins while I wash Ella, getting them all into bed, alone. The thought seems overwhelming.

I put Caleb in one crib, Chase in the other, lay kisses on their cheeks, breathe in their sweet smell. I turn the night-light on and the overhead light off and step into Ella’s room, the one that was going to be sunshine-themed. I had big plans for a mural, a painted ceiling fan, the works. Then work got busy. Now it’s a yellow room. Bare yellow walls, yellow throw rug. That’s as far as I got.