Page 30 of The Delivery

“No,” Mark says. “That’s just cheese. Cheese is mold.”

“Mold is rotten.”

“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s just cheese.”

“Oh. I will update my understanding.” Mr. Man returns the Stilton to the fridge.

Mark shoves in a parting mouthful, checks his watch. Rising, he stops at the desk to sign the parent attendance slip for back-to-school night, as Maddy has reminded them to do a half dozen times. “Gotta run.”

“Daddy Carpool?”

Mark is already out the door. “Sorry, kiddo, gotta get to the office.”

Maddy runs the tines of her fork through the maple syrup. “Can Mr. Man take me to school, Mommy? Can he?”

It would be nice. Rebecca thinks about a warm bath, catching up on stockpiled Grey’s Anatomy episodes, maybe even a workout. She feels a pang of guilt, but still, she does so much for everyone else all the time.

Maddy sets down her fork, dips her sticky fingers in her water glass, wipes them off repetitively on the napkin. She is rocking slightly. Watching her, Rebecca thinks about all the things she does every minute of every day to keep her daughter’s beautiful little soul on track.

Doesn’t she deserve a little time for herself?

She glances at Mr. Man and then at her daughter. “Sure thing, Maddy.”

Chapter 23

The sun across Rebecca’s face is so pleasing. The straps of the lawn chair press into her back, the Christmas tang of pine filling her lungs. Even with her eyes closed, she can sense the shadows of the bobbing branches playing across her eyelids.

When was the last time she came out to the front yard and just sat?

It is glorious.

She opens her eyes and notes with no small measure of satisfaction that the breeze is drizzling pine needles across Jackson’s roof.

Two blocks up, a black BMW turns onto the street, and she feels a stab of anxiety.

Rising quickly, she hustles inside before he can spot her.

Chapter 24

As Rebecca pulls into the parking lot for pickup, Maddy skips to the minivan, backpack bouncing on her shoulders. Rebecca cannot remember the last time she’s seen her daughter leave school wearing a smile.

Rebecca hits the button on the console and the side door slides open. Maddy flings her backpack before her, hops in, and buckles up. Another poke of the button and the door hums shut.

How touch-button easy everything has become, Rebecca thinks. Making espresso, dimming lights from the couch, sending payments.

“Guess what, Mommy? Sydney? She was actually nice, like nice nice, and she asked how my owie was and she meant it and no one even laughed. And they left me alone at lunch time.”

How little it takes for this child to be happy. A few kind words, a modicum of care, being left to eat unmolested. Rebecca’s heart breaks as it does a thousand times a day, but she reconstitutes it quietly.

“What do you say we do . . . Mommy-and-Maddy dinner?”

“Sushi rolls?”

“Yes, ma’am, we can do sushi rolls.”

“I only want salmon, though.”

“I wouldn’t dream of making you eat anything other than salmon,” Rebecca says, tapping on her signal and pulling out.