Page 7 of Loving at 40

Talia’s sharp tone directed at her sister warns me she’s gone into mini-mommy mode for some reason.

I’d slept poorly last night, but that was nothing new. Sleep was an illusion at this stage of my life—single mother of two little girls. When Archer had come in late last night, I’d heard him stumble around the living room, curse at a kitchen cabinet, then slam his bedroom door. Wherever he’d been, I envied his good time where he was definitely drinking and possibly carousing. Maybe I projected him into my dream because of where I thought he’d been and what I considered him doing with someone other than me. I have no reason in the world to be jealous of him with another woman. We are opposites. He’s all hard planes and sharp edges while I’m long lines and subtle curves. We’d never fit.

Talia peeks her head around the slightly ajar bedroom door. “Rosie has a gun.”

“What?” My sleep-deprived, sexual-overdrive brain is slow to process what my eldest daughter is saying. Sluggishly, I sit upright. “Why would you say that?”

My girls know how I feel about guns. I’m open about my fear of firearms, my children’s need to be aware of what one is, and that they heed the warning to stay away from them.

“It was laying on the table, and Rosie was curious.” Talia tsks like her answer explains everything.

It doesn’t.

As I throw back the blanket, my feet tangle in the end of the covers as I try to wrangle myself free from the bed. I fall toward the floor, catching myself with shaky hands before I wrestle my legs from the sheet. I crawl a few paces before pressing upward and rushing into the living room. Once there, I freeze.

“Rosie.” I whisper her name not wanting to startle her as she holds a shiny, metal object. My voice croaks. “What is that?” My mind identifies the item, but refuses to accept that my child is holding it, despite what Talia told me.

Rosie’s sweet, innocent, sleepy eyes glance over at me while her thumb rests in her mouth. The small military-grade weapon lays in her lap, looking highly out of place against her little body. The dangerous end is aimed in my general direction.

If I could find a stronger voice, I’d scream for Archer, but I can’t seem to work my throat. My stomach drops to my feet, and bile invades my esophagus. Brusquely, I push Talia behind my body, shielding her while trying to stay calm, which is the opposite of how I feel. “Rosie, honey, can you put the gun on the table, please?”

Please don’t squeeze anything.

“Where did you find that?” I croak next when Rosie doesn’t move. Her eyes return to whatever is playing on the television. The dry lump in my throat makes it hard to swallow while my palms are damp with sweat. I don’t move because I’m afraid to rush my child and trigger her little fingers.

“It was laying on the table,” Talia repeats from behind me. Briefly, I move my gaze in the direction of the television set, flashing a warm glow of light on Rosie in the dim morning hours, wondering what holds her attention. Glancing away before turning back to the image on the screen, I choke. There isn’t enough eye bleach to clean my sockets from what I see. From what my daughter is watching. Unable to stop myself, I rush for the television to turn it off and cry out Archer’s name.

His bedroom door flies open, and he staggers into the living room in dark boxer-briefs. His naked chest is on display along with a silver chain around his neck. With horror and disgust, my eyes meet his briefly before I recall the real issue.

As calmly as I can, I state, “Rosie has your gun.” My voice quivers and cracks.

“What the…?” His wide dark eyes blink before shifting from me to my daughter. Still sucking her thumb on the couch. Still holding a gun on her lap. Archer doesn’t move for a moment but lowers his rough voice to sugary sweet.

“Hey, baby girl,” he addresses her. “Rosie, right? Princess, can you put the gun on the table?”

Only yesterday he accused his sister of talking to him like a dog, yet he’s speaking to my child in a similar manner. I’d reprimand him but whatever works at the moment is fine by me.

Rosie stares back at Archer, her innocent blue eyes wide but glossy with remnants of sleep. She shakes her head like she doesn’t want to release a coveted toy instead of a dangerous weapon.

Next, Archer addresses Talia. “Talia, baby, go into the bedroom and close the door. Crouch down behind the bed.” Talia has been standing just inside the bedroom where we both stood before I noticed the porn on the television.

“Talia, honey,” I speak in a trembling warning. “Do as Archer says.”

“Rosie has a gun, Mommy.”

“I know, baby.”

“You told us never to play with guns.”

“That’s right, baby.”

“Was Archer playing with the gun?”

I glance up at Archer, who has his eyes trained on Rosie. His hands are up in the air, and he’s moved a few inches toward the back of the couch, which is a barrier between him and Rosie on the second couch, which is ninety degrees to the first.

“Remember what Mommy once told you. Some people own guns. Adult people. But if you see one, you never touch it.”

I refocus on Rosie. She’s only three. She doesn’t know better, but I can’t even imagine what prompted her to pick up the forbidden weapon. I also want to know who the hell leaves a gun laying out in the open like this with children present.