Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters 5)

I pound on the spacebar, completely forgetting what I planned to type out. My phone rings beside the stapler and cup of black pens. I inhale sharply, thinking it’s the doctor. I check the caller ID.

Connor Cobalt

It’s his day to stay home with our six children. I put the cell to my ear, my anxiety never leaving. “Richard.”

No response, but the line isn’t silent. Little children shout shrilly over one another—it is the most deranged, inhuman noise in this world. And I hear it daily. To say it’s been a madhouse would be an understatement.

We have three boys under three, two five-year-olds, and our only daughter is seven.

When Connor takes four seconds longer to respond, I stand from my chair and start hurriedly gathering my things.

“Connor?” I try again.

“Rose…” His voice is level, but I feel an undercurrent beneath my name.

Purse on my arm like extra arsenal, I leave my office, keys in hand. Just before I tell him I’m on my way, he speaks again.

“Rose, I need you.” At first, I think it’s gravely serious, but then he adds, “If you can spare the time, darling.”

“My time is yours,” I tell him, no hesitation. “I’ll be there soon.” I don’t ask what’s happened. I reaffirm that I’ll be home, and we hang up.

On my drive to the gated neighborhood, I sit pin-straight, both hands tightened on the wheel. I honk at four of the slowest drivers who’ve ever graced a fucking highway. The click-click of the blinker barely calms my violent pulse.

After going through security, I enter the neighborhood, and it’s not long before I park by my water fountain, too stressed and high-strung to even reach the garage.

I walk quickly, locking my Escalade, and then head inside the front door. I scan the foyer, regal marble staircase and glittering chandelier. Chatter and footsteps all originate upstairs, so I climb.

“Connor!” I shout.

I reach the hallway, and my head whips towards every empty room. I aim for the ajar door at the end: the children’s playroom.

“That’s not fair!” Beckett screams shrilly.

“We didn’t do anything, Daddy,” Charlie pipes in, less emotional than his twin brother, but his voice only adds to the volume.

I enter the mayhem and barely have time to scan the playroom. I notice Connor knelt in front of Beckett, one-year-old Ben also crying and kicking his feet near a stuffed teddy bear.

Each head-splitting wail slices a knife through my chest. These are our monsters, and while tears are acceptable, I want to eradicate the source of their pain.

If only children didn’t cry over things like one broken crayon with an entire unbroken pack clearly in front of them.

In an even-tempered voice, Connor tells Charlie, “Why did this mess start?” The way he asks, I know Connor already has the answer, but he wants Charlie to use his mind and words.

Charlie stays defiantly quiet.

My husband shifts his eyes for a fraction of a second towards me, and he lets me see his irritations, scratching his deep blues. On any other day, I might take pride in his demise, but I don’t care about outwitting Connor when our children are the source of his rare frustrations.

Connor visibly exhales as he gives Charlie the answer, “This mess started because you didn’t share your book.”

Charlie plants his hands on his hips and declares, “Correlation does not equal causation.” At five, he’s saying things like this. I question whether he actually understands the meaning or if he just overheard Connor using the phrase.

Connor opens his mouth to speak—what he does best, even if his words are rooted in narcissism and conceit.

He’s cut off.

Beckett stomps his foot, tears surging forth. “Eliot pushed Charlie! Why are we in trouble?!”

Connor blinks for a second longer than usual, the noise puncturing his eardrums and mine. “Because you pushed him back. We don’t fight with our hands.”

“Then Charlie shouldn’t be in trouble.”

Connor’s voice slowly rises. “More than just you two are in trouble, I assure you.”

Ben lets out a deadly wail, slamming his fists into the carpeted floor. I walk further inside, my left heel at a strange tilt. I’m standing at a fucking tilt. I remove my black heels, the left one about to break.

I let out a strained breath.

I quickly sweep the playroom and tune out the screams. Four bookshelves of children’s novels, two window nooks, light-blue painted walls, and a wooden trunk of toys.

Lettered blocks scatter the carpet, and Jane cries softly by her—no. One of the boys smashed her dollhouse. Beckett would be the first to help her fix her toys, I’m sure, but he’s too concerned with Charlie being punished.

Three-year-old Eliot screams, “Mommy!” He bounds over to me and grabs the hem of my black skirt, two-year-old Tom trying and helplessly racing after his brother. Eliot tugs me towards the toy trunk as though to say play with me.

He’s a little menace. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to be the culprit of the demolished dollhouse. As I walk past my husband, Connor turns his head fully to me for the very first time.

My jaw drops.

A welt surfaces underneath his left eye, bruise forming. His eye reddened, pained by whatever impaled him. I’m not given time to process.

Jane lets out an angry, shrill scream. “I hate this! There are too many boys!” I know, my gremlin.

I’d like to think this is a one in a million occurrence, but it’s not. The chaos of our children is our daily routine. That crayon box sob session? That’s a real anecdote. I showed Tom all the crayons he could play with, and he still wailed over that fucking broken one.

This might be typical, but Connor usually multitasks better and smoother than this. I start to wonder if something else threw him off today.

I want to help clear his mind, so I start to tell Jane, “We’ll fix it—”

Eliot yanks at my skirt, my white blouse no longer tucked in. I squat to pry his little fingers off my skirt. He pouts.

Jane cries softly, “It’s ruined.”

Connor rises to his feet as he tells Beckett, “You can’t push your little brother, not even to defend Charlie. You know many words; use them.”

Beckett screams.

Connor shuts his eyes for an even longer moment, and then his gaze finds mine. “It’s impossible to reason with the unreasonable.” He wouldn’t try if they weren’t his children.

As he holds my gaze, I realize that he seeks a social exchange that doesn’t end in high-pitched wails and irrationalities.

I open my mouth to reply, but this time, I’m cut off. Tom tries to crawl up my body. He clutches my blouse at the collar, tugging hard while I wrestle his little devious hands off the fabric. I feel my smile form. Why am I smiling at you?

I try to glare.

It’s more difficult.

“Jane,” Connor says to our daughter. “Tom will help you clean up.”

“No, I won’t!” Tom says gleefully while popping buttons off my blouse—Eliot chases after them.

“Eliot, no!” I shout and glance towards Connor, his welt turning purple. What hit him in the face? Who is to blame? Which child needs disciplined first? I am ready to join his ranks, but I can’t do so without the proper informatio

n.

Connor is just as preoccupied. Ben cries to him, “Daddy!”

Charlie speaks, but not over Beckett’s emotional screams, face splotched red.

Eliot hops towards the loose and scattered buttons.

“Eliot Alice Cobalt!” I yell, my finger pointed at the three-year-old. He freezes. “Do not put a button in your mouth.”

“Charlie, Beckett,” Connor says deeply, his grave tone close to a shout. “Stop. Think about the reason I’ve given you, and you’ll find greater meaning. I’m not explaining anything else.” He picks up Ben, calming our youngest child.

Tom begs to be held, so I lift the little gremlin in my arms—and he yanks at my blouse again, my blue-laced bra visible. He tries to wrench my diamond earrings.

“No, Tom.”

“But Mommy!” he shouts.

Dear God.

“My point,” Connor tells me.

In a tense breath, I refute, “But Mommy could lead to an insightful argument. Give him a moment, Richard. He needs longer than you.”

Connor’s lip tics upwards, feeling the beginning of a dialogue between us. “The moment will pass soon.”

“Tom destroyed my dollhouse!” Jane cries as though I’ve betrayed her—I’m conversing with the wrongdoer.

Tom grins and shakes his head. “No, I didn’t.”

Dear fucking God.

“And there the moment goes.” Connor sidles next to me, his hand brushing my waist. I’m physically more rigid than him, shoulders in an uncomfortable bind. Connor tells me, “He’s escaped timeout three times already.”

“I did not!” Tom shouts, still grinning.

I ask my husband, “Have we birthed a liar?”

“He is something.” Connor then tells Tom, “And I clearly can count better than you.”

“No, you can’t,” Tom says matter-of-factly.

Connor tilts his head towards our two-year-old. I try to read more of Connor’s features, but my focus zooms onto his bruise. “One day you might count better than me, Tom, but right now, you’re two and creating more chaos in a minute than I ever created in my lifetime. What would you call that?”

Tom ponders this for less than a second. “No, you can’t!”

Connor’s irritations flare mildly again, and he fixes the unkempt strands of his hair, not styled to perfection. To Tom, he says, “I’ve never been amused by absurdities, and you’re just reminding me why.”