Mrs. Perfect

t?” My voice quivers. “The deal is done?”

“Only if you want it done,” Art answers. “It’s entirely up to you two.”

“Taylor?” Nathan asks, giving me the power.

But I can’t do it. In the kitchen with my hand over my mouth to stifle my crying, I shake my head, back and forth, back and forth.

No, no, no. Not my house. Please, not my house.

“It’s everything you wanted,” Art reminds us. “You won’t have to show the house. You’ll have thirty days before you move. The worst of it is over.”

“Taylor?” Nathan repeats.

Art’s words ring in my head. The worst is over. The worst is over. Just say yes and be done with it.

I let the blade drop. “Fine—” I choke. “Whatever you think is best. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go.”

After disconnecting, I put down the phone and run out to the back garden and the swath of lawn partially hidden by fallen leaves.

My knees buckle as I race across the lawn, and I go down, to my knees and then all the way. Lying facedown on the cold, stiff grass, I stretch out my arms. With my palms facedown, I hold the grass and the soil and drink it in, breathing deep as if I could somehow suck the grass with the cool damp roots right in.

Thursday is Halloween, and I spend Wednesday night in the kitchen baking, even as I obsess over this mystery family that is buying our house.

Tori and Brooke help with the cookie dough, measuring and sifting and stirring, while I man the mixer. We’re making homemade sugar cookies that I’ll roll and cut into giant pumpkins, ghosts, cats, and bats. I’m in charge of activities for Brooke’s class party, and one of the three projects we’ll be doing during the party includes frosting and decorating their Halloween party snacks—the homemade sugar cookies—and then playing two games, Pin the Wart on the Witch, and Halloween Bingo.

The girls laugh and snitch bits of cookie dough while I use the cookie cutters and cut and lift the shapes onto baking sheets. They’re having fun, and I watch them, acutely aware that this might be one of the last times we’ll bake in this kitchen. It’s a month before we have to move.

A month.

After sliding a cookie sheet into the oven, I set the timer. A month is nothing, especially when you love something so much. And I love this house. I know we’re not supposed to love things. We’re supposed to love people. But this house is everything I wanted when I was a little girl. A big, proper house with a big, proper kitchen for a big, proper family.

I squeeze the pot holder in my hand. If I’d been a better wife, none of this would have happened. If I’d paid more attention—

“We need some more bats,” says Brooke, leaning on the marble counter, flour dusting her arms.

“And cats. Black kitty cats,” Tori chimes in, pinching another little piece of dough.

“No more dough,” I say, dropping the pot holder and returning to the work counter, “you’ll get a tummy ache.” I quickly smooth fresh flour over the marble before gathering what’s left of the dough and rolling it into a ball. “Tummy aches aren’t fun, and if you keep eating the dough, we won’t have anything for cats and bats.”

As I take the rolling pin to the dough, it hits me that I now have thirty days to find us a new place to live.

Never mind packing us up and moving us in.

I’m exhausted as I drive the girls to school Halloween morning. They’re laden with costumes and party treats. I’m burdened with worry, dread, and guilt. I stayed up until two on the computer, looking at places to live. I want a house. I really want to find us a cute little house, something I can fix up and make ours like I used to do, but the market’s so strong and there’s nothing we can buy now. We’re using all our equity to pay off the debt, and our credit is shot. No lender would touch us with a ten-foot pole.

It’ll have to be an apartment or condo, something we can lease for the remainder of the school year, as I’m hoping that once school is out the girls and I will join Nathan in Omaha.

At Points Elementary, I pull over to the curb with the other carpooling parents, and Brooke and Jemma scramble out of the car and blow me good-bye kisses. Next I ferry Tori to her preschool and walk her, already dressed in her pink princess costume, to her classroom. She’s skipping and grinning, and I carry the Tupperware container of sugar cookies with orange and purple sprinkles we made for her class. The preschool classroom is bright with Pokémon, Harry Potter, and Transformer costumes. So different from when I was a girl and everyone in my neighborhood dressed up as a ghost, a tramp, a cowboy, or an Indian.

Life was simpler then. Three TV stations. Youth group on Wednesday nights. Church and Bible study on Sundays.

Tori’s running around the class showing off her costume and handing over the Tupperware container of cookies. I watch her for a moment.

I envy her. She’s so happy right now, so blissfully unaware of our disaster.

Turning around, Tori spots me and runs back to my side to throw her arms around me. She squeezes me and squeezes me again. “Love you, Mommy.”

“Love you, my baby girl.” My hand slides over her curls, careful not to knock her plastic tiara of pink and lavender gemstones.

She breaks away and dances off. I walk away before I can feel an ounce of sadness or regret.

I’m scheduled to be at Points at eleven to help out with lunch duty before I set up for Brooke’s class party, but first I need to stop at the grocery store and pick up the ingredients for my famous witch’s brew, which is actually just green punch and dry ice.

I don’t have more than sixteen items. It doesn’t cross my mind that there could be a problem, so when my ATM card is declined for nonsufficient funds, I’m stunned. Nathan just gave me money, $1,000. My purchase today is $23.78. How can I have insufficient funds for a $23 purchase?

“Ugh, those cards and their magnetic strips,” I say carelessly, reaching into my wallet and pulling out cash. I have $40. I hand two twenties to the clerk and try not to think about what will happen if we really don’t have anything in our checking account and I have no cash, either.

I leave the store with the four plastic bags of juice and 7Up and sherbet, transfer everything to the back of my Lexus, and then get into my car. I sit for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, heart thudding, gut churning. The stress I feel is nearly unbearable. It’s like earlier in the week when I stood outside Tully’s and struggled to breathe. That’s how I feel now. I can’t breathe. I can’t seem to get enough air and oxygen into my lungs.

The bills keep pouring in. The maxed-out credit cards that are now unavailable. The checking account without cash. Nathan gone. The girls so young.

I fish out my checkbook and look at the register. I’m careful about recording my checks. There’s no way I’ve spent more than $800 in the last few weeks, so that means we should have $400 or so in the account.

I start to call Nathan but hang up and call our bank instead. I wait for one of the bank’s customer service agents to get on the line and I explain our situation as calmly and clearly as possible.

“Have you included the automatic withdrawals?” the bank agent asks helpfully. “Because that would explain the missing three hundred and eighty-five dollars.”

“What automatic withdrawal?” I ask in a small voice.

“For COBRA.” She pauses. “Your health insurance?”

“Ah. Thank you.”

Off the phone, I put away my checkbook and close my purse even as tears burn my eyes. I didn’t know we had any automatic payments to anything. I didn’t know money could just disappear on its own.

I’ve been so careful, too.

Biting my lip, I start the car.

I need help.

I need help.

Oh God, I need help.

Somebody, anybody, give me a hand.

At school, I use the sun visor’s mirror to touch up my makeup and reapply my lipstick before carrying the party goods into Brooke’s class.

Brooke’s Ha

lloween party goes off without a hitch, and once her class is out parading in their costumes through the lower grades, I pop into Jemma’s class to see how her party is going.

The classroom is dark, and all the kids are lying on the floor. They’re watching the movie Nightmare Before Christmas and munching on popcorn balls and little bags of candy corn. In the back of the classroom, Mrs. Osborne sits at her desk grading while a mom mans the punch bowl and Marta slides photos into funky foam frames the kids must have made earlier today.

Marta looks up at me. I look away swiftly, glancing around the room until I find Jemma on the floor, curled up with a pillow she brought from home today. She doesn’t know I’m here, and I watch her, feeling like an outsider. She’s getting taller, older; she looks like the preteen she is.

Quietly I slip out of Jemma’s classroom and return to Brooke’s. I stay until the end of the day, clean up from the second-grade party, and then wait outside on the front sidewalk for the girls. When the girls find me, I double-check to make sure Brooke has all the pieces of her costume in her paper bag before driving them home.

As we pull up, we spot Annika in the front yard with Tori. Tori’s in her princess costume, blowing bubbles from a tiny orange pumpkin party favor she got at school today.

Brooke bounds out of the car, grabs the bubble wand away from Tori, and tries to blow some bubbles of her own. Tori howls. Annika tells Brooke no. Brooke grabs the plastic pumpkin filled with bubble soap. Tori howls louder.

“Give it back,” I say wearily, slamming car doors shut and scooping up discarded costume bags and book bags. “Jem and Brooke, homework. Tori, don’t get your costume dirty. We’ll have dinner and then go trick-or-treating when it’s dark.”

As the girls settle down at the dining room table to do their work, I go upstairs and call Nathan. I don’t reach him, am sent to voice mail. I have to smother my frustration at being perpetually directed to voice mail. Once upon a time, my husband took all my calls. Once upon a time, he enjoyed hearing from me.

“Nathan, I know you just left me a check when you were here, but it’s already gone. We’ve nothing in the checking account, and as you know, I don’t have any credit cards. I don’t have anything in my wallet, either.” I take a breath, fight my panic. “I’ll need at least a hundred and fifty dollars to get through the next week, and that’s not counting what I’ll owe Annika. Do you have anything you can deposit into our account? Do you know when you’ll have another paycheck?”