PROLOGUE
CLARA JUNE
You knowhow most people hate the tone of their alarm because it reminds them of being roused from peaceful sleep? I envy those people.
I wouldloveto hear my alarm. I would love to sleep right up until the very last reasonable moment, andbe gently pulled from peace into a calm day with the soft, digital beeping.
Instead, I’m roused awake today by Archie, my five year old son. Spoiler alert- this is how I wake up most days.
My bedroom door smacks the wall as Archie stomps in, barreling toward me before grabbing fistfuls of my freshly laundered comforter toCliffhangeronto my bed. I let out a sigh and sit up, moving the pillows around to make room for him.
“Morning, Archie,” I greet, stroking my fingers through his sandy hair as he drops his little head to my shoulder with a resounding thunk. “What’s got you up so early?” I quietly ask, stealing a glance at my phone plugged in on my nightstand. 5:27.
As in, twenty-eightshort minutes ago, it wasfourin the morning. Four, when it’s still dark outside and largely still considered nighttime by most. Sighing again as I adjust the blanket around him, I realize that although I’ve just woken up, I’m already preemptively tired for the whole day. It’s how most days go.
As he drapes a leg over mine, settling comfortably against me, he says, “Peed my bed again.”
“Nightmare?” I ask, unfazed by this news. This is a phase he’s in, and I know it will pass, and because of that, I try not to be frustrated.
He nods against me. “Can I get my boots on and go out back till breakfast?”
I wrap my arms around him, plucking him from the covers, and setting him on the floor as I also get to my feet. He’s getting to be almost too heavy for me to pick him up that way, and that makes me sad.
I slip my feet into my previously yellow, but now dingy tan slippers and snatch my robe from my armoire, feeding anarm through each sleeve. “Yes, but please don’t holler or whistle, okay? Everyone else is still sleeping.”
“Rawley’s awake. I heard him gruntin’ in his room,” Archie says, pulling open the door for both of us.
Rawley, my seventeen-year-old and oldest of my sons, gets up early to work out in his room–that’s why the door is locked and he’s grunting. He’s working out.
Let me believe it, okay?
“I mean the neighbors, Arch, like Mrs. Salinger next door.” Catching a yawn in my hand, I traipse down the hallway behind him, daybreak spilling in through the window of the back door. Little blotches of sunlight speckle the worn carpet, and despite the fact I’ve yawned ten times in the last four minutes, I’m never mad to miss early morning in Bluebell.
Being in the country is gorgeous, but certain times of day really highlight the beauty. Namely, morning and evening, when natural light is sparse, leaving the oak trees with an ethereal glow. It’s storybook beauty, and the day we moved here, I couldn’t wait to have my fairytale life.
We reach the kitchen, and Archie stuffs his feet into his boots. In underwear (I’m sure I’ll find wet Spongebob pants tangled in his bedsheets in a few minutes), one of Rawley’s old martial arts t-shirts and his favorite pair of cowboy boots, he disappears out the door into the yard.
I stand at the sink, watching him out the fogged and cracked window. He tips his head back, soaking up the faint warmth brewing above, then opens his arms as wide as they’ll go, and sets off, buzzing around the yard like an airplane. I can’t help but smile watching him. It’s too early, I worked until ten last night, and stayed up another two hours doing laundry and getting goody bags ready for Archie’s class party today.
Still, my baby enjoying a crisp early morning brings me so much contentedness.
I start the coffee, or at least, that’s my plan. Except the handle—old and held on mostly by Gorilla Glue—decides to quit, and the glass carafe shatters into a trillion tiny pieces all over the linoleum floor.
“Well, crap.” Sweat beads on my back and neck as I work diligently to sweep up all the stray shards, moving quickly in case Archie decides to randomly kick off his boots and come storming in. Trust me, with a five year old boy, it benefits me to be prepared for even the most offhand situations.
When I’m done, I put the kettle on the stove, settling for coffee’s more chill best friend, tea. I make my way down the hall to Archie’s room—which was a den that I turned into a room when he was one. Sure enough, faded old Spongebob pajamas sit in a tangled, damp heap in the center of his mattress. With a sigh, I pull the sheets from his bed, making sure to keep the comforter separate so I don’t have to run two loads before work. After carrying the pile of wet sheets and pajamas like it’s a bomb that needs defusing, I lift the lid to the washer, ready to toss them in.
Except- “Oh shit,” I sigh, letting the peed-on items fall to my feet in a pile next to about five other piles already waiting. Inside the old drum is a wet load of laundry that I started last night and, judging by the wrinkled nature and slight mildew stench wafting toward me, forgot about. Quickly, I toss in another scoop of soap and set it to a quick cycle, making myself a mental reminder to switch the load before my shower so Archie’s sheets can get washed, too.
In the laundry room, I look at the heaps of clothing and towels that need to be washed. Two days ago, this room was spotless. Laundry is the evil respawning monster in this house, I swear. I rub the back of my neck, trying to kneadaway the immediate knot of stress that has grown there since waking this morning.
One minute you’re asleep, the next minute you’re up too early, the coffee pot is broken, and you’re behind schedule on laundry. I tip my head back, taking a moment to stare at the popcorn ceiling, and let out a long, relieving sigh.
I can do all this today. I can handle this. It’s going to be okay.
There.
A little self-pep-talk pump up is all I need.
