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Suyapa’s heart trips into thundering as her husband’s shadow falls over her from behind.
“We’re all going to be late, Sue,” he says, smile not reaching his eyes as she swallows and turns to look up at him from where she’s crouched, getting the children into their outerwear. The twins’ voices fade into the background as he looks down at her expectantly.
Her own fake smile plastered perfectly in place, she says, “Almost done,” as cheerfully as she can. Moving carefully around the fresh bruises. Breathing shallow.
The twins run off to get their sneakers on, fighting over who gets to take which backpack to school today, their laughter drowned out by her heart hammering in her ears as she waits for her husband to harrumph and check his watch.
“Well, they can’t start until I’m there anyway,” he mutters, and she exhales quietly. She flinches back as he leans in. “If someone didn’t take so long with her makeup we’d already be gone, wouldn’t we?” he says, smile gone predatory, and she just nods slowly.
“Good girl,” he says as he straightens, adjusts his tie, and says, “Who’s got a hug for daddy?” as he steps over her to spread his arms wide and wait for his fourth graders to rush in to embrace him.
Suyapa breathes as deep as she can, thumb-wipes the tears before they can fall and ruin the bare bones of the mascara she applied after covering up the bruising on her chest, and puts her smile back on as she rises, turns, and grabs the lunches her children have forgotten from where they sit on the hall table.
The rest of the world fades as she drills down into this moment, tunnel visioned as she gathers up her children’s bags and their lunches and bustles the twins out the door into the late-March air, the smell of spring and blooming things heavy on the well-treed street of the suburb around them. Her husband waving genially to the neighbours as he locks the door behind them. And they pile into their respective cars, and she drives her children to school.
#
The blare of a horn brings Suyapa back into the moment. And into the middle of an argument her twins are begging her to adjudicate, both of them calling “Mom!” loudly as the car behind her in the school drop off zone honks at her again. She doesn’t recognize the plates glanced in the rearview mirror before she turns around.
“No más. No,” she adds as Berta opens her mouth to protest, Franklin quiet with his arms crossed in protest. “Go!” she adds, shooing them out of the car.
“I love you!” she yells after them as they tumble out, bags in hand, still arguing gently as they fall in with respective friends, all racing the morning bell.
She shuts her ears to the repeatedly blaring horn of the car behind her, puts the car back in gear, and drives off at exactly the speed limit.
