After the boys go to bed, Lisa stays up. Unease sits in her belly, cold and hard like a stone; unable to sleep, she sits in the living room in the dark, feeling owlish in her blinking away the sluggish seconds. She won't say it, but she's hoping for the phone to ring again. Even if it wakes up the boys, she'll be happy to hear it—to hear Waylon say, sheepishly, "honey, can you come get me?" And, if he calls, she will go to him; she may complain—tease him—for him changing his mind, but she will drive out in the dead of night to bring him home.
Waylon and Lisa have talked about this—how it's painful not to be home. Neither of them like to be away from it; when they are, they are unable to sleep. A hole opens up inside them, small at first, but then, like a mouth, it begins to fall open until it gapes. It's a dark, helpless feeling that only subsides when they're home again with their sons, safe and sound.
The last time Lisa had to be away from her family, it was when her sister had her first child; she needed the help, and didn't know who else to call, but would only pay for one person's airfare. That took two weeks to get through, and Lisa hardly slept all through those nights.
The clock on the top shelf of the bookcase ticks away, chiming off at midnight, soft like bells, but Lisa only shifts in her seat, waiting, waiting—for something, anything, to come out of the dark.