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Equivocacy

By Ryeloza

Chapter Three

"Call me when you've thought about this," pleaded Jack as Bree ushered him out of the door. "We can talk some more. Figure out what you want to do."

Bree scarcely heard him; hardly registered it when he pushed a business card into her hand. She felt very much like a woman on the verge of drowning, so exhausted from the effort of treading water that death might have been the better alternative. This was too much; too much on top of Sam taking everything from her, and Orson leaving, and the weight of confession still hanging heavily over her. She could barely process what Jack had told her, let alone whether or not it had any merit. The absurdity of such an idea seemed barely worth comprehending.

Sinking down onto the couch, Bree clasped her hands together and stared blankly across the room. It took her a moment to register that the world was blurring, colors running together like the watercolor paintings Danielle used to make as a child; there was a slight sting; she was about to cry. The urge to repress the emotion came and went in an instant—in her entire life Bree had never felt that it was more appropriate to break down.

Her sobs came silently, breaking like waves over rocks as tears streamed down her cheeks. As a woman who was so often alone even in the most crowded room, Bree was overly familiar with pangs of loneliness, but at this moment she was sure she might die of solitude. She quite suddenly and ferociously longed for Rex and Orson, some twisted conglomeration of the two of them, the two men who had together known her since she was eighteen. As though they would provide reassurance that she was still the same person she'd always been.

She had the sudden, frightening thought that neither of them would recognize her. Wasn't that why Orson had left, anyway?

Without warning, the front door opened, and for a second, Bree actually believed it might be Orson. She turned, not bothering to wipe away one tear, but when Andrew stepped into the house her entire demeanor changed. Standing, she brushed at her cheeks and took a deep breath; in some strange way, there was something comforting about the way he burst into the house with no effort at politeness.

"Mom?" Andrew spotted her and hurried into the room, arms crossed in that defensive manner he'd learned from her. "Hey, I wanted—What's wrong?"

Bree shook her head, trying and failing to smile. "Nothing."

"You're crying." It came out as an accusation, but there was an undertone of fear that irrationally calmed her. She could count on one hand the number of times she'd let Andrew see her cry; she was not about to increase that number. "I'm fine," she murmured.

"Did you say something to the Solises? Is that's what's wrong?"

"What? No." She sighed, sinking back onto the couch and pressing a palm to her cheek to dry it. "No, I didn't get a chance to speak with Gaby."

A slight spark of hope lit Andrew's eyes; he sat down next to her. "You changed your mind?"

"I was distracted," she said, not a denial or an affirmation. She didn't have the strength to dissect her phrasing. "I—I'm distracted."

Andrew frowned and reached out to touch her hand. To Bree's surprise, he took the business card from her fingers; she'd clenched it beyond recognition. "Who is Jack Pinkham?"

"An old friend of your father's."

"Is that why you're so upset? Is this something else about Dad?"

"No. He stopped by to tell me something—It's nothing, really, Andrew."

"Mom."

Bree turned and stared at her son, surprised by the level of concern in his expression. Suddenly Andrew seemed very much his age; a man rather than a boy. He looked so like Rex. Somehow, she hadn't really noticed before. Then, just as she thought this, she realized that none of it mattered. The only thing that was important was that Andrew was here. After all of these years, after everything that had happened, he was here with her.

"Andrew," she said slowly, her equilibrium finally returning, "I have to tell you something."

No matter how exhausted she was, since she'd become a mother, Lynette had found it impossible not to wake at the slightest provocation. A creak in the hallway if one of the kids tried to sneak downstairs; the door squeaking as Tom tried to come to bed without waking her; and in this instant, the harsh glare of light as Tom turned on the bedside lamp. Groaning, Lynette rolled onto her side and blinked at her husband. "Tom," she whined, furrowing her brow at the sight of him sitting with the baby. "What are you doing?"

"She was fussing."

"I didn't hear her."

Tom shrugged a shoulder, his eyes still fixated on Paige. "I turned off the monitor after you fell asleep and went into the nursery."

Lynette allowed herself a brief smile before her moment of tenderness was overshadowed by reality. Bewildered, she sat up, silently willing Tom to look at her. "Well then why did you bring her in here?" she asked incredulously.

"I don't know. I didn't want to leave her." Finally, he shot her a cautious look, a tentative worry lingering in his eyes. In the weak light, he seemed older and more tired than she'd ever seen him. "First night home."

Lynette reached out and traced Tom's profile with her finger. He gave her a tiny smile, but then his eyes went right back to their daughter. "Sweetie—"

"She has your ears," Tom interrupted, gently touching Paige's right ear and smiling as she waved her arms. The tip of his finger was nearly as large as her ear. With a touch of self-deprecating humor, Lynette sighed, "I hope not."

"You have cute ears."

"No one has cute ears."

Tom ignored this, taking one of Paige's hands and counting each of her fingers. Lynette watched with an ambivalent heart. There was something beyond sweet about seeing him worship their daughter with the same awe he'd shown all of their children; at the same time, the worry she'd felt all day niggled at the back of her mind. Even now, she couldn't put her finger on it—what was different? She thought that maybe if she wasn't so tired she could puzzle it out.

Who was she kidding? She was always better when she was direct.

"Tom, what's going on?"

"Huh? Nothing."

Lynette watched for a moment as he moved on to counting Paige's toes, and then turned around to face him, crossing her legs and putting a hand on his knee. "Honey, you've been hovering all day."

"Helicopters hover."

"Are you drunk?"

Tom rolled his eyes lovingly, for the first time showing some sign of humor. At that moment, Lynette realized what had seemed so strange—there was some underlying sadness to him this evening. Melancholia personified through her husband; just the thought of it made her tense. "Tom, I'm worried about you. Can you please talk to me?"

Slowly, Tom moved Paige from where she rested against his legs into the crook of his arm, rocking her soothingly. Staring at the baby but addressing her, he said softly, "I think I'm just trying to reconcile with the fact that I missed her birth. I'm never going to get that moment back."

Lynette pressed her lips together and swallowed hard in an attempt to get rid of the lump in her throat. If she could go back in time and stop herself from ever showing up at Eddie's doorstep that night, she would. Her regret was sharper in this moment than ever before. "I know."

"I feel like I lost something."

"Tom," she murmured, squeezing his knee firmly. "You missed one moment in her life. But you're going to be there for everything else. The first time she rolls over, her first word, her first day of school…"

"You don't know that."

"I do. You've always been there for the big moments in our kids' lives. God, I still remember you walking endless circles downstairs while Parker held onto your finger. Teaching him how to walk. It's going to be the same this time."

Tom nodded, but skepticism lingered in his eyes; it looked like he was trying and failing to hide it from her. "I think it's just going to take awhile to forget I missed her very first moment," he said.

"I know." Lynette leaned in, kissing him softly. There was nothing else to say; nothing she could do. Nothing but wait and hope. "I know."