“This is like a CASTLE!” shouted Matty as he ran through the lobby of the Paradise, a high-rise beachside condominium complex. The lobby atrium towered above his head and filtered bright sunlight down onto plush seats, carefully arranged tropical plants and opulent water features. 

“Stay close!” yelled Marcus through the automatic glass doors as he opened the van’s trunk. A pillow toppled to the asphalt. 

“My pillow!” shrieked Sofia. She bent and snatched it up. “So frickin’ gross, Dad,” she flung at him as she turned on her heel and stomped into the cool air conditioning after her little brother.

Marcus took a deep breath to keep himself from yelling after her. 

“Found one!” Esme rolled a luggage cart up to Marcus, face tired but triumphant. Marcus began to pull at a suitcase when his wife grabbed his arm.

“Babe. Don’t.” Esme warned.

“I’m fine. I’ll be careful.” Marcus turned back to the luggage.

“You’ll be fine until you throw your back out again, and we spend this whole trip in the hospital with you,” Esme shot back. “You can carry the light stuff.”

Marcus’s shoulders sagged. After the parade of fights they’d had over the last week, he was in no mood to start another one. He grabbed a stack of towels and moved toward the cart.

“Not there!” Esme said, annoyed. “Those need to go on top.”

Marcus ground his teeth.

“You know what,” she said, “why don’t you just get the kids inside, and I’ll take care of this. You can park the car after if you want.”

“Fine,” Marcus muttered and moved to release the baby from her car seat prison.

“Where’s your papa?” Esme asked Sofia as she wrestled the cart into the condo entryway.

Sofia shrugged and focused on her phone.

Esme pushed the cart in and started unloading. “Can you help, please?” she asked her daughter. No response. “Sofia Renae!” she snapped. Sofia shifted her insolent gaze upward. 

“Now,” Esme said. “Help.”

The teenager rolled her eyes as she jammed her phone into her back pocket. She took a bag off the top and set it on the counter. Esme left her to it and went looking for Marcus. She glanced into each of the bedrooms, noting with pleasure the natural light, neutral themes, and beach paraphernalia. 

She got to the windows and spied Marcus standing on the balcony and leaning against the railing, staring out to sea. He looked so relaxed. Must be nice, she thought, and her mouth stretched in a thin line. She rapped on the glass, startling him. When he turned around, she barked, “Are you going to help me?”

Marcus turned halfway back around as if to get one more eyeful, then trudged back in to help.

“I need to find the laundry. Anyone want to come on a tour?” Esme called from the master bedroom. She laid out her favorite pale blue blouse, smoothing the wrinkles on the king bed’s silky comforter.

Standing straight, Esme frowned. No one answered. She walked out into the family room to find her family scattered around the plush furniture, everyone on a different electronic device. 

“I said,” Esme paused for emphasis, “anyone want to come have a look around?” 

“Not really,” Marcus said, distracted.

“I want to!” chirped Matty, launching out of a recliner and to her side. Esme smiled down at his beaming face and grasped his hand. She dreaded the day his smile no longer bloomed easily for her. The day he, too, had more anger towards her than affection.

She shook her head, flinging away the dark thoughts. “Ok, mijo. It’s a date.” She wedged the laundry basket full of Bella’s vomit-soaked clothes and blankets and headed to the door.

“I want to push the button!” Matty yelled, running for the elevator.

“Careful!” Esme called after him half-heartedly. She loved seeing his carefree joy.

Matty practically jumped in place as the elevator doors opened to reveal another family, obviously dressed for dinner. Their smiles quickly turned to uncomfortable grimaces as the smell of bile wafted from Esme’s laundry basket. Matty, oblivious, pressed his nose against the glass back of the elevator in awe of their height.

A tall man with jet-black sunglasses turned to the woman with him and said, “Did you hear about these hurricanes? They might be turning this way.”

“Really?” the woman asked, who clutched her chest in alarm.

“Yeah, but it shouldn’t hit until after we leave,” he replied and shrugged.

“I hate hurricane season,” she said with a shudder.

They stopped at the main floor, and the other guests exited the elevator a little faster than normal. Esme followed Matty out, frowning. They had heard about Hurricane Flora but thought it was headed toward central Florida. If it turned…but the man said it wasn’t coming for a while. Had he said hurricanes? Plural? 

The lobby bustled with activity. She noticed several severe-looking men and women in dark suits standing at sharp attention next to the check-in desk. These people were not here to relax and unwind. Then she saw another few walk in with a handsome middle-aged man. He also wore a sharp suit but walked with casual ease. She blinked as she recognized the governor of Alabama. What was his name? She couldn’t remember.

“Can you see a laundry room, mijo?” Esme called out to her bounding son. He jumped on and off each lobby chair, whooping with pure joy. Esme sighed at his energy. She edged past the suited sentinels and felt their attention land on her.

“Excuse me?” She called out to someone behind the desk. A harried woman raised her eyebrows in answer.

“Where can I find the laundry?” 

“First level,” she called out over the din.

“Matty, it’s downstairs! Come on!” Esme called as she walked toward the stairs. He ran to her and begged for another chance to use the elevator. “We don’t need it for one floor,” Esme chided.

They descended the tile staircase, and Esme could feel the air chill with every step. An involuntary shiver ran up her spine. She hated the cold, even artificial cold. Their thermostat stayed firmly at 80 in the house, and Marcus had long since stopped fighting it. She rubbed the arm angled over the basket to shoo away goosebumps as she looked for any sign of a washing machine down the long corridor.

“Found it, found it!” Matty sang as he hopped on one foot and then the other. He pointed triumphantly through a glass door to their right.

Once inside, Esme looked around her as she loaded the washing machine, trying to avoid the more damp, smelly sections of each piece of clothing. The painted cinderblock seemed to curl over her head and threaten to close her in. She felt her heart start to work harder, breaths coming in short, shallow bursts.

“Mama?” Matty whispered. He tugged her shirt. “Mama?”

Esme forced her eyes to his and molded her mouth into a shaky smile. “Sorry, mijo. Mama doesn’t like small spaces.”

Matty laughed, “This isn’t small!”

“Not to you, frijolito!” she said with a chuckle

She shoved the rest of the clothes in and didn’t care when she felt her skin slide on cold slime. The washer began to fill, and Esme curled an arm around Matty’s shoulder and fled the room.

Esme lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. Marcus lay next to her. The few inches between them felt like miles, and silence flowed like thick mud around them. She knew a fight was coming. The rubber band was about to snap. 

Why does he have to be so moody all the time? She worked so hard to stay positive for Marcus and the kids. She had helped him so much since he got hurt, but he didn’t seem to care about any of it.

A few years ago, they were happy. Well, mostly happy. Marcus liked his work and his colleagues. They were looking forward to meeting their new baby. Then the injury at work. Months of disability. That had been the turning point.

Esme turned her head to look at Marcus. His eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling. An ache spread through her chest as she remembered the day they met. She was working in the ER at the time, and he brought in a patient and let herself walk through the memory. 

“You Esme?” Marcus said.

“Yes, this Edward Rollins?” she asked briskly, pointing to the man on the stretcher.

“Mmhmm. You ready for report?”

Esme nodded.

Marcus looked down at his clipboard. “65-year-old male with chest pain. Vital signs stable on the way here as you can see,” he pointed to his notes, “given 325mg aspirin en route, 18-gauge IV started in the left AC. He has a normal saline bolus running through it right now.”

Esme scratched her notes out as Marcus rattled off the facts.

“I can slow down if you need…” Marcus trailed off to give Esme a chance to catch up.

“No, that’s ok,” she said quickly. Marcus didn’t continue, so she looked up, and a dormant part of her brain sparked at the quirked smile on his face.

“Ok, sure,” he said. “He started complaining of chest pain at home 40 minutes ago, and his wife called us.” 

A doctor walked by, and Esme called out, “Dr. Stephens! Our rule-out STEMI is here. I’ll get labs and an EKG – can you put the orders in?”

Dr. Stephens raised his hand and stuck up his thumb in confirmation as he continued walking.

“So you’re in charge around here?” Marcus asked, the same wide grin assaulting her again.

Esme, flustered, said, “Ok, let’s get him in room 15.” 

“Sure thing boss,” Marcus said as he wheeled the patient past her.

She followed, surprised to find she was smiling too.

Esme shook away the memory and sighed. The man next to her now was almost a stranger. 

Marcus cleared his throat. Esme’s stomach tightened. She knew that sound. He was getting ready to say something important. 

“I think…” he said but faltered.

Esme’s chest rose and fell, faster and faster as she waited.

“I think after this trip….we…should spend some time apart,” he finished quietly.

Esme felt the blood rush out of her face. Her lungs wouldn’t pull in air. After pregnant pause, she gasped, all the blood flooding back in a tidal wave of rage. She sat up and swiveled toward him, her face a mask of shock, anger, and hurt.

“Are you kidding me?” she spat.

Marcus lay rigid, eyes glued to the ceiling. 

“What do you mean, ‘time apart’?”

Marcus reached up to rub his eyes with his hand. “I mean time apart. A legal separation.”

Esme leaped out of bed as if it were covered in snakes. She stood on the cool carpet, her toes and fingers curled open and closed. He still wouldn’t look at her. Without another word, she marched out of the bedroom, wishing she could slam the door. Wishing she could drive her elbow down between his legs. Wishing…

She pulled in big gulps of air and looked at the couch with distaste. Esme marched past it down to the next door and inched it open. Matty sprawled half on, half off his bed, covers on the floor. She lifted his right leg and arm and scooted him back on the bed and over to the wall. She pulled the pastel blue and green patterned quilt over him, then slid under the covers beside him.

Matty stirred as she snuggled close and stroked brown hair away from his forehead. He was so beautiful. The vice around her lungs squeezed tighter. And tighter. She felt needle pricks as tears began to squeeze out. Matty never woke as her silent sobs shook the bed.

Editor: Michelle Naragon