Submerged

She turned down the road that led to the quiet subdivision on the southeast side of Edmonton. She pulled into the driveway and pushed the garage door remote, immediately noticing the sleek silver Mercedes parked in the spacious two-car garage.

Her breath caught in the back of her throat.

Philip was home.

“Okay, little man,” she murmured. “Daddy’s home.”

She scooped Sam out of the back seat and headed for the door. He wriggled until she put him down. Then he raced into the house, straight upstairs. She flinched when she heard his bedroom door slam.

“I guess neither of us is too excited to see Daddy,” she said.

Tossing her keys into a crystal dish on the table by the door, she dropped her purse under the desk, kicked off her shoes, puffed her chest and headed into the war zone.

But the door to Philip’s office was closed.

She turned toward the kitchen instead.

The war can wait. It always does.

Passing by his office door an hour later, she heard Philip bellowing at someone on the phone. Whoever it was, they were getting quite an earful. A minute later, something hit the door.

She backed away. “Don’t stir the pot, Sadie.”

Philip remained locked away in his office and refused to come out for supper, so she made a quick meal of hotdogs for Sam and a salad for herself. She left a plate of the past night’s leftovers—ham, potatoes and vegetables—on the counter for Philip.

Later, she gave Sam a bath and dressed him for bed.

“Auntie Leah came over today,” she said, buttoning his pajama top. “She told me to say hi to her favorite boy.”

There wasn’t much else to say, other than she had finished writing the bat story. She wasn’t about to tell him that she had ordered his birthday cake and bought him a bicycle, which she had wrestled into the house by herself and hidden in the basement.

“Want me to read you a story?” she asked.

Sam grinned.

She sat on the edge of the bed and nudged her head in the direction of the bookshelf. “You pick.”

He wandered over to the rows of books, staring at them thoughtfully. Then he zeroed in on a book with a white spine. It was the same story he chose every night.

“My Imaginary Friend again?” she asked, amused.

He nodded and jumped into bed, settling under the blankets.

Sadie snuggled in beside him. As she read about Cathy, a young girl with an imaginary friend who always got her into trouble, she couldn’t help but think of Sam. For the past year, he’d been adamant about the existence of Joey, a boy his age who he swore lived in his room. She’d often catch Sam smiling and nodding, as if in conversation. No words, no signing, just the odd facial expression. Some days he seemed lost in his own world.

“Lisa says you should close your eyes,” she read.

Sam’s eyes fluttered shut.

“Now turn this page and use your imagination.”

He turned the page, then opened his eyes. They lit up when he saw the colorful drawing of Cathy’s imaginary friend, Lisa.

“Can you see me now?” she read, smiling.

Sam pointed to the girl in the mirror.

“Good night, Cathy. And good night, friend. The end.”

She closed the book and set it next to the bat signal clock on the nightstand. Then she scooted off the bed, leaned down and kissed her son’s warm skin.

“Good night, Sam-I-Am.”

His small hand reached up. With one finger, he drew a sideways ‘S’ in the air. Their nightly ritual.

“S… for Sam,” she said softly.

And like every night, she drew the reflection.

“S… for Sadie.”

Together, they created an infinity symbol.

She smiled. “Always and forever.”

She flicked off the bedside lamp and eased out of the room. As she looked over her shoulder, she saw Sam’s angelic face illuminated by the light from the hall. She shut the door, pressed her cheek against it and closed her eyes.

Sam was the only one who truly loved her, trusted her. From the first day he had rested his huge black-lashed eyes on hers, she had fallen completely and undeniably in love. A mother’s love could be no purer.

“My beautiful boy.”

Turning away, she slammed into a tall, solid mass. Her smile disappeared when she identified it.

Philip.

And he wasn’t happy. Not one bit.

He glared down at her, one hand braced against the wall to bar her escape. His lips—the same ones that had smiled at her so charismatically the night they had met—were curled in disdain.

“You could’ve told me Sam was going to bed.”

She sidestepped around him. “You were busy. As usual.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

She cringed at his abrasive tone, but said nothing.

“You’re not going all paranoid on me again, are you?” He grabbed her arm. “I already told you. Brigitte is a co-worker. Nothing more. Jesus, Sadie! You’re not a child. You’re almost forty years old. What the hell’s gotten into you lately?”

“Not a thing, Philip. And I’ll be thirty-eight this year. Not forty.” She yanked her arm away, then brushed past him, heading for the bedroom.

Their marriage was a sham.