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By Root 747 0

hearts (something she’d done on a whim one day when he was cranky, and he now demanded every day), his refusal to sit in the front basket of the shopping cart at the grocery store, instead running up and down the aisles at full throttle—and many other newly acquired behaviors. Annie, too, had become, as Alison’s mother observed, “spoiled.” She wouldn’t go to bed at night when Alison told her to, instead sitting wrapped in her comforter on the middle landing of the stairs, reading a pile of books. She plotted and schemed to get whatever dolls and toys happened to be heavily advertised on TV at that moment, using a range of tactics to make her case, from comparison—“But Lauren has one!”—to false promises—“I’ll be really, really good and do everything you ever want for the rest of my life if you get me the Glitter Gloria doll, I mean it”—to threats—“I’ll hate you forever if you don’t let me!”—to outright lies—“Daddy said he’d get me one, but he’s never home.” (That last part wasn’t a lie.) This arsenal of strategies, typical of addicts and savvy children, ordinarily wouldn’t have held much sway; Alison was a seasoned pro at child wrangling. But since the accident she felt powerless to resist; she couldn’t bear the inevitable cries and complaints.

“It’s a short-term solution,” her mother said, sizing things up with her usual bluntness. “You can’t bring that little boy back, Alison. And letting your kids run roughshod over you isn’t going to help.”

Maybe it wouldn’t help, Alison thought, but what did it hurt? She wanted desperately to show her children how much she loved them; she brought them presents and treats like a lovesick suitor. She wanted—what? To be the best mother in the universe, the most adored, beyond reproach. The gratitude of her children would quiet the voices in her head that told her she was a bad person, a bad mother, accursed, unworthy. That having taken a life, she didn’t deserve to have children of her own; she didn’t deserve to be loved by them.

But her children didn’t seem particularly grateful for her generosity; they didn’t seem to care much at all. The more she gave, the more they took, with a growing sense of entitlement. If the slightest detail didn’t please them, their voices became smug and haughty; they erupted in tantrums. Annie would get a new doll, tear it out of its packaging, play with it for a few minutes, and toss it on the floor. At the Stop & Shop Noah lay on his back in the cereal aisle, his arms and legs pumping like an upended beetle, and bawled at the top of his lungs until Alison put Cap’n Crunch in the cart.

“They’re going to turn into monsters,” her mother said, and her father, who rarely had anything negative to say, added dryly, “They already are.”

Now, sitting with Noah on her lap in the old rocking chair in his room, Alison shut her eyes and breathed in his baby smells: aloe-scented baby wipes, antibacterial ointment and a Band-Aid she’d put on a paper cut on his index finger, Oreo cookie. He kicked his furry foot against her leg. “Story, Mommy,” he said impatiently.

It was their custom for her to tell him a story about himself: Noah the hero, conqueror of bad guys, who celebrated his birthday every week and for whom broccoli was a Super Food that gave him special powers.

Without opening her eyes Alison said, “Once upon a time there was a little boy who was three years old.”

That afternoon, while Alison’s parents were downstairs with Noah, and Annie was still at school, Alison had gone to her room to lie down. A headache had lingered for days. It seemed to be wrapped around her brain like a caul, tightening and loosening according to its own erratic whims. Since the accident she had taken Aleve every morning with her birth control pill, a tiny pink tablet and an oblong baby blue tablet in the same gulp of water, an eradicating broth—no baby, no pain.

In the bedroom she had lowered the shades, one by one, a ritual that felt almost religious, then pulled back the covers and slipped between the cool sheets, wearing her jeans and bra and socks. What kind of person goes