Chapter 1 - Touch

The bus is late again.

I know this because the corner store's clock reads 6:58, and the 7:05 has never once come before 7:10. The cold is the kind that gets into your boots and stays there. I keep my hands jammed in my jacket pockets, my knuckles rough against the lining from a morning of hauling boxes at the hardware store. My backpack digs into one shoulder. The air smells like exhaust and wet leaves, and there's a peeling ad for a dentist on the bench that I've stared at for three mornings straight.

I should be annoyed. I am annoyed. But then she comes out of the corner store.

She's carrying a canvas bag, the strap digging into her palm, and her hair is the color of honey. Light brown with blonde in it, shoulder-length, tucked behind her ears. She's wearing a gray cardigan over a dusty rose dress, and her shoes are the kind of flats a teacher wears when she's been on her feet since 5:45. I know her. Not her name—not yet—but I've seen her around. The corner store, the bus stop, the elementary school up the hill. She's the kind of woman you notice because she looks like she'd ask you how your day was and mean it.

I watch her walk toward the bus stop. She's checking her watch, then her phone, then her bag. She looks tired, but not the bad kind of tired. The kind of tired that comes from already having done a lot before the sun was up. She steps up onto the curb and stands a few feet from me.

I should look away. I don't. I watch the way her cardigan swings, the way her weight shifts onto one hip. She fumbles her phone out of her pocket, and the canvas bag slips off her shoulder. I reach out without thinking—she's going to drop it, the bag is going to hit the wet pavement, her lunch container is going to pop open—and my hand closes over hers.

Our skin touches.

I feel the rough dry heat of my own knuckles against the soft cool skin of her hand. I feel the exact place where my callus meets her knuckle. And I want it. I want to be inside that softness, that warmth, that life. I will it. I will the possession at the instant of contact.

The world goes white.

It's an electric shock at the point of contact—a sharp jolt that starts in my fingertips and then yanks me through a pinhole. I'm compressed, squeezed, folded into the space between our hands, and for a heartbeat I'm nowhere. Then I flood into her. Her senses rush in all at once: the cold air on her cheeks, the weight of her breasts against the inside of her dress, the canvas bag strap pulling on a shoulder that is softer and narrower than mine. Her heart beats fast and light in a chest that rises and falls with her quickening breath.

The first breath tastes of damp wool and lip balm and the cold gray air of the bus stop. I pull it in deeper, and my chest rises with the weight of her—of me. My chest. The breasts shift with the movement, heavy and soft and mine. I'm sitting on the bench. No—I was standing. I'm standing now. The world is at a different height. My shoes are flats, and the ground is closer. My shoulders are rounded. My waist is softer. My arms are smooth.

I look down. My hands are holding the canvas bag. Small, neat hands, with a thin gold ring on the right one. My wedding ring. No—her wedding ring. But it's on my hand now. My skin is fair with a few faint freckles across the bridge of my nose. I can feel the loose layers of my hair against my neck. I reach up and tuck it behind my ear. My ear is smaller. The hoop earring is cold.

I have her memories. They don't come as a flood; they're just there. My name is Denise Marie Hartley. I am forty-two. I teach second grade at Maplewood Elementary. I have four daughters. I am standing at the bus stop, waiting for the 7:05.

I turn my head. There's a man on the bench. He's young, nineteen, with a scruffy jaw and a hardware store jacket. His hands are jammed in his pockets. He blinks once, like he's forgotten something, then stands up and walks away down the block. He doesn't look back.

That used to be me.

I don't think about him again. I have a bus to catch.

I try to speak. Just to hear it. "Okay, sweetheart," I say softly, to no one, and the voice comes out warm and steady and low, with a little lilt. It's her voice. My voice now. It feels like it's been waiting for me. I say my name. "Denise." The sound of it settles in my throat. I'm her. I'm actually her.

The bus rumbles up. I reach into my bag—my bag, a large tan leather tote that carries lesson plans and graded papers and a small pink hair clip—and find my bus pass. I climb on. The driver nods at me. "Morning, Mrs. Hartley." I nod back, smile, and take a seat near the middle.

The seat is hard and my hips are wider than I'm used to, so I shift until I find the soft spot. My dress rides up slightly over my knees. I smooth it down. My thighs press together under the fabric, bare skin against bare skin where the tights end. I can feel the sheer black tights from mid-thigh down, the waistband snug but not tight. Underneath, the bra wraps around my ribs like a firm hug, the underwire a slight pressure I'm aware of with every breath.

I watch the town go by through the window. I've seen it a hundred times—I remember seeing it—but I've never seen it from this seat, in this body, with this woman's history folded into my thoughts. The light is gray and soft. The trees are bare. Spring is still a month away. I feel the gentle sway of my breasts as the bus turns. I feel the rub of my ring against the leather strap of my tote. I feel the cold air on the tops of my feet where my ballet flats don't quite cover.

I am forty-two years old, and I am a mother of four, and I am on my way to teach second grade.

Holy shit.

The school is a low brick building with a flagpole and a row of yellow buses out front. I walk through the front doors and the smell of floor wax and pencil shavings hits me. I know this smell. I know every hallway, every creaky tile, every broken water fountain. I've been here for years. I carry my tote to my classroom—room 12, by the art room—and unlock the door.

The classroom is exactly how I left it yesterday. Desks in clusters of four. A whiteboard with the date and the morning message: Good morning, friends! Today we will learn about the water cycle. My mug sits on my desk, empty. I have a small cactus on the windowsill that Chloe gave me for Mother's Day two years ago.

I set my tote down. I hang my cardigan on the back of my chair. I run my hands down the front of my dress, smoothing the soft jersey over my belly and hips. The body knows this motion. It's done it a thousand times. But I'm the one doing it now, and the feel of my own hand over the curve of my stomach is a small, bright shock.

The morning bell rings. The students arrive.

They're seven and eight years old, with sticky fingers and loud voices and backpacks the size of their torsos. They call me Mrs. Hartley. They call me "Mrs. H." They want to show me drawings, tell me about their dogs, ask to go to the bathroom. They trust me. They love me.

I love them back. The love is hers, but I feel it. It's real and warm and it makes me patient when a little girl named Emma spills her juice box on my desk. I hand her a paper towel and say, "Let's talk about it, sweetheart," and she smiles.

The water cycle lesson goes fine. I know the material because I've taught it for years. I know which kids will struggle and which will finish early. I know the exact tone of voice that keeps the class calm. I use it without thinking. It's like my mouth knows what to say.

At 10:15, I have prep period. I walk to the staff room with my mug and find my colleague, Margaret, already at the counter. Margaret teaches art. She's in her fifties, with silver-streaked hair and paint-stained fingers. She's the one whose job is on the line if the school board votes to cut the art program in June.

"Morning, Denise," she says. "You look tired."

I smile. "Bus was late."

"Always is." She pours me a cup of the burnt staff-room coffee. "The board meeting got moved up to June 15. I don't suppose you've heard anything."

I shake my head. "I'm planning to speak at it. If that helps."

"It helps." She sighs. "I just don't know what I'll do if they cut it. The kids need art, especially your Lily. She's got something real."

I know Lily is my daughter. My youngest. Eight years old, with honey blonde hair and a gap between her front teeth. I feel a pulse of protectiveness. "I know. We'll figure it out."

Margaret squeezes my arm. It's a casual, warm touch, and my skin registers it as familiar. She does this all the time. I'm one of the women here. I belong.

The rest of the school day passes in a blur of spelling tests, lunch duty, and a fire drill that sends us all outside into the cold. I herd my students into the parking lot and count heads. My feet hurt. My lower back aches from standing. I feel the pull of my bra straps on my shoulders and the way my hair keeps falling into my face.

After the final bell, I walk home. The elementary school is only six blocks from the house. The cold air nips at my cheeks, and I hold my cardigan closed over my chest. The weight of my body is different, softer, lower. My hips sway a little with each step, and I don't fight it. I let her walk.

The house is at 17 Bluebell Lane. White siding, dark green shutters, a front porch with a wooden swing and dead geraniums in the pots. I climb the porch steps and unlock the front door.

The kitchen smells like stale coffee and dried flowers. I set my tote on the counter and fill the kettle. While it heats, I open the refrigerator and stare inside. I need to start dinner. The girls will be home soon.

Chloe comes through the front door at 4:15. She's in her cream knit top and pleated lavender skirt, her canvas tote over one shoulder, her dark blonde hair loose and wavy. She moves quietly, but I feel her presence behind me before she speaks.

"Hey, Mom."

I turn. "Hi, sweetheart. How was class?"

Chloe touches her beauty mark with one finger. A nervous habit. "Fine. I picked up an extra shift at the café tomorrow. So I'll be home late."

I feel the tension in her—she wants me to object, or maybe she wants me not to. I know she's been avoiding family dinners, working extra shifts. I know she's thinking about transferring to a four-year school two hours away and hasn't told me. The memories are right there, quiet and heavy. I feel the pride and the worry tangled in my chest.

"Okay," I say carefully. "Just don't run yourself ragged."

She flinches a little, like she wanted more of a fight. "I won't." She drops her bag by the stairs and heads up. "I'm going to shower."

I let her go. The kitchen feels bigger after she leaves.

Mia gets home at 5:00. She drops her backpack by the door and comes straight to me at the counter. "Mom, guess what?"

I'm stirring a pot of pasta sauce. "Tell me."

"I finished my portfolio piece for the art program. Zoe said it was really good." Her voice is high and eager, and she bounces on her toes. I can feel how much she wants me to look at it.

"That's wonderful. Show me after dinner?"

She beams. "Okay." She hugs me from the side, quick and tight, and the warmth of her small body against my hip is sweet. I drop a kiss on the top of her head. Her hair smells like lavender.

Sophie comes home at 6:10. She's in her gray hoodie and leggings, her auburn hair pulled into a high ponytail. She drops her volleyball bag on the floor and cracks her knuckles. "Dinner ready?"

"Almost," I say. "Can you set the table?"

She sighs. "Fine."

Lily barrels through the door at 6:20, having gone next door to play with Olivia. She's got a drawing in her hand. "Mommy! I made this for you!" She thrusts it at me—a crayon picture of a woman with honey hair and a pink dress. I kneel down to take it. My knees creak.

"Oh, baby, that's beautiful." I gather her into a hug, and she squeezes my neck with her small, sticky hands. "Let's put it on the fridge."

Dinner is at 6:30. The five of us sit around the round oak table: Chloe in her chair by the window, Sophie across from her, Mia next to Lily, and me at the head. The casserole is steaming in the center. I can feel the moment settling around me like a held breath.

Sophie picks at her food. "So, Chloe, did you tell Mom about your extra shift?"

Chloe's fork pauses. "I did."

"Great." Sophie's voice is dry. "More café time. Very mysterious."

I watch Chloe's jaw tighten. I feel the irritation rising in her, the old resentment at Sophie's teasing. I step in. "Sophie, that's enough."

"What? I'm just saying." Sophie shrugs. "She's always working. It's like she's trying to avoid us."

"I'm not avoiding anyone," Chloe says quietly.

"Could've fooled me."

I set my fork down. "Sophie June. We do not talk to each other like that at this table."

Sophie rolls her eyes. "Fine. Whatever." She stabs at her casserole. The sound of her fork scraping is loud.

Mia shrinks a little beside Lily. I can see her glancing between Sophie and me, like she's bracing for the fight. I reach over and squeeze her hand. "Mia, tell me about your portfolio."

Mia's face lights up. "It's this painting of a fox in a forest. I used watercolors and then I went back with colored pencil for the leaves. I think it might be my best one."

Lily pipes up. "I'm going to be in a play! I have a solo!"

I smile at her. "I know, sweet pea. We'll practice your lines tonight."

Lily grins, showing the gap in her teeth. She's missing one on the bottom, and she smiles with her whole face.

Chloe relaxes a little. Sophie doesn't, but she stops picking at her food. The meal moves on. We talk about the art program meeting, about Sophie's volleyball qualifier, about Lily's play. I keep the conversation steady, guiding it the way I know she would, because it's what this family needs.

After dinner, I clear the plates. Sophie disappears to her room. Mia goes to her room to draw. Chloe lingers at the sink.

"I can do the dishes," she offers.

"I've got them," I say. "Go work on your application."

She freezes. "What application?"

I don't turn around. I just keep rinsing a plate. "The transfer application. To the university." The words come out calm, but I can feel her shock behind me.

"How did you—"

"I'm your mother," I say, and I turn to look at her. "I know more than you think I do."

Chloe's face goes pink. She looks down. "I was going to tell you."

"I know." I dry my hands on a towel. "We'll talk about it later. Not tonight."

She nods, her eyes wet, and goes upstairs. I feel the weight of her secret settle into my chest. I could have said more. I could have pushed. But I didn't. I'm not sure if that's her or me. Maybe it doesn't matter.

The house gets quiet. I finish the dishes, then wipe down the counters. Lily comes down in her pajamas, holding a stuffed bunny. "Can we practice my lines now?"

I kneel down. "Okay, sweetheart. Let's hear them."

Lily stands in the middle of the kitchen and recites her solo in a high, clear voice. It's a poem about spring. She forgets the third line, and I prompt her, and she beams at me. Then I tuck her into bed, smoothing her pink quilt and kissing her forehead. She smells like strawberry shampoo.

"Goodnight, baby."

"Goodnight, Mommy." She yawns. "I love you."

"I love you too."

I close her door and walk down the hall to my own bedroom. The first floor is quiet. The window overlooks the backyard lilac bush, bare now, but I know it will bloom in spring. I close the curtains.

I stand in front of the vanity mirror. The round mirror with the lace doily. My reflection looks back at me: a forty-two-year-old woman with honey hair and soft cheeks and faint crow's feet. She's pretty in a gentle way. She's me.

I unbutton my cardigan and let it fall onto the chair. I untie the wrap dress. The fabric loosens, and I slide it off my shoulders. Underneath, the slip is cream and silky, and my breasts push against the thin fabric, soft and heavy. I look at my body in the mirror.

My hands move on their own. They cup my breasts through the slip, testing the weight. The nipples tighten against the silk. A small sound escapes my lips—a breath, a catch. I don't know if it's hers or mine. I don't care.

I pull the slip over my head. My bra is cream, full-coverage, with lace trim. I unhook it. My breasts settle free, full and round with a soft droop, the skin warm. I touch them again, bare now. The mirror shows me: a woman with a soft belly and wide hips, her body marked by four pregnancies, still lovely. My body.

I trace the curve of my waist, the flare of my hips. I run my hands over my belly, the skin yielding. The hunger is there, low and warm. This is mine. I took this. I get to feel it whenever I want.

I don't rush. I stand there in my panties, letting the air touch my skin. Then I go to the closet. The wardrobe is full of soft fabrics and muted colors: navy knit dresses, A-line skirts, cardigans in gray and sage. I find the dusty rose wrap dress I wore this morning, still warm from my body. I hold it to my face. Rosewater and vanilla and clean cotton. Mine.

I put on my nightgown—pale blue cotton with tiny white flowers, thin straps, loose through the hips. The fabric is soft against my skin. I brush my hair in the mirror, watching my reflection. I look like a mother. I look like Denise. I look like me.

I sit on the edge of the bed and pick up the laundry basket by the closet. I start folding. My hands move automatically, smoothing the fabric, stacking the towels. I hum. The tune is off-key and familiar, the same one she always hums. I don't even think about it.

The room smells like rosewater and cold tea. The mug from last night is still on the nightstand. I'll wash it tomorrow.

I turn off the lamp. I lie down in the queen bed, the white quilt soft over my body. The pillows are cream and blue. I settle into them. My breasts shift against the mattress. My hair spreads over the pillow. I can hear Sophie's music faintly through the ceiling, Mia's footsteps, the creak of the house settling.

I close my eyes. I'm Denise. I'm a mother of four. I'm a teacher. I'm forty-two years old, and my body is soft and warm and mine.

I fall asleep.