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When he doesn't come home for a week, she knows what that means.
There's no point in calling the cops, she convinces herself. It will only draw attention. She needs to keep the boys safe. They are all she has left and she will not let their father's history repeat itself. She can't.
It's impossible to explain to them why they have to pack up their rooms, so she doesn't. They're far too young to understand what any of this means; they keep asking her where their father is. She can't bring herself to lie to them, not when they're so smart and look at her with watery eyes and Waylon's nose, begging for an answer she cannot give. As she helps them shove clothes into their bags, she answers, "I don't know."
He warned her when he first started this job, told her that something bad might happen and to run if it does. She's listening now. The only thing worse than losing a husband is losing a father, she tells herself to justify her secrecy. When the boys stop packing and demand to know what's happening, she finishes the rest in silence. She remembers once, when she was small, her parents not telling her that her grandmother was dead for two months. She's on vacation, sweetie! She'll be back soon. They didn't want to make her sad, they said. It's too much for a little girl to have to deal with. We were protecting you.
When her babies sob and beg for their father, she wonders if she's doing the same thing to them. She always thought she was different, that she was one of those lucky people who wouldn't turn out like her parents no matter what. Now she isn't so sure.
She forces the thought from her mind and focuses only on survival. Safety. Get out of this alive, avenge him later. The logical sequence of events. She brings the last of the bags out into the living room and takes deep breaths, steadying herself for what's to come.
There's a knock at the door.
Her heart races and she feels her mouth go dry in panic, legs turning cold from the adrenaline coursing through them, instincts screaming to run run run get out of here go–
Carefully, she presses herself up to the wood and gets a glimpse through the peephole. In less than two seconds, she throws the door open and tears are streaming down her face.
Standing in front of her, wearing a beige jumpsuit with half of his hair shorn off, is Waylon. He doesn't say anything, just collapses to his knees and sobs. She notices red rings around his irises and he reeks of old blood and decay, covered in crusty dry patches of all sorts. The tears leave a clean streak in the grime caking his face and she sinks down too, cupping his face in her hands.
"Lisa, I–" he starts, voice soft and wavering.
"It's okay," she sniffles, wanting him to conserve his energy. "It's okay."
She forgets all about packing up the car for a minute as she leads him by the hand to the bathroom. He doesn't fight it, looking too exhausted to care much about anything. She runs a warm bath for him and throws the jumpsuit aside, making a mental note to burn that shit if he says she can.
He sobs loudly as she washes him, scrubbing hard at the stubborn dried fluids. It takes her mind off of things well enough that all she says to him are soft reassurances, whispers that he is safe now and she won't let anyone in this whole fucking world touch him ever again. When she carefully washes his hair, wringing out all of the sweat and blood and muck, he repeats over and over again, "I'm sorry."
By the time she's done, the water is pink and disgusting, all sorts of nasty things floating in it. She drains the tub and helps him stand before turning on the showerhead so he can rinse away the rest. He nods, unable to look at her when she instructs him to stay there while she grabs clothes. She grabs the first things she can find, not trusting him fully to be on his own and wanting to make it quick: ratty boxers, soft sweatpants, and a big t-shirt from his college days. It will do for now.
She helps him dress when she notices how hard he is shaking, the unsteadiness of his hands worrying her.
"When was the last time you ate?" she asks, pulling the shirt over his head.
"I don't know," he answers after a minute, shaking his head. "I don't know."
Their sons come into the living room, faces still wet with tears as they go to ask her a question. When they see their father, confusion flashes before it turns into glee. They both run at him, yelling with excitement and smiling and Waylon returns it. He sobs and shakes as he holds them and when they ask what's wrong, he says, "Nothing. Nothing's wrong."
Lisa runs into the kitchen while she has a chance and grabs a strawberry-flavored meal replacement out of the fridge, something they'd bought back when Waylon spent all day programming at home and often forgot to eat. When she comes back into the room and hands him the bottle, he looks at it warily. She can tell he's been reminded of something, has known him too long for him to be able to mask the discomfort. The boys ask question after question as he breaks the seal, opening it like he's defusing a bomb.
Waylon isn't right anymore. She can tell already, trying and failing to imagine what sort of shit he must have seen. Maybe she'll ask later when he's had the chance to eat and sleep and the boys aren't around. Maybe she won't. If it was enough to do this to him, she wonders if she even wants to know.
(Of course she wants to know. She needs to know what did this to her husband, how she can keep it from ever happening again. Every step of the way, she will protect him, just as she protects her children. Their children.)
For now, she does all that there is to do.
She throws Waylon's clothes and the few things she knows he can't stand to lose into a bag, tosses it into the pile in the living room, and grabs the keys. When she comes back in, he is asleep on the couch and the boys are almost there too, one on each leg with their faces burrowed into his chest. She fights back the tears that well up at the sight, knowing that if she starts crying, she won't be able to stop. There are more important matters at hand.
"Come on," she says, grabbing her things. "You guys can sleep in the car. We have to go."
Without a word, Waylon nods and stands, grabbing a pack off the floor. The boys follow suit, each grabbing a hand of his as they take their bags.
"Are you sure you're ready?" she asks him, the question loaded with so much more. Are you okay? Are you safe? Do you need anything else? Tell me, and I'll get it. What do you need?
"Yes. Are you?" This is my mess. I'm so sorry. God, I love you.
"I'm positive." I love you too. We're gonna make it. We're gonna fucking make it because we have to. We have to.
"When are we coming back?" says a small voice.
"I don't know," Lisa and Waylon say in sync.
"We're gonna be okay," Waylon says, red eyes looking into her own for confirmation. Are we gonna be okay?
"Yeah. We're gonna be okay."
She flicks off the lights and steps outside. The boys make their way to the car and she turns, locking the door behind her. She presses her forehead to it, knowing this is probably the last time she'll ever see this house. The place where the boys started school, learned to walk and talk and draw, where she thought she would grow old and retire and sit outside with Waylon every evening to watch the sunset. Where she dreamed all of her sweet, wonderful, stupid dreams.
All that matters now is her family. Fuck houses, fuck school, fuck money and taxes and piano lessons and especially fuck careers. It's all bullshit anyway, comfortable padding to the ugly core of animal existence: survival. Fuck the rest. Her mission is clear.
She gets in the car and looks over at Waylon in the passenger seat, already asleep again with his head pressed against the window. Behind her, the boys talk quietly, sleepily, covered in their blankets and illuminated by the dim overhead light. Soon, they'll sleep too.
The ignition hums when she turns the key. She takes Waylon's hand in her own and rests them on the console as she takes deep breaths, trying to prepare for something she knows she could never possibly be ready for. It doesn't matter. She knows what she has to do and she's going to fucking do it, prepared or not. For Waylon, for her sons, for her family. They're going to make it.
She pulls out of the driveway, turns on the radio, and doesn't look back.