Excerpt from The River Is Waiting by Wally Lamb, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Chapter One

April 27, 2017

It's six a.m. and I'm the first one up. Spotify's playing that Chainsmokers song I like. If we go down, then we go down together… I take an Ativan and chase my morning coffee with a couple of splashes of hundred-proof Captain Morgan. I return the bottle to its hiding place inside the twenty-quart lobster pot we never use, put the lid on, and put it back in the cabinet above the fridge that Emily can't reach without the step stool. Then I fill the twins' sippy cups and start making French toast for breakfast. If we go down, then we go down together. I cut the music so I can listen for the kids, but that song's probably going to play in my head all morning.

Emily's up now and in the bathroom, getting ready for work. When the shower stops, I hear the twins babbling to each other in the nursery we converted from my studio almost two years ago. My easel, canvases, and paints had been exiled to the space behind the basement stairs. It wasn't much of a sacrifice. I made my living as a commercial artist and had been struggling after hours and on weekends to make "serious" art, but after the babies were born, the last thing I felt like doing was staring at a blank canvas and waiting for some abstraction to move from my brain down my arm to my brush to see what came out. Maisie was the alpha twin; Niko, who would learn to creep, walk, and say words after his sister did, was the beta. In the developmental race, Niko always came in second, but, as their personalities began to emerge, his sister became our more serious, more driven twin and he was our mischievous little laughing boy. I loved them more deeply every day for who each was becoming. How could some artistic indulgence of mine have competed with what our lovemaking had created? It wasn't even close.

"Yoo-hoo, peekaboo!" I call in to them, playing now-you-see-me-now-you-don't at the doorway into their room. "Daddy!" they say simultaneously. Their delight at seeing me fills me with momentary joy—my elation aided, I guess, by the benzo and booze. I lift them, one after the other, out of the crib they share. The twins often hold on to each other as they sleep and sometimes even suck each other's thumb. I lay them on their backs on the carpet and take off their diapers. Both are sodden and Maisie's has two pellet-sized poops. As I wet-wipe and rediaper them, I say, "Hey, Miss Maisie, where's your nose?" We were playing that game yesterday. "Very good! And how about you, Mr. Niko? Where's your ear?" He puts his finger to his nose. "Nooo!" I groan in mock horror. "You can't hear with your nose!" Both kids giggle. I start singing "Wheels on the Bus," that song Emily sometimes sings with them when they're in the tub. Maisie listens attentively and does a few of the gestures with me while her brother kicks his legs and blows spit bubbles. I lift them up, one in each arm, and walk them into the kitchen just as the smoke alarm starts screaming.

The room is hazy and smells of burnt French toast. Frightened by the blare of the alarm, both kids begin crying. From down the hall, Emily calls, "Corby?" and I call back, "Everything's good. I got it!" I slide the kids into their high chairs and snap their trays in place. Point up at the alarm and tell them Daddy's going to stop the noise. "Watch," I say. Climbing onto the step stool, I reach up and silence the damned thing. "Daddy to the rescue!" I announce. Jumping off the stool, I do a little dance that turns their fear into laughter. "Daddy funny!" Maisie says. In my best Elvis imitation, I slur, "Thank you. Thank you very much." Of the two of us, I'm the fun parent and these two are my best audience. When I give them their sippy cups, I blow raspberries against their necks. They lift their shoulders and squeal with delight.

By the time Emily comes into the kitchen, I've already put her coffee and a stack of French toast on the table, the older pieces on the bottom and the fresh slices I'd made to replace the burnt ones on top. "Mama!" Niko shouts. Emily kisses the top of his head. "How's my favorite boy today?" she asks. Then, turning to his sister, she kisses her head, too, and says, "And how's my favorite girl?" She loves both of our kids, of course, but she favors Niko, whose emerging personality is like mine. Maisie is clearly her mother's daughter. She's less silly, more self-sufficient. Niko and I are the needy ones.

Excerpted from The River Is Waiting by Wally Lamb. Copyright © 2025 by Wally Lamb. Excerpted by permission of Simon & Schuster. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.