by Kris Ripper
Kara must have been thinking along similar lines. “We should do this again.”
“We really should.”
They talked a little bit about adoption in general, and their routes to parenthood more specifically. Singer admitted he was a little intimidated by Marie, partly because she seemed to intensely dislike them (with good reason, he hastened to add), and partly because she was the family matriarch. “I can’t decide if I’m doing a creepy racist thing there—like maybe she would intimidate me less if she was white—or if this is just the position we’re in with regard to each other.”
“The whole process has been a mix of confirming and throwing out the window different stereotypes for me,” Kara said. “Which I guess means I should stop thinking I understand things before I experience them.”
“Actually…” Singer only hesitated for a minute. “Speaking of that, I assumed you’d be white, before we met.”
She laughed. “You did not. Does Victor really look like the guy who only dates white girls?”
“No! No, I don’t think it was that. It was— There’s a rumor he’s a Republican. I assume all Republicans are white, isn’t that terrible?”
“Well, don’t tell anyone at work, but he’s having a hard time maintaining his Republican cred right now, with the party doing what it’s doing. And I am not a Republican. Not that I think the Democrats are that much better, but they do seem slightly less creepy a small percentage of the time.”
“You two vote in different parties?”
“We fell in love debating politics in college.” She smiled. “When we’re struggling with everything else, we can always fall back on the political merits of Bill Clinton’s administration. Victor would say the lack of political merits.”
“I admire your ability to amicably disagree,” Singer said, trying to keep a smile on his face.
Kara immediately sobered. “Are you two getting any time alone at all right now?”
Not if I can help it. “It seems like us talking about things when we both know we’re coming at them from different angles will just make it all more … painful. Sorry, I didn’t mean to spill all of my problems on you, Kara. We hardly know each other.”
“It’s not all your problems. And I’ve been there. Or at least been where I was, which was really fucking difficult. Anyway, if you ever want to talk, or even just rant, let me know.”
He nodded, abruptly worried that if he said anything more about it, he’d start crying.
Maybe something of that came through in his expression; she took her time drying her hands on a dish towel and neatening the kitchen. “Should we go out?”
“I think so.” Singer decided a complete change of subject was in order. “Does Rachel love art?”
“With the kind of single-minded focus that reminds me of Olympic athletes, yes.”
“My sister-in-law is an artist. A painter. I’ve seen her do that, lose herself in her canvas.”
“I don’t think I have a passion like that, but watching Rache makes me wish I did.”
They went outside, talking about hobbies and passions and what differentiated them. And when Jake turned toward them, he smiled, and for a moment Singer thought everything might be okay.
*
Miles passed out in the car on the way home.
“Okay, Jesus was a little intrusive.” Jake tucked the barely touched bottle back into the diaper bag at his feet. “But otherwise? They are really nice people, Singer.”
“Jesus?”
“You didn’t notice Jesus? He was in the bathroom, the hallway, and the kitchen, all different bible verses.”
Singer shook his head and internally chalked it up to Jake’s Catholic past, the hyperawareness of other people’s religion. “Kara asked me if we were thinking about having more kids.”
“Yeah?”
He’d expected Jake to be taken aback. Like he’d been. But whatever Jake felt about the idea of more kids, it wasn’t that. Singer looked over, at Jake’s profile.
“Are we? Thinking about it?”
“I do, sometimes. I mean, not right now, obviously, but later? That was fun, playing. It was fun watching the boys play with Miles.” Jake readjusted his seat belt, shifted, steadfastly did not look at Singer. “When we talked, before, we talked about adopting more than one kid.”
A coldness he’d been ignoring for days started to steal over Singer’s organs, beginning with his stomach, an icy lump chilling him from the inside. “I’m not saying no, I’m just saying it’s overwhelming, right now, to imagine it. We don’t really have Miles yet. Brandi could call us tomorrow and take him away.”
Jake didn’t say anything for a long time. They were through San Francisco and over the bridge before he spoke again. “Everything you said is true. This could be our last night with him. I guess it feels like … I feel like I want to love him as much as I can, that even if he leaves us tomorrow, he’ll have had that. I don’t know. Maybe it doesn’t matter. But for him? I want him to have everything, for whatever time we have.”
Tears stung Singer’s eyes, and he could find no words to reply to that. It seemed incredibly foolish to bet everything on what was so far from certain. Like Jake was inviting heartbreak.
And yet it also seemed incredibly brave, somehow.
The rest of the drive was silent, and Jake put Miles to bed with infinite care. Singer watched from the doorway, seeing them as strangers. Obsessing over how good a father Jake was did nothing to banish the cold, hollow place in Singer’s gut. He took a shower, still trying to warm up, and when he came out Jake was pretending to be asleep.
This wasn’t going to bed angry, Singer told himself, climbing in without disturbing Jake’s side of the blankets. But he didn’t think either of them slept well, angry or not.
20
Lisa
65 days since leaving Grace
Lisa locked her door. Even to pee. She knew it was ridiculous. She hated the sound it made, the little click, because it always felt so loud. She’d shuffle her feet or brush up against the wall to hide the sound. But knowing the door was locked made it easier to breathe, so she did it anyway.
It was a little after eleven p.m. and she couldn’t sleep. She was still refreshing Twitter, though she knew no one was awake. It didn’t help. She was actually beginning to think it was messing with her head.
Voices were coming from the front of the house. Probably Jake and Singer. Did she want to go back to her room? But no, she didn’t. She wanted a cup of tea. And if they were in the living room, the kitchen would be empty.
Or should have been, except Frankie Derrie was sitting on the counter eating a cupcake. (And one of the swinging doors was propped open, probably from when Jake had been playing with Miles earlier.)
Lisa froze. “Sorry,” she whispered.
“For coming into your kitchen in your house?” Frankie, also whispering, waved a hand. “Have a cupcake. We’re the beneficiaries of Aunt Cathy’s stress-baking habit.”
“Thanks.” Did she want a cupcake? She couldn’t decide. Tea, though. Tea she could manage. She’d was filling the kettle when she heard voices in the living room.
“It’s not reasonable, Singer. And that man, bringing a lock into my house— He’s no friend of Lisa’s. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
“He’s a friend of ours, Mother. And if Lisa wants to be friends with him—”
“Does she know what he is? I heard you talking, Singer. I heard what you said he does for money.”
“Mother, he’s a tattoo artist. And a photographer.”
“He takes naked pictures of men, that’s what you said!”
Wait, were they talking about Emery? Also, she’d forgotten about his “artsy pictures of nudes” comment. Exactly how weird would it be to ask if she could see them?
Shockingly, something stirred
in Lisa’s gut.
That is not your gut.
Naked pictures, naked Emery, oh my god, stop.
“They’re artistic photographs,” Singer said.
“And he also takes them of women,” Jake added. “Not that it matters.”
“Really good pictures,” Frankie whispered. “Seriously good, and I don’t even like naked people. You should look, if you’re ever at Carey and Alice’s. They have a bunch of Emery’s pictures.”
Oh boy. Sure, just mention you heard Emery takes naked pictures and want to see them. No biggie.
“So this is like round seventeen.” Frankie reached up for a mug and passed it over. “You want some casserole? Singer made it, so it’s good.”
Casserole. Lisa was momentarily distracted from her tea. “Singer cooks? Like all the leftovers in the fridge—that’s Singer?”
“Right? When he was living in the city he used to produce the wildest dinners out of a toaster oven and a hot plate. Anyway, I know this is probably pretty Twilight Zone to you, but I’m glad you’re okay. To whatever degree you are. Okay. Or whatever.”
In the living room Mother’s voice rose, saving Lisa from having to reply. “How can you possibly approve of that lock on her door? She could be doing anything in there, Singer!”
Frankie snorted softly. “Lisa Thurman, master criminal.”
And that should have felt more like an insult, but Lisa rolled her eyes. “I’m trying to conquer the world with scrapbooking supplies.”
Frankie covered her mouth to muffle her laughter.
Mother was escalating. “But why would she need to lock us out, can you at least explain that?”
“If it makes her feel better,” Jake said, “maybe that’s what’s important.”
“You aren’t a part of this discussion,” Mother snapped. “This isn’t your home, young man, so don’t presume to tell me about what goes on in it.”
Frankie muttered, “Shit. Singer’s gonna lose it.”
“Mother, you’re out of line.” In their entire lives, Lisa had never heard Singer sound like that, like he wanted to hit someone. Still less that he wanted to hit Mother.
“Oh, crap, Singer’s really gonna lose it.” Frankie jumped down off the counter.
Mother’s tone was rising. “Don’t tell me—”
“Good night, Viv. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Jake walked through the doorway and blinked at them for a second before kicking the wedge of cardboard they’d used as a prop. No one spoke until the doors had stopped swinging shut.
“So that was a clusterfuck,” Frankie said.
Before Jake had a chance to do anything more than nod, Mother stopped in the doorway, red-cheeked and appalled. She seemed to decide retreat was her best bet and walked straight out the back door without saying anything to anyone.
Lisa wasn’t sure, but she thought all three of them may have actually sighed in relief. Despite the fact that Mother was now safely gone, Lisa felt around in her pocket for her key.
The door swung open again. “Jake? Are you— Oh.” Singer faltered. “Um.”
Jake offered a dismissive hand wave. “I guess getting massively drunk would be out of the question with a kid in the house.”
“Clearly we left the necessity of mind-numbing alcohol consumption out of our calculations.”
Frankie grinned, but Lisa thought she was forcing it. “You guys want me to proxy for you? I’m always in the mood for blotto.”
“Hush, Frances.” Pause. “Jake…”
“Don’t apologize on her behalf. Don’t, Singer. I know, okay? I know already, and she’s right. It isn’t my house.”
“It is.”
“It’s not, but we fooled ourselves for a while, didn’t we?”
“Jakey,” Frankie began.
“I know, I’m sorry. Sorry.” Jake shifted, back against the counter, and Lisa wished she hadn’t come out for tea tonight. “I know, but Singer, she’s right. This will never be my home.”
He sounded so sad.
“Anyway, I’m going to bed. Seriously, it’s okay. I’m okay. But I think I’m gonna read for a while.” He straightened up and left the kitchen.
“Fucking hell, Singer Thurman.”
“I have no idea what to do about this.”
Lisa turned around, uncomfortable when both of them looked at her, but she thought about making Abigail laugh that time after they made tamales and she couldn’t stop crying into the dishes. This was worse than that, but it was worth a try. “You haven’t tried matricide yet.”
Signer shut his eyes, and she thought she’d misjudged until he smiled and Frankie burst out laughing. “Oh shit, Lisa, you just made a joke about killing your mother. Fuck me. I’m gonna be laughing about that all night.”
Singer shook his head. “Matricide. I’m not sure Jake’s thought of that option. Though it’s only a matter of time.”
“I’m really sorry about—about Mother. I mean, she’s here because of me—”
“What? No, Lisa. You were fine. All of us were fine. Mother is—the only one I blame for Mother. Well. And maybe Dad, but he’s hard to blame for anything.”
“Amen to that,” Frankie said. “Viv is something else.” She leaned over to turn on the kettle, which Lisa had forgotten to actually do.
Right. Concentrate. Mug, kettle. Tea bag. She found the herbal tea she most liked and wrapped the string around the handle of the mug, carefully ignoring Singer’s silence.
Frankie never seemed to ignore anything. “You gonna fix this?”
“I’m clearly trying my best.”
“Oh, is that what you’re doing?”
God, this was awkward. Lisa pressed her fingertips to the little window on the kettle. The water was getting hot now. In a few seconds it would start making that sound, that jet-engine-warming-up sound, and maybe that would be a good excuse for everyone to stop talking altogether.
“Good night,” Singer said with finality. He pushed back through the doors to the living room, and she couldn’t decide if that meant he was going to bed or if he was just hiding somewhere Frankie wasn’t.
“Jesus,” Frankie mumbled. “Viv’s done nothing to placate the household gods around here, Lisa, no offense. Not that it was all candles and rose petals before—both of them can hold up their end of a domestic—but seriously, has she always been like this?”
“Like what?”
Frankie waved a hand. “Never happy. With anything. I mean, the stuff she gets worried about—Christ.”
She thought about it, still pressing her fingers to the window, letting the increasingly uncomfortable heat travel up through the nerves of her arms. The kettle was louder now. “She used to be unruffled. But I think she just saved it all up for Dad. He always looked a little … hunted.”
That got a genuine smile from Frankie Derrie. “Ha. Yeah. Your mom as a cheetah, stalking her prey. Yeah, I can see that. Hey, is there some reason you’re burning the hell out of your fingers right now?”
She’d forgotten about her fingers.
“Here.” Frankie turned on the cold tap. “I’ll finish your tea.”
“No, no, it’s okay.”
“Seriously? Look, have you met Aunt Cathy? I can’t take another maternal interaction tonight, Lisa, just soak your damn fingers.”
Lisa wanted to argue more, but all that water was going down the drain. Wasted. While she stood there. She gave in and let the water run over her fingers.
“I’m going home, now that the show’s over.” Frankie set the mug beside her. “See ya around.”
“Good night.”
Lisa listened distantly as Frankie opened and closed the front door, barely audible over the running water. It was mesmerizing, watching it flow over her skin. She kept expecting her fingers to turn to snakes in the rush, but they
didn’t.
21
Viv
77 days until starting over
Things had been somewhat tense in the house, and while Viv didn’t feel entirely responsible for it, it was inconvenient enough to require addressing.
She hadn’t meant to snap at Jake. That had just happened in the heat of the moment when the person who was really responsible was Singer. He should have been paying closer attention to his sister, and he certainly should have taken an interest in the people he was currently exposing her to. This man, Emery, the photographer and tattooist. If Viv had been in the house, she never would have allowed him through the door, let alone to install a lock and encourage Lisa’s antisocial behavior.
For the most part she avoided Jake. But he happened to enter the kitchen when she was having a slice of toast, and it seemed like an opportunity to at least smooth things over. Perhaps an opportunity to understand how everything had spiraled so completely out of control.
“Hello, Jake.”
“Hi, Mrs. Thurman. I’m just … making a sandwich.” He frowned and turned away, pulling bread out of the pantry.
“Isn’t it early for lunch? Or I suppose you likely have your own schedule.”
“Uh, yeah.” He gestured toward the hall. “Singer’s just checking in with work for a few minutes. I’m not sure we have a schedule, really. I guess whenever Miles goes down for his nap, it’s lunchtime.”
“That makes perfect sense. Have you always wanted children?”
“I guess so. For a while I didn’t think I’d be able to have a family, but it was definitely always something I wished for.”
Just as she’d expected. It confirmed her suspicion that adopting was Jake’s idea, and Singer was merely going along with it. “I didn’t realize Singer was interested in children. He always struck me as so solitary when he was a child himself. It’s hard to picture him with children of his own.”
Jake’s eyebrows rose. He carefully arranged turkey and cheese on his bread. “Really? I can picture Singer doing everything. He’s the guy who does it all, you know?”