“It’s my life,” he sulks.
“Right—your one and only, far as we know.”
He stares at the battered floorboards, sucking his cheeks. “Why should I listen to you?”
“Because. I’m an artist, too. And a teacher—a good one. Regardless of how I mess up my personal life.” He glances up dubiously. “Listen to me, Eli. Every few years someone comes along who’s got something special, and you have it.” He sighs, shoulders sagging now, defenses starting to slip. Then he snorts, turns away from me.
“See you around, Sylvia.” I watch him disappear through the door, my heart dropping like a brick. I’m wondering where he’ll go, what he’ll do, who he’ll tell. I follow into the hall.
“Eli, please wait—can you just tell me one thing?” He stares back silently. “I just— I’m wondering how you knew. Was it obvious, or did your father say something?”
He considers me for a moment, something like pity relaxing his features, then says, “Your daughter told me, Ms. Sandon.”
“My daughter?”
He shrugs once, arches an eyebrow, then walks off. And now the phone is ringing again.
Years later, I’ll remember every lurid moment of the next few hours and days, as if the whole thing were happening in digital freeze-frames, though at the time I feel etherized, remote. I’ll remember the dark plumage of January storm clouds as I drive home from my studio that afternoon, Nathan’s voice still rumbling in my head: Hannah’s been suspended from school. There were drugs. I’ll tell you more when you get here. I’ll remember the homeless woman humping her cart up to the Laundromat, the number of Iraq War casualties reported on my radio, a red sweatshirt flapping from a wire.
They’re all in the kitchen when I enter, my head spinning somewhere near the ceiling fan. The girls propped at the counter while Nathan peels apples for their afternoon snack, popcorn popping in the microwave, as if this were just a regular Monday after school. Except that when Hannah sees me, she immediately jumps from her stool, stalks toward the stairs.
“She’s pretty upset,” Nathan explains, slicing the apple into a bowl as well as he can with his bandaged wrist, squeezing in lemon the way they like it. “I’m sure she’ll talk to you about everything, in time.” He looks up, smiles despairingly. In that split second, I probe his eyes for information, but come up blank. I can’t tell what he knows, which conversation we’re having.
“Okay,” I say, making my way around the counter to hug Emmie, who clings to my neck like a baby koala.
“I got to leave before rest time, Mommy! Daddy got me early!” she says, as if this is all a big adventure—cause for celebration.
“Why is Hannah suspended?” It’s the safest thing I can think to say.
“Oh, boy.” He shakes his head, pulling the popcorn from the microwave. “Where do I start? She and Brooke Stevens were caught writing graffiti in the bathroom.”
“That’s not so horrible—”
“That’s just for starters, hon. Then, she told Bruce Hoffman, the vice principal, to f— off.” He steals a glance at Emmie. “Damn, I burned it again—this is the second bag.”
“She swore at Hoffman?”
“Yep.” He dumps the charred popcorn in the trash, filling the room with its acrid smell. “Which somehow prompted a locker search—don’t ask me why—where they discovered a joint and these. He reaches into his pocket, tosses a pack of cigarettes onto the counter. They’re unfiltered Camels—Tai’s brand, and lately, my own. I’m wondering, in fact, if she swiped these from my dresser drawer. “So Han’s out for the week,” Nathan concludes. “And I’ve told her no friends for a month, nothing after school.” I’m nodding idiotically, fingers running through Emmie’s thin curls, stroking her velvet earlobes. “She says Izzy Fletcher gave her the joint.”
“What did she write—in the bathroom?”
“It was pretty strange.” He sticks a new bag of popcorn in the microwave. “I was thinking obscenities, right? Something sexual, maybe a rant at a teacher. But that wasn’t it.” I raise my eyebrows, though half of me doesn’t want to hear.
“‘I’m gonna kill you, Hannah Jones.’ That’s what she wrote.”
“Wow.” It’s all I can manage.
“I know—the guidance counselor wanted to talk to us about therapists. Where were you, anyway?” Then he turns to load the dishwasher, as if he doesn’t want to hear my answer.
“I went up to the house, remember? And I was visiting with Rosalyn for a while. We had quite a conversation— remind me to tell you later.” I’m struggling to sound nonchalant, but my throat feels like I’ve gulped down pine shavings, and Eli’s accusations echo in my head. Nathan doesn’t comment, doesn’t ask how I could have possibly spent three hours chatting with Roz Benton. Still, he seems oddly reserved as he turns to me, drying his hands.
“You should go up and talk to her. You’re the one she trusts most,” he says, seemingly without a trace of irony.
But Hannah won’t talk to me, not even after I stand outside her locked door for fifteen minutes, pleading through the crack, “Please, Hannah—I just want to see you. I’m not angry with you, honey, just concerned. We need to talk!” I slump into the hallway, sitting on my hands, knocking my head against the wall. I have failed them. I’ve failed them all. Then, “Please, Han. You can’t just pretend nothing’s happened, sweetheart. Please open up.” At one point, I hear her stir and think she’s going to let me in; then something hard whams against the door—a shoe, most likely.
“Nothing doing, huh?” Nathan’s standing in the hallway now, our preschooler straddling his long back. He sets Emmie down in her room, then comes to where I’m sprawled, puts his face close to the door. “Mama really wants to talk to you, Han—can you open up? Just for a minute, please?” Silence. “Baby, why are you taking this out on your mom?” he tries. Nothing. He shakes his head, squeezes my shoulder, then retreats. After a few more attempts I give up and call the guidance counselor, who suspects that Hannah is “engaged in some dramatic internal struggle” (no shit) and gives me the names of three therapists—all highly recommended, though none are covered by our insurance. The first two can’t see us until March, but the third has a cancellation this week. I take it.
By Wednesday, Hannah still hasn’t spoken one word to me, despite all my pitiful attempts. I’ve tried cajoling and tearful pleas, sugarcoated bribery and empty threats. Now, in the car on the way to the therapist’s office, there’s nothing left but to hand over the naked truth. I veer left onto Main Street, fill my lungs to bursting, then blurt, “I know you know about Tai Rosen and me, Han. I know that’s why you’re acting this way.”
She doesn’t respond. I try again, tongue cleaving to my mouth. “Sometimes people make choices for strange reasons, honey.”
Nothing. Though as we pull into the parking lot, she stares me down, a look of supreme repugnance on her face—as if she’s gotten a whiff of rotting meat.
“You’ve read my e-mail, haven’t you?” She turns her face away. I take this as confirmation, take another painful, fortifying breath. How could I have been so obtuse, I wonder. Why didn’t I see it coming? “Look, I understand you’re upset,” I continue, chest constricting. “And I hope you’ll at least be able to talk to this therapist about it, even if you’re not ready to talk to me yet—”
“I’ll talk to the dumb-ass therapist about whatever I want,” she finally says, as I throw the car into Park. Hope swells at these words—the first I’ve heard from her since Monday morning. We sit silent as the engine sputters. Then, staring into her lap, voice barely audible, “Are you going to divorce Daddy?” I place my hand on her knee, which she moves away.
“I don’t know, Han—I hope not.” She nods, gnawing the inside of her cheek. “I just need to know,” I add, unable to stop myself, “if you’re planning to tell him.”
She snorts, opens the car door and swings her long legs onto the asphalt. “I think that’s your job, don’t you?” Then slams the door in m
y face.
The therapist concurs. As I sit facing her after the session, Hannah now banished momentarily to the outer room, she concludes that she can’t work with us as a family if there are secrets. It all has to come out, she says, right ankle propped against her left knee. Years later, I’ll remember that taut ankle, that sharp knee. I’ll remember the brutal haircut—black and too angled against a tanned face set off by designer glasses. I’ll remember her fashionable but androgynous clothing.
I am not just noticing these things; I’m holding them against her, tallying up my resentments one by one. She’s clearly younger than me, probably makes more money, maybe doesn’t have children of her own. She has enough leisure to paint her nails and maintain a tan. She can love whomever she chooses, without consequence. I’m tearing at my own unpolished thumbnail as she talks about social-emotional issues, attention-getting behaviors, how when children feel a fissure in the family they’re forced to take sides whether asked to or not. Hannah’s dealing with a family issue, she keeps saying. And she needs us to manage it responsibly as a family. I can hear my mother’s voice in my head—we didn’t have family therapists back then. We prayed together—I stifle a laugh.
“You find something funny?” she asks.
“No—nothing at all. I was just thinking about how my own family dealt with crisis.”
“Oh? How was that?”
“We watched movies,” I say. “We went to church and watched a ton of movies.”
“I would like very much to work with you as a family,” she continues. “But I can’t really do it unless I get you and your husband here together—and then all the cards are going to have to be on the table.”
I nod, allowing myself full access to the ragged thumbnail now. I don’t want to give this woman the credit she deserves. I don’t think I’m ready to show my cards.
“How much did Hannah tell you?” I ask.
“Enough to know that she’s managing a secret for you, and the pressure is too much for her. She has to let it out. She’s even thought about cutting.”
“Oh—God.”
“It’s serious, Sylvia. She needs some relief.”
“And you can’t help her unless we all come? Unless Nathan’s involved?”
“It makes my job pretty difficult, otherwise.”
“And, she really does need help, doesn’t she?” It’s as if I’m just now surrendering to this truth. The words, as they leave my body, seem to break something on their way—tears rush up hot and unbidden. I cry then, to my horror and relief, as the therapist watches, her young brow creased. I reach for the tissues and cry as if I’ve been saving it up for this poor woman—so many tears, they take up the remaining minutes of our session. Just as I’ve resolved to confess and renounce everything, she glances at the clock, sighs and announces time is up. I gather my things to leave.
“She’s a good kid, Sylvia,” the therapist says, ushering me out.
Later, I’ll remember every detail of the silent drive home, Hannah picking at a scrape on her elbow, plugging into her iPod and turning her gaze away, our car doors slamming in unison. I’ll remember my daughter bounding up the stairs two at a time, locking herself in her room all through the afternoon and dinner hours; Nathan taking up a grilled cheese sandwich and apple slices, then bringing down the crumb-strewn plate when she’s done. I’ll remember the ghostly aura of his long legs spread in the tub that night, Emmie’s fifth poop accident in three days. Emmie refusing to get into her own bed and crying until Nathan carries her to the living room sofa, lets her curl up on his chest the way he used to when they were colicky babies, Coleman Hawkins lulling them to sleep. I watch them for a long time before attempting to sleep on the chilly expanse of our king-sized futon. Freezing rain spatters the panes in bursts, like bullets, and I finally give up, flip on the computer and discover Tai’s latest installment—
I’m afraid of everything we can’t hold on to, Sylvie. Even the echo of your voice has changed. I should know better, right? Should let it be enough, as it is—or was? Outside my window, just this expanse of frozen ground…
Of all the possible responses I might offer, there is only one urgent enough to break through my anesthetized fear.
Eli knows, Tai—please talk to him. Tell him not to do what he thinks he must do. Tell him it’s pointless to punish himself for others’ mistakes. Please just be there for him now.
I press Send, then delete both messages. I tiptoe downstairs, past my sleeping spouse and child to the kitchen, where I retrieve a bottle of cheap Merlot and a plastic cup, carry them out to the car in the rain.
For the better part of two hours I sit there, staring back at the outline of our tight little dwelling—apology of shutters, faint glow through the streaked kitchen windows, one vase of drooping coral roses backlit on the dining room table. I drink down the entire bottle, thinking about how I’ve failed—as mother, daughter, artist, wife—while the public radio station plays reruns of A Prairie Home Companion and Jazz Safari and it gets too cold, finally, to stay outside drunk. Too pathetic to sit nauseous and hiding in the empty van. Too nuts to attempt driving onto the highway, though I do think about it for a while. I think about skidding down I-91 in the black rain along the Connecticut River and bursting clean through the guardrails—purified by water, rather than fire. I picture it for a minute, two minutes, ten. Then force myself back inside, throw up in the downstairs toilet.
And then the call comes, a little after midnight—Alison’s voice rasping through the phone: someone’s died. I must be having a nightmare, or perhaps I’ve gone back in time. This is my father’s death again, maybe, and I’ll have to relive it over and over for the rest of my life. Only, there’s no Santa Ana wind brewing. I’m in the kitchen of my grown-up charade, remembering that it’s 2005, trying to clear my head enough to make out what my sister is saying over the line. “She’s gone, Sylvie, can you hear me? Gram’s gone. It was a horrible few days but she passed an hour ago—she’s peaceful now. Are you still there?”
“Yeah,” I slur. “I think so.”
“The burial’s on Friday,” my sister tells me. “I know you guys were just out here, but it would be great if you could make it.”
“Of course I’ll come,” I say. “Course I’ll be there.”
There is just not enough money for all four of us to fly again. “Stop fretting about it, would you?” Nathan declares in the early gray light of our room, when I say for the fifth time that I don’t want to leave them.
“What will you do with them?” I whisper now, rifling through my dresser drawers. “How will you handle them both?”
“I’ll take a few days off. We’ll manage—my mom can help.” Nathan yawns, then grins wryly from the corner of our bed. “Uh, why are you packing shorts, Sylv?” I look down, realizing I’ve been reaching for all the wrong things—sundresses and blue jeans, my favorite khaki shorts, flip-flops, a black-and-white polka-dot bikini. “You’re taking a bikini to your grandmother’s burial?” He laughs, one eyebrow cocked high. “You’re taking flip-flops?”
“I guess that’s not really appropriate, is it?” I put my hands to my cheeks, smoothing the scorch of grief and fatigue. My head is still spinning from the wine, eyes hot; everything feels grainy and skinned, as if the world’s been rubbed raw with sandpaper.
“Hon, it’s January. It’s northern Cal. It’s a funeral.” I nod, removing my summer things from the leather duffle, stacking them on the boudoir chair. “That’s probably the stuff you always took to Orchard Hill as a kid,” Nathan observes astutely. “It makes sense, in a way.”
“I’ve only slept three hours,” I explain, trying to remember when everything slipped from the realm of conscious choice. “I guess I need a black dress—do I even have a black dress?”
“What about that cute dress you wore to the Planning Department party last year? You know—silky, above the knee, scoopy neck?” He draws an imaginary scoop across his own chest, raises his brows.
“Can I
wear that at a funeral?”
“Do you have a choice? It’s better than the polka-dot bikini, at any rate.” We both start to giggle, picturing the scene—me, standing graveside in my beachwear. We laugh much longer than the joke is funny, desperate for this meager reprieve. Then he sighs and says, “Try it on for me, Sylv—would you?”
“What?”
“I’d really like to see you in that dress.”
I’m just shattered enough, just threadbare enough to acquiesce, taking off my sweatpants and bra—timidly at first—slipping the black silk over exhausted shoulders as he watches, legs stretched before him on the rough quilt, that guarded grin, depth of the brown eyes I know as well as my breath. His coltish hands reach out, patient—almost shy. This man I share dreams and daughters with, this man who still trusts me. I spin once in my funeral dress, then swallow hard, put my head down and walk smack into my resistance and terror—it’s like cracking through a sheet of hard plastic—to join him on the bed.
“Take off your clothes,” I say, voice buckling. “It’s been too long.”
We’re horribly awkward at first, fumbling for some new purchase in dry lips and coffee tongues, pulling back, coming together in fits and starts like adolescents. Then, finally, striking a familiar groove. I have forgotten all this: the buttery skin of his back, small furry ass and long-muscled limbs, easy abdomen and comfortable hip bones, the painful-looking scar at the base of his throat. I forgot the slow fluency with which he enters from behind, this cock that put life in my belly, his tall body spooning mine, fingers cupping the breasts that fed our children, mattress sloping toward his side in the dawn.
“Just take it slow, Sylvie,” he whispers. “There’s no need to rush.”
These are the very same words he once used to teach me to swim, our first summer, before we’d dreamed of home equity lines, adultery or second chances. I’d grown up in a pool, spent hours diving through the chlorinated water like an otter, suspended in sunlit blue, hair a bright tangle above me. But I didn’t really learn to swim, never once had a lesson, couldn’t have done a lap of the Australian crawl to save my life. So that first summer, Nathan showed me how to lift with my elbow and reach upward, forward and down, using my hand like a sleek fin, synchronizing my breathing. It wasn’t long before we were swimming across the lake and back again, sometimes twice in an afternoon.
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