The Arrivals: A Novel

by Meg Mitchell Moore

  Olivia was looking back and forth between them. “Do pigs live in houses?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Not exactly,” said Lillian. “But sort of. It’s more like a cage, a very messy cage.”

  Olivia was quiet, absorbing this.

  Ginny was sorting through an enormous jar of change she had taken from her closet shelf. Looking up at Lillian, she said, “You might make the bed every now and then.”

  “Really?” said Lillian. “You mean turn it back from a bed to a sofa every single morning?”

  “It would make the room feel more like a room, during the day, and less like a seedy motel.”

  Lillian rolled one of the carts over to a washing machine and began stuffing clothes inside. Ginny stopped herself from telling her she was overfilling it, though it was clear that she was.

  “Your father is… unhappy with this arrangement.” Ginny sighed. “And I’m afraid that when he’s unhappy, it makes me unhappy too.”

  “I see. Isn’t that just… old-fashioned.” She said it as though it were a curse word.

  “Lillian!”

  “I’m sorry!” said Lillian unapologetically. “But it is. And it’s just like a man, after all. To criticize, but not to help.”

  Lillian sat down in one of the orange plastic chairs next to Ginny. Olivia had found, in the opposite corner, a bucket of old plastic toys. Ginny thought about telling Lillian not to let her play with them—really, they were very grimy, and who could say what germs might be lurking on their grubby plastic surfaces—but she could tell, even without looking, that Lillian was pouting.

  She gathered every ounce of patience she could muster and said, in what she hoped was a gentle and conciliatory tone, “It’s just that there are a lot of people in the house right now—”

  Lillian had her wallet open and was pulling out dollar bills for the change machine. She spread them neatly beside her on the chair. Philip had caught his fist in her long hair and was twisting, twisting.

  “This one’s missing a piece,” announced Olivia. She was holding a wooden farm puzzle. “The goat is missing,” she said. “Where is it?”

  “I don’t know, sweetheart,” said Ginny. “Why don’t you go look in the box again.” Olivia went back to the box and squatted on the floor in front of it. She poked through listlessly, but it was clear that her heart wasn’t in it.

  “Mom, what do you want me to do? Do you want me to leave?” Lillian untangled her hair from Philip’s wrist and looked up at Ginny. Her eyes were suddenly, startlingly, wet. “I mean, I don’t know what you expect from me.”

  Something cracked then in Ginny. Perhaps it was the way Lillian was looking at her, with an expression that reminded Ginny of every argument they’d had when Lillian was a teenager; it reminded her of every pout, every whine, every angry set of Lillian’s shoulders as she crouched on the basement stairs, whispering into the phone.

  It occurred to her that William was right, had been right to get angry the other day. It occurred to her that she did not welcome the intrusions and chaos in this stage of her life. She had not asked for them, and she did not particularly want to deal with them. She had, after all, already raised her children once. She did not want to do it again. Ginny rose, and stood over Lillian, who sat back in the chair and looked up at Ginny. The position intensified the feeling that Ginny had of talking to a child. She glanced quickly at Olivia, who was paying them no mind. She straightened her spine and said, “I expect you to act like the adult and the mother that you are, Lillian.”

  “What?”

  Ginny thought of all the times over the past few weeks when Lillian had left either Philip or Olivia—and often, both—in Ginny’s care. She thought of the diapers she had changed and disposed of, and the nights of sleep that had been interrupted by one or the other of them. She loved her grandchildren, of course she did, she loved them absolutely to pieces and there was no way she was going to pretend that she didn’t, but enough was enough.

  She said evenly, “I expect you to take care of your own children and stop expecting me to do it for you.”

  The color rose on Lillian’s cheeks; this was the curse of the redhead, and had been a thorn in Lillian’s side since she was very young. Her skin, beautiful but transparent, showed her emotions all too easily. “I’m not—” said Lillian.

  “No. You listen to me. I’m not finished yet.”

  The lady with the orange lipstick had stopped cleaning lint out of a row of dryers to listen. Olivia, too, had stopped rooting in the toy box and was watching her mother and her grandmother. The old woman on the bench, undeterred, continued to read her paper.

  “I expect—” began Ginny.

  “What?” spat Lillian.

  “I expect you to be grateful for the hospitality we’ve shown you over the past several weeks, and for the food that we’ve bought and prepared for you, and for the home that we’ve provided for you and your family—”

  Lillian looked incredulous. “Is this about the money, then? I can’t believe you.” Her wallet was still open beside her on the chair. Quickly, she rifled through it. She grabbed a few bills and tossed them toward Ginny. “Here, take it. Is that enough? Take more.” She reached for more. “Take my credit card. Take a deposit.”

  “You’re not hearing me!” Ginny heard her voice rise shrilly. “It’s not about money.”

  “What’s it about, then?”

  “It’s about understanding. Appreciation. Maturity.”

  “Well,” said Lillian. “I’m sorry if I’m not acting perfectly mature right now, but—” She broke off, and looked down, then back up again. “But Dad isn’t the only one who’s unhappy.”

  Ginny turned toward Lillian. “What do you mean?” she said sharply. “Who else is unhappy?”

  “I am,” said Lillian softly, and she had her head down, her lips resting on Philip’s head. When she at last met Ginny’s gaze Ginny saw that she was crying, quietly, in earnest. Then she was crying loudly, great big gulping sobs. She cast an anguished glance toward Olivia, who had given up on the toys and was wandering among the washing machines, and said, more quietly, “I’m sorry. For making a scene. But I think my marriage is over.”

  “Oh, Lillian.” Ginny sat beside her on the bench. Her heart lurched; she felt suddenly short of breath. “What do you mean?”

  Lillian didn’t answer at first. She leaned over and, as best as she could manage with the baby reclining on her chest, rested her head on her mother’s shoulder and let the story come out, piece by piece. Finally Ginny said, “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  Lillian lifted her head. “You’re not?”

  “Of course not,” said Ginny. “I’m not an idiot. I knew something was going on. I’ve just been waiting for you to tell me in your own time.” After a beat, she said, “Have you thought about your plans?”

  “Plans?”

  “What to do. About your situation.”

  Lillian shook her head, then looked steadily at the bulletin board to the left of the washing machines. LOST DOG, said one sign. PRENATAL YOGA, said another. “I thought,” she began quietly, “that I might stay here for a while.”

  “Oh, Lillian.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, of course you’re welcome to stay, as long as you want to.”

  “Am I?” said Lillian fiercely.

  “Of course you are. But—”

  “But?”

  “But I’m not sure how much that would solve, hiding out like that.”

  “I’m not hiding.”

  “What, then? What would you call it?”

  “You think I should go back,” said Lillian. She met her mother’s eyes.

  “Well.”

  “Right?”

  “I think you should hear him out.”

  “I’ve already heard him out. He’s said everything he can say.” She rubbed her fist in her eye. “You think I should go back.”

  “I think you should think carefully about what you might be gi
ving up by staying away.”

  Lillian rose and walked over to the row of washing machines, peered in one. The woman with the orange lipstick watched her suspiciously. Lillian turned around and then said dramatically, “Jane thinks I should leave him.”

  “Oh, does she?” Ginny snorted.

  “She does. She thinks it’s black and white, just like that.”

  “I can’t say I’m surprised about that either,” said Ginny. She crossed one leg over the other.

  “Maybe it is black and white,” said Lillian. “Or maybe Jane thinks I have other options. But you… you don’t think I do.”

  “Oh, come off it,” snapped Ginny. She rose from the bench and opened one of the dryers. She attacked the clothes mightily, pushing them into the laundry carriage. “Lillian,” she said.

  “What?” said Lillian savagely.

  “Stop it.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop pretending. You and I, we’re not as different as you want us to be.”

  “How do you mean?” Lillian gave her mother a small, cautious glance.

  “I mean that once you become a mother… well, the rules you live by are different.”

  “Oh, rules,” said Lillian, almost shouting. “I am sick to death of rules.” The old woman rose and folded her newspaper carefully, in a manner that reminded Lillian of the way Ginny folded sheets.

  “Nevertheless,” said Ginny. “There they are.”

  “Fine,” said Lillian. “If that’s how you want to see it.”

  “It’s not the worst thing in the world,” said Ginny. She began to fold William’s T-shirts, making a tidy stack on the laundry table.

  “What isn’t? Infidelity?”

  “A stumble,” Ginny said. “A bump in the road. These things can be gotten over.” She thought of Rachel slumped next to her in the car on the way home from the bus station. Ginny would have driven all the way to New York City to bring her home if Rachel had asked. She would have carried her home on her shoulders, all along the New York State Thruway. It all changed, once you became a mother. The lengths you went to. That became more important than everything else. Probably Lillian didn’t know that yet. But she would, one day she would.

  “Oh, can they?” said Lillian. “I’m so happy to hear you think so.”

  “Lillian—”

  “What?”

  “Don’t be like that. I’m only—”

  “I think you’re wrong. I think it is the worst thing.”

  “Sweetheart—” Ginny stopped, then began again. “You’re in pain, anyone can see that. But if you make a huge mistake, if you’re making a huge mistake, then there’s no going back. I’ve seen the way you look at him, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Father Colin.”

  “No,” said Lillian, and her hands began to shake; she had to put them in her pocket to hide the shaking from her mother. “No. We. Are not having. This conversation.”

  Ginny rapped her knuckles quickly on the folding table. Her face became grim. “On the contrary. I think we should have it.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Lillian. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know anything!”

  She could see that that hurt her mother, that that would shut her up, and it did, and they folded in silence for several more minutes, folding and folding, stacking and stacking, while Olivia went back to the toy bucket and emptied all of the contents onto the floor, searching for the missing puzzle piece.

  Rachel parked her father’s car in one of the waterfront lots and walked along the bike path parallel to the lake. She passed a sign for kayak rentals. Maybe she should kayak! Did she even know how to kayak? It had been years since she’d tried, but she had a cobwebby memory of a long-ago camping trip with her parents and Stephen, but without Lillian, who had stayed behind for some teenaged activity whose specifics Rachel couldn’t remember but which she recalled being just fabulous and envy-inducing enough to make Rachel act like a total pill on the camping trip. God, how did they stand it, parents?

  Rachel could see a few kayaks way out in the lake, the kayakers little black dots. The idea of joining them was appealing. She liked the thought of being out there with the birds and the fishes, close to nature and all of that. But she was not sure that she would be able to make it all the way to the middle of the lake (did Pilates muscles translate to paddling muscles?), and wouldn’t it be just her luck to get stuck out there, requiring rescue. The headline in the Free Press: “Loser Old Maid Kayaker Rescued.” No, no kayaking.

  Bikes? There was a shop just ahead of her advertising rentals. That seemed like a good idea, riding as far as the bike path would take her. How far was that? She didn’t know. Except she was wearing a skirt (another reason to eschew the kayaking) and it seemed stupid to spend money she didn’t have to rent something that no doubt was sitting unused in her parents’ basement or garage.

  On to the aquarium, then. She passed through the turnstiles and joined the end of the line of tourists waiting to pay. The ten-dollar entry fee gave her pause, but she chalked it up to an educational experience and handed over her credit card, declining the cashier’s offer to become a full-fledged, card-carrying aquarium member. “I don’t live here,” she told him. But didn’t she, sort of?

  She paused to take a drink from the water fountain near the cubby room, where strollers were lined up like soldiers. The cubbies were filled to bursting with diaper bags spilling out all manner of kid paraphernalia: boxes of crackers, little Sigg bottles with pictures of safari animals or dolphins. All children! This place, like every place, including her parents’ home, was full of families with children. Was Rachel the only single, childless person in the entire building, in the entire world? It seemed just possible that she was.

  She wound her way through the bottom-floor exhibit, studying the sturgeon, with their torpedo-shaped bodies. They depressed her. Remarkable, really, and yet here they were, behind a pane of glass, swimming listlessly around, probably wondering why the lake had suddenly gotten so much smaller. Did they deserve that? It was no wonder they looked so somber.

  A sign to her left told her that at eleven o’clock there was going to be a live animal feeding. What kind of animal? The sign did not divulge that piece of information. Did she want to see a live animal getting fed? She didn’t know. When had she become so indecisive? She didn’t know that either. Was it only a few months ago she had had a life in Manhattan, a busy, fruitful life, a career? Where had all of that gone, and how was it possible for it to go so quickly?

  She was grateful when the ringing of her cell phone interrupted her thoughts, and even more grateful when she saw Whitney’s name in the caller ID window. She missed Whitney. She wasn’t sure about all the rest of it, the hot sidewalks and the smells of garbage in the alleyways and the constant maneuvering around delivery trucks, but she missed Whitney.

  “Rach?” Whitney sounded out of breath.

  “What are you doing? Why do you sound like that?”

  “I’m just walking on the treadmill at the gym.”

  “You are? Oh God, Whitney, hang up the phone. I hate when people do that.”

  “I know. I hate it too. I just… there aren’t enough minutes in the day. Work is nuts, and then the wedding stuff. Anyway, I have one quick thing to tell you. Your bridesmaid dress is in.”

  “It is?” Rachel had nearly forgotten about the wedding. She had certainly forgotten about the dress.

  “It is. I picked it up last night. It’s gorgeous. I swear to God, Rachel, you’re going to look amazing. You’re going to look better than the bride!”

  “Oh, shut up.” But Rachel smiled. She did love the dress. But. There was one thing. “Hey, Whitney?” She tried to make her voice sound assured and confident, the way she did when she put out calls for actors for work, all business. “I paid for the dress already, right?” She closed her eyes and waited for the answer.

  There was a pause. “You put down the deposit a few months ago. I j
ust paid the balance when I picked it up for you. That’s all, just the balance.”

  Rachel exhaled as silently as she could. “Jesus, I forgot all about that. How much was the balance?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Take care of yourself up there, Rach. You have shit going on. You’ve been through a lot. Pay me later.”

  Rachel felt an odd, weak sensation in her knees, and the edges of her vision began to blur. She located a bench and lowered herself slowly down onto it, next to a mother nursing an infant. She turned carefully away from the mother for the sake of privacy, but the woman didn’t seem to care: she was proud of it, not even using a blanket to cover herself or the baby. Vermont, thought Rachel grimly.

  “Rachel? It’s okay, really. I’ll take care of it.”

  Why was she the one who always needed taking care of? Whitney didn’t. Whitney was fine. It sucked, being the underdog all the time. It just plain sucked. She knew she sounded short-tempered when she said, “Whitney, just tell me. What was the balance?”

  “Two hundred thirty-three. That’s with tax. But really, Rachel. I’m the one who picked out such an expensive dress—”

  “I’ll send you a check. I’m not a charity case.”

  “Rachel, seriously. It’s my wedding. I don’t want you to go broke over it.”

  But I’m already broke, thought Rachel. What’s it matter, a little bit more? She said, “I’ll send you a check. I’ll put it in the mail tomorrow.” Any check for that amount sent from her account at the moment was likely to bounce, she knew that. They both knew that. Perhaps she could pay Whitney through PayPal. That way she could put it on her credit card. Could you pay a friend through PayPal? Was that done? She didn’t know. But she was about to find out. She’d figure out the details later. “I’ll get it to you,” she said. “I’ll get it to you ASAP.” When had she turned into someone who said ASAP? She’d never been that person before.

  After she released Whitney from the phone call she walked up the stairs to the second floor of the aquarium, where a gaggle of children had gathered for the live animal show. She took her place behind them, alongside the parents, and she studied the children, their plump, rapt faces. (All that collagen! They didn’t know how lucky they were.) What was it her father had told her at the ice-cream factory? That she had a joy about her as a child. An ease with the world. Where had they gone, the joy and the ease? She wanted them back.