by Roz Nay
I couldn’t answer. I’ve never had assurance like hers.
I babysat for HP and Saskia whenever they needed, and the more I did, the more Saskia confided in me. After a while she got real. She went into great, unrequested detail about how having a baby can really drive a wedge between a husband and a wife, and how important it was to secure a “date night” just to stay in touch. She seemed desperate for a confidante and perhaps believed that telling me all her deepest thoughts and fears was a currency with which she might buy my allegiance.
One night last August, I sat with Olive at bedtime. As she liked to remind me, she was starting preschool in the fall like a big girl, so whenever I was over at her house we had to practice reading all the time. HP and Saskia were at the movies, watching some flick about love and time travel—Saskia’s pick. For some reason, Olive had had a meltdown when they were leaving, and I’d bribed her with candy. Finally she was calm, exhausted, just in time for bed. Olive’s hands were still sticky from the candy, even after I’d washed her up.
“I feel a bit sweaty,” she said, turning pages of her storybook, a mindless tale about a ballerina mouse.
“Do we have to read this book?” I asked. “It’s super lame.”
“Superlame-o!” shouted Olive, as if it were a new cartoon character. “Mommy gave this book to me.”
“Do you like your mommy?” I asked.
“She’s pretty.”
“Who do you like more—her or me?”
Olive turned her hot little face up toward mine and planted her hand on my forearm. She sighed a breath of overripe strawberries. “Am I pretty, Angie?” she asked, her eyes suddenly, inexplicably, brimming with tears.
“You are. You are so, so pretty.” I put my arm around her and handed her another candy from my pocket.
“But I already brushed my teeth,” she whispered.
“We won’t tell anyone. It can be our little secret.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Why tell me that?” asks Novak.
“What?”
“Why tell me you manipulated the mind of a child?”
“Are you going to arrest me for giving a kid a candy and telling her she’s beautiful?”
Novak walks around the room. Under the electric light, he looks haunted. “Can we talk more about where you were two nights ago, Angela?”
“What’s your first name? You use mine all the time, in almost every sentence. What’s yours?”
There’s a second or two of wariness. “Jonah.”
“Oh my God. I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
“Where were you the afternoon of June fifteenth?”
“What was the fifteenth—Thursday? I was at my house, or rather my mom’s. We covered that already … Jonah.”
Novak sits down. “Tell me what you know, Angela. Now. So, you were at home on Thursday evening?”
“I went home after work, ate dinner in my kitchen, and went to sleep on the couch.”
“I thought you were living at the Parkers’ house while you gave your mother space to adapt.”
“Like I said, I moved into HP’s for a while. And then I moved out again.”
He pauses, then leafs through his notes, bookmarking a page with a hooked thumb. “Mr. Parker says you lived with them for six weeks. When did you move out?”
“Didn’t he say? Oh, it was a couple of weeks ago, I believe. Early June.”
“Is that when you stole Saskia’s necklace?”
“I told you. I don’t know anything about that. Olive must have put it in my book. You know how kids are always hiding things.”
“I need the details of why you moved out. Full disclosure.”
“Well, pick a direction, Jonah. One minute you’re telling me to hurry the fuck up, the next minute you’re asking for more detail.”
He weighs every word when he speaks. “Just tell me what I need to know.”
“Oh, Jonah,” I say. “You need to trust that I’m steering you for a reason. I’m taking you all the way to the middle of the maze. Can’t you see how easy this is for you? All you’ve ever had to do was listen.”
* * *
When I called HP and told him that I was stuck living with my mother, he was quick to offer me his place to stay.
“I saw your mom downtown, actually. She told me all about it. What if you come our way for a bit, stay with us?” His voice was eager. “We’ll cheer you up. We’ve got the room, and nobody wants to live with their parents.”
“Yours would be okay.”
“Everyone has their … quirks.” He paused on the word. “When you live with them.”
“So I won’t be in the way?”
“Little J—” He faltered. “Angela. You’re family.”
He didn’t even check with Saskia first, or at least I don’t think he did. When I turned up the next day, they put me in their spare room at the top of a curving staircase, every solid step of which HP had sanded into smooth, pale wood. Most of the walls in the house were blue—the kind of aqua you see in postcards sent from the Greek islands. It was as if Saskia was trying to paint herself into the ocean she’d long ago given up.
Above the fireplace, they’d framed a huge photograph of themselves bungee jumping from a bridge in New Zealand. Their ankles were tied together, and at the moment when the camera had captured them, they were at the pinnacle of their bounce, the strain in their spines identical.
HP’s house faced west, so every evening Saskia sat on the porch and watched the sun dip behind the horizon of the mountains. Shadows glimmered like oil on Cove Lake. She called 5:00 p.m. “sundowners” and claimed it as adult time, always making popcorn and dusting it sparingly with sea salt and flakes of nutritional yeast. She handed out Australian lager in tall cans. HP and I were expected to attend.
“I’m stoked you’re staying with us, Ange,” Saskia chirped that first evening. “No point worrying your mum. Stay as long as you like, mate, no worries.” She reached across the swing seat and bumped me on top of my wrist. Bullfrogs sang in the ditches. “So, go on then—what’s the deal with your oldies?”
That was the thing about Saskia: she loved gossip. I took a swig of my lager, denting the can’s Australian flag with my thumb. “You know,” I began, “most people get married because they can’t think of anything else to do.”
HP stopped whittling the stick he had in his lap and looked up at me.
“I guess my mom only just figured that out.”
“They weren’t soul mates, she and your dad?” Saskia put her hand to her chest, sighing with an empathy I doubt she actually felt.
“There’s no such thing.”
HP laughed and shook his head.
“What, you don’t believe in true love?” Saskia looked crestfallen.
“I believe most people get together because it’s easier to fight off desolation in pairs. There’s no end to the drivel you can talk about if you have someone to bounce words off of. Marriage is the easiest way in the world to stay distracted—you can literally waste hours on the couch while one of you channel surfs on behalf of the other.”
“That’s sad,” said Saskia. “That’s a heaps dark perspective.”
“I call bullshit.” HP wagged his knife at me. “As if you don’t believe in soul mates. You talked of nothing else in high school.”
I glared at him from the padded swing seat and pushed it back suddenly. Saskia jerked forward. “Sorry,” I said to her. Then I walked away, into the house.
HP knew what I was thinking: If soul mates are real, how can it be that Saskia and I both have the same one?
There was only one answer: One of us was lying.
Saskia disappeared between five forty-five and six forty-five every night, scurrying inside to cook for and feed and bathe and clothe and rock and soothe and sing to and settle her five-year-old. She called it the “witching hour,” Saskia’s term for Olive’s ability to turn into a purple screaming monster, although in my opinion the witching hour referred
to Saskia herself, because at that time every day she was worn out. Neither I nor HP could ask her a question without having our sentence snapped short by terseness.
“Do you need any help with the…” I’d begin, or, “Where did you put the…” only to have Saskia wheel around on me with a half-chopped banana and a face on fire. After some time I caught on to the rhythms of her mood schedule and knew, like HP, that the best way to get through the witching hour was to stay away. Often HP joined me.
“I thought she loved being a mom,” I muttered one evening as HP and I watched her slam clothes into the washing machine.
“She does. But it’s not easy. Everyone has their moments.”
“Every day?”
We both laughed, the way people do when they’re not saying what they really think. More and more, I realized that HP was describing their life together in terms other than perfection and paradise. One night, as I read late in the spare room, I could hear Saskia crying softly at the bottom of the stairs. HP was down there, too. I tiptoed to the landing and stood in the shadows near the top step.
“Quit stressing so much,” HP was saying. I could see the crown of his head as he crouched near Saskia’s knees. “We’ve got a lifetime of this ahead of us; it’s a marathon, not a sprint.”
“I’m never present enough. I keep losing things. I left Olive’s stuffy at the mall.”
“Again?” he said.
“Yes. We went back for it.” She sniffed. “I just can’t be all things to all people.”
“You’re doing fine. You’re an amazing mom.” He reached out and lifted her chin. “Olive’s happy and thriving. She’s doing great.”
“You’re so happy-go-lucky. I wish I was like that.”
Just as they paused in their whispering, the cell in my back pocket started to ring and I flew back into the spare room, swearing under my breath.
“Hello?”
“Darling? What’s the matter? You sound flustered.” My mother was pouring herself a drink. I could hear the flap of liquid in the background.
“It’s kind of late, Mom. What do you want?”
“Want?” She sipped and spoke through a wash of liquor. I could picture her lips containing the tide. “Can’t I call my only daughter for a chat? Goodness. I’m calling to tell you you’re welcome to move back here, darling, whenever you like. I’d love some company.”
My mind raced. I wasn’t ready to leave.
“Honestly, I can’t believe you sleep a wink in that house with a married couple and a child. You’ve given me a nice break, but maybe it’s time to come home.”
A break? What was that supposed to mean? I didn’t want to go back. I was fine where I was. “I don’t know, Mom.”
“Let me tell you something I’ve learned: Nobody’s happy. You mark my words—nobody.”
“Have you heard from Dad?”
She didn’t answer. I could just hear her breath and the ice in her glass clinking. Dad had never seen it coming, the divorce. According to him, she’d announced she was moving out at the same time as she was making hummus; she’d even had the food processor going so he’d had to crane to hear her. I’m done, David, she’d said as if she was talking about a chore. It’s pointless continuing. She’d already packed all her bags and when she arrived at my place, she had the hummus with her in a Tupperware container. In the week that followed, Dad was served divorce papers and a Realtor knocked on his door with a clipboard. He agreed to the sale but reeled his way out of town, probably still believing it was all just a lifetime’s-worst dream.
“Don’t worry about your father,” Mom said. “He’s totally fine. Throwing himself into fresh waves of bookish research. He was always happiest amongst dusty things that didn’t try to talk to him.”
“Good,” I said. “For him, I mean.” Another prolonged silence. “Mom, don’t you have any friends you could invite over for a few days? What happened to all the ladies from harp class?”
“It’s not … I don’t need company, darling. That’s not it. I just think this is the right place for you right now.”
“Okay, Mom. I’ll be there … soon. I just have to help out here for a few more days.”
“If you must, Angela,” she continued quietly, “although I’m not sure it’s healthy.”
I wasn’t clear if she meant for me or for her, but either way I didn’t hurry to move back in with my mom. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be her caregiver or look after her while she went through her melodramatic upheaval. She was milking it; she’d been the one to leave Dad. If anyone needed company, it was more likely him. But Dad was a dog that had been hit by a car; he’d limped to small-town coastal Maine and while he spoke on the phone of restorative air and bracing walks along cliff tops, I knew he wouldn’t properly emerge for anyone until he’d gotten past the worst of his injuries. And in the meantime I had a new family. I was a godmother to Olive now. It was something I was getting good at.
“You’re nesting,” Freddy joked every time we spoke or he drove up to Cove to take me out for dinner. “Two’s company, you know, or are you unfamiliar with age-old adages?”
Of course I wasn’t at HP’s house all the time in those weeks. Work kept me at the office weekdays from eight thirty until four, and on the weekends Saskia was always rushing off to mommy groups or playdates or teach-your-kid-to-be-amazing-at-everything sessions. I did spend a few Friday nights in New York with Freddy, listening to jazz in his apartment and eating food so elaborate he must have ordered in. He asked me questions about HP but never seemed to care about my answers, glazing over as he opened fresh bottles of wine.
Freddy and my mother might have wanted me out of the Parker house, but the longer I stayed, the more comfortable I felt there. HP, Saskia, and I ate dinner every night in their echoing dining room, a twinkly old chandelier hanging over our heads. Olive was squared away to bed by that point in the evening. The table could easily seat ten, so each meal felt a bit like a board meeting, but still, it was something. Saskia would pop up from her chair to put on new iPad playlists that she’d compiled during the day. She liked songs that made me think of seventeen-year-olds road-tripping to California in a convertible. I’ve never felt so buoyed while eating. Saskia’s mood seemed to dull whenever HP and I joked and laughed together. He’d whip side dishes down the table toward me, making some in-joke or other. Her grimaces were momentary, however, and she regrouped with new conversation starters, as if she had cue cards hidden in her lap.
“If you were a color, what color would you be?”
“Do you believe in magic?”
“What is the happiest moment of your life so far?”
They were questions straight out of a ninth-grade sleepover. Eventually Saskia ran out of prompts, so the subject at dinner conversation rarely strayed from Olive—what she said that day, what new milestone she’d reached, what she had for breakfast. Since there was only so much I could absorb of Olive’s daily successes, I began to bring photographs to the dinner table, just to change the pace. I unearthed a steady stream of classic shots from eleventh-grade parties and graduation, mostly to get HP smiling. It was like a mini high school reunion every night. We laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of our old Halloween costumes or the height of Ezra’s hair during his teenage years.
“Who’s the girl?” Saskia responded to just about every photo she looked at.
“I gave up counting,” HP said, “and so should you.”
“He doesn’t discriminate very well,” I explained.
“He didn’t,” Saskia said.
I scanned the credenza for more wine. When HP went to help Saskia carry dishes back into the kitchen, he punched me on the arm, unseen by her. I could hear Saskia in the kitchen as she dropped cutlery into the sink, the pitch of her voice a mosquito whine, until finally HP came back and told me to quit it with the photographs.
“It makes her feel left out,” he said.
That night I stuck all the pictures into a photo album. It was probabl
y a mistake to leave it on the coffee table in the living room.
Shortly after that, Saskia invited Ezra over for dinner. The inference was that he hadn’t come over in a while.
“On a Friday night?” HP asked when he heard of Ezra’s invitation. “You’re brave.”
Saskia spent the whole afternoon cooking a vegetarian dish made with red peppers that she kept calling capsicums. By the time Ezra showed up it was past eight p.m., and he’d brought a guest with him. From the look on Saskia’s face, he’d not mentioned he was going to bring anyone. Saskia scurried to lay another place at the dining room table.
“Uh-oh,” said HP when he opened the door. Both Ezra and the woman he’d brought had that sloping gait of alcohol and afternoon sun. Ezra’s youthful good looks were a little the worse for wear, sure, but she looked mid-forties. The closer she got, the more of a squint she developed. All but three buttons of her shirt were undone.
“We late?” Ezra licked his teeth. HP held the screen door open for them. “Thanks, buddy. Sorry, we got sidetracked.”
“Ezra!” Saskia arrived at the door again and stood behind HP and me. “I’m afraid you’ve missed Olive, she’s already—”
“You’re looking ravishing, Saskia. Tidy as always.”
“Are you hungry?” she asked. “You look like you could use some food.”
As she walked back toward the kitchen she raised both eyebrows at HP, like it was him that was wasted.
Ezra burped through dinner and barely touched his food. He made reference to the fifteen or so wedding photos Saskia had hung on the wall, noting his absence in all of them. Every now and then HP told him to behave, but the animosity was palpable.
“So what are your plans, Ezra?” Saskia chewed a small mouthful of peppers. “Did you get any more swim-tryout-offer things?”
“Water polo,” Ez said. “And I didn’t make the cut. That’s okay, Saskia, life’s full of losers. We can’t all be perfect.”
“Watch it,” said HP, pointing with his knife. “I’m not telling you again.”