“Would you like to play with something?”
“No.”
“How about we just talk, then?”
I trace a line in the swirly carpet with my finger, say nothing.
“Is there anything you’d like to talk about, Clementine?”
I miss you every single day. I miss the way we used to play.
“No.”
“Sometimes it can be hard to talk,” she says. “Particularly about things that are painful. But it’s important we talk about things, or they can become stuck inside us. You know that feeling people get in their bellies, when they’re feeling sad or worried about something? It can feel like butterflies or a clenched fist or sometimes it can even make you feel a little bit sick?”
I know the feeling she’s talking about. It’s the one I get when Miranda is around.
“That’s what happens when you hold feelings inside,” she says. “If you talk about what’s bothering you, sometimes that feeling won’t feel quite so bad. And sometimes, it will even go away entirely.”
“My daddy killed himself,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Do you miss your daddy?”
I shrug. I did miss him. Now I don’t know.
“Sometimes,” Dr. Felder says, “when you lose someone suddenly, the hardest part is not being able to say the things you need to say to them.” She looks at me. “What would you say to your daddy if he were here right now?”
“I’d tell him I was very angry with him.” I look at Dr. Felder’s face, at her funny glasses and spiky hair, and I wonder what she will think about this.
But she doesn’t seem to think anything. “What are you angry about?” she asks.
“I’m angry that he left us.”
“That’s understandable.” Dr. Felder is quiet for a bit.
“And I’m angry that he is a bad man.”
“Oh?” Dr. Felder’s eyebrows rise up. “Why is he a bad man?”
“He did bad things. With people’s money.”
She nods. “It must be hard for you to hear that your dad did bad things.”
“It is,” I say. “I thought he was a good daddy. I thought he was the best daddy in the world.”
Suddenly, the tears come back.
Dr. Felder takes a box of Kleenex from her desk and holds it out. I take one.
“Is there anything else you’d like to say to your dad, Clementine?”
I think of a night not long before Daddy died, when Mom went out late. Daddy and I ate pizza and then he let me put pink lipstick on him and clips in his hair. When it was time for me to go to bed, he promised he would keep the lipstick on until Mom got home so she could see it. In the morning, he told me he did keep it on, that Mom thought he looked very pretty. I giggled.
Now I wonder if he was telling the truth.
“No,” I say. “Nothing else.”
36
Eve
That night, I sit on the sofa with a large glass of white wine in my hand, rehearsing.
Hello, Angus.
Welcome to my home.
Won’t you come in?
It is supposed to sound sensual, but it all sounds ridiculous, coming out of my mouth. I’d spent the last hour going back and forth about whether I should even be going ahead with my date at all. But every time I pick up the phone to cancel, Anna’s voice speaks to me. And I put the phone down again.
At 7:30 P.M. on the dot, I pick up my phone again. It’s late notice, but I’ll fake an illness or something. But before I can dial Angus’s number, it starts to ring.
My heart flies into my throat. I’d received two phone messages today, one only an hour ago, from Ms. Donnelly at Clem’s school. Her message simply said to call her back, but her voice was clipped—the voice of a determined debt collector. She must know something. I picture her at her desk behind her thick glasses, circling our address in red pen, and I want to curl up and cry. But when I look at the phone, it’s Mother’s number on the screen. I exhale in relief.
“Clem?” I say.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Are you having a good time at Nana and Papa’s?”
“Yeah.” She giggles. “Papa keeps saying he’s not ticklish, but he is.”
In the background, I hear Dad insisting that he is not, in fact, ticklish. This is followed by loud (obviously false) laughter on his part and real laughter from Clem. It warms my heart.
“Clem?”
“Yeah?”
A crackling sound, like a radio between channels, blasts into the room. The buzzer.
“What’s that?” Clem asks.
“Oh, a delivery, probably,” I say quickly. “Anyway, Nana is dropping you home early in the morning, so I’ll walk you to school, okay?”
“Okay.”
I exhale. I’d been expecting some protest at the word “school,” but she seems in good spirits. “Okay. Have sweet dreams, hon.”
“I will. Bye, Mom.”
With a racing heart, I buzz Angus inside. Then I glance in the mirror. I wish I’d gone for the jeans and soft black sweater instead of the cleavage-hugging red wrap-dress, but it’s too late now. I peel open the door, and Angus is standing there, holding a brown bag full of produce and a small bunch of pink roses.
“Hi,” I say. So much for my sensual welcome.
“Hi,” he says.
I smile. We stand there a minute.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
“Oh! Sure.” I giggle and open the door farther. What is it about Angus that makes me behave like an imbecile every time I see him? “You can put the bags in the kitchen over there. Thanks again for getting the groceries.”
Angus heads straight to the kitchen, and I follow. “Where I come from, you don’t ask a woman if you can make her dinner and then ask her to buy the groceries.”
Angus unloads the bags onto the bench and I quickly realize that with Angus and all his groceries in the kitchen, there’s not enough room for much else. Including me. I stand there awkwardly for a moment until Angus clears a small amount of bench space and pats it.
I hesitate.
“Go on. I like having someone to talk to while I cook.”
I continue to hesitate until Angus grips my waist and lifts me onto the bench. He immediately starts to unpack the bags, nonchalant, but the gentle gesture leaves me scrambling for breath for several seconds. Angus doesn’t seem to notice. I watch him pull items from the bags. Parsley. Spinach. Potatoes. His hands, I notice, are impressively clean. I suppose I’d have expected a residue of dirt that was impossible to remove, but his gardener’s nails are cleaner than my own.
“Shall I open this?” I say. I gesture to the beading bottle of white wine on the counter.
“I’ll do it,” he says, fishing out a Swiss Army knife from his pocket. I slide off the bench and reach around him for glasses. For a delicious instant, my front presses lightly against his back.
“How was your—?” I start, at the same time as he says, “Long day?”
“Sorry,” we say in unison, and then, “You go. No, you go.”
Angus pours our drinks, and I take a large gulp of wine. Then another. Angus and I usually have a fairly easy, comfortable relationship at work, but what if we are a disaster socially? If this evening goes awry, I can kiss our comfortable work relationship good-bye! I watch Angus as he reaches for my chopping board. His expression is pleasantly neutral, but then, he has the advantage—having a meal to prepare, busywork to keep his hands occupied and his head from overanalyzing it all.
“Nice place,” he says after a lengthy silence.
“Yes,” I say, surveying the expanse of brown décor. “I’m sure brown is coming back into fashion—I’m just a little ahead of the trend.”
Angus chuckles. “I love what you’ve done with the kitchen,” he says, taking a piece of whitefish out of a cool bag and resting it on the chopping board. I laugh and give him a friendly punch. He catches my fist and holds it for a long moment. A pulse of electricity r
uns through me.
“What are you cooking?” I ask, breaking the charged silence.
“Sea bass. And potatoes.”
I smile again. No jus. No ancient grain salad or Vietnamese greens. Just fish. And potatoes. Which, if done properly, is a meal entirely unto itself.
Angus finds a peeler in a drawer and declines my offer to help. In my kitchen, he seems so confident, so relaxed. His peeling hand is completely steady and smooth as it glides over the potato. But when I look down at my own hand, holding my wineglass, I notice it’s shaking just the tiniest bit.
* * *
We eat dinner at the small round table and afterwards move to the couch. There, Angus reclines, pulling me—in a way that is both natural and entirely terrifying—into the crook of his arm. For no reason in particular, I think about Anna and Luke. Did they once have evenings like this? Well, perhaps not exactly like this, but I can’t help picturing them together, on the couch in the parlor, talking, holding hands, enjoying each other. They deserve to have nights like this.
“Well,” I say, relaxing against him. “That was delicious.”
“I was pretty nervous,” he admits. “I haven’t cooked dinner for a chef before. I was hoping to impress you.”
“You did,” I say. “The last person to cook for me was Clem, and that was toast and a cup of tea on Mother’s Day.” I smile. “This was very special.”
“How’s Clem doing?” Angus asks.
“She’s…” I start to reel off the standard response—she’s coping, she’s strong—but I stop myself. “Actually, I have no idea. She’s up and down. I’m worried about her.”
“She’s a great kid, Eve.”
“Even though she told me I could never kiss you again?”
“Yeah, that was a shame,” he says. “But I like her. She’s feisty and she says what she thinks. But she’s also kind, which not all seven-year-olds are. The other day, after May’s visitors left, Clem sat beside her for a while and held her hand.”
I smile because I remember Clem doing that. Afterwards when I asked her why, she’d said, “I think May feels lonely after her family leaves.”
“She is special like that,” I say.
Angus grins and taps his head gently against mine. “Anyway, I have some news.”
“You do?”
“My sister, Kelly, is pregnant.”
I jerk up, look at him. “But I thought she couldn’t afford to do IVF because of—”
“Not IVF. She became pregnant naturally. She’s twelve weeks along. She had an ultrasound today, and it all looks good.”
I can’t believe it. Guilt and relief and elation all swirl through me at once.
“The funny thing is that they did IVF seven times and never had any luck. Then, after five months of no treatment, she became pregnant naturally!”
“I’ve heard of that happening,” I say. “It’s almost as though the body needs you to relax and forget about it in order for it to happen.”
“And that wouldn’t have happened if they hadn’t lost their money.”
Silence. “Oh, Angus, I don’t think—”
“What your husband did was bad. But good and bad stuff comes out of everything. I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”
He doesn’t. I’ve thought about it; good coming from bad. After all, if I hadn’t met Richard, I wouldn’t have had Clem. And yet …
“I’m not sure Richard should be taking credit for your sister’s pregnancy.”
“Maybe not,” Angus says, “but it’s a good reminder that people heal and move on with their lives. And they might even start a new chapter that they wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for what he did.”
“Yes. Maybe.”
“I must admit…” he says, reaching out to stroke my cheek, “I’m hoping that you and I are starting a chapter right now. And while I’d never wish what happened onto you or Clem, I have to say, I’m very glad to be sitting here with you right now.”
“Well,” I say, “I’m not glad we’re sitting here.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I’d be much happier if we were lying”—I point over Angus’s shoulder toward the bedroom—“right over there.”
Angus’s eyes follow my finger; then they start to twinkle. He stands, lifting me with him. “Your wish is my command.”
37
Anna
Nine months ago …
“Put this on,” Dad says, handing me a pair of blue doo-dahs for my legs. His cheeks are flushed, and that’s when I realize I’m naked, apart from a white sheet. He digs back into my closet and pulls out a pair of under-things. “And this. I’ll be in the dining room.”
I don’t move. I’m perfectly happy right where I am.
“What are you going there for?” I ask.
“Lunch.” He doesn’t say remember? but the way he looks at me, I guess he must have said this before. “The cook has made tostadas or enchiladas or something.”
“She only ever makes tostadas or enchiladas or something. What I’d really like is a big, juicy cheeseburger with a side of fries.”
Dad smiles. “I’ll save you a seat.”
He leaves, and I look at the things in my lap. With a strange, almost scientific awareness, I realize I have no idea what to do with them. The blue things go on my legs—I know that much. But there are three holes, two small and one large, as well as a long thing with silver teeth and a big silver circle. Pockets and seams are everywhere. What am I supposed to do with it all?
I lean back, resting my head against the back of the sitting thing. I could easily sleep, right here, for hours. Is it really only the middle of the day? The light outside, hazy and foggy, indicates that it is. And so does the gnaw in my belly. It’s a little paunchy now, my belly. So much has changed about me lately, it’s no wonder I don’t recognize myself.
Finally I stand, and when I do, my left side starts to tingle. My mind runs over the possibilities. Pins and needles? Heart … explosion? Dead leg? I shrug off the thought. No use panicking myself. I have a brain-disease. What are the chances of that white, jagged stuff striking twice?
I sit back down, tired, but a horrible feeling nags at me—a feeling that I should be somewhere else. Then again, I live in a home for old people. Where could I possibly need to be?
I close my eyes and go to sleep.
“Anna.”
When I open my eyes, Dad is standing over me. On autopilot, I rub my eyes and stretch. Funny what my brain will do for me. It will stretch without any request, but when I desperately want it to conjure up information, nothing. “What?”
“Lunch.” His voice sounds irritated, which is strange. He must be really hungry.
“Oh. Good. I’m starving.” As I stand, a pile of clothes slides off my legs, and I realize I’m wearing only a white sheet-thing. A towel, that’s what it is. “I’d better get dressed. You go ahead, I’ll meet you there.”
A flash of pink comes to his cheeks, then just as quickly, it blanches away. He looks unexpectedly, impossibly sad. “It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll wait.”
* * *
On the table next to my sleeping-bench, I have quite the collection of things. Flower-leaves. Rocks. Movies I’ll never watch. A book that Dad left here last time he visited—I might tuck it away before he comes back, a keepsake. Maybe I’ll write it in my notebook to tell Jack. Stole Dad’s book. What’s he going to do? I have the brain-disease.
A drip of something rolls down my forehead. It’s stifling in here. Boiling hot. I hoist myself off the sleeping-bench. There must be a cool-machine around here somewhere! Or a whirly-spinner that blows air around. Or a wet cloth or something I can put on my head. I walk over to the hole in the wall and put my face to it, but there’s no wind. No relief.
“Anna?” says a man’s voice. “What are you doing?”
I spin around. “Jack!” It feels like forever since I’ve seen him. “Thank the Lord. Where is the cool-machine? Is it summer?”
J
ack watches me for a disturbingly long time. “Yes,” he says. “It’s summer.”
He cuts across the room to the hole in the wall and slides it open. I laugh. Silly me. It was closed! Then he unbuttons my woolly overshirt and takes it off. Pulls something else over my head. “There you go. That should cool you down.”
Jack is wearing a shirt, short leg-pants, and shoes that hardly cover his feet. With my things off, already I start to feel cooler. “Ah,” I say, “that’s better.”
A little boy steps out from behind Jack and grins, all coy and cheeky.
“Hello, young man!” It’s hard not to smile at his little elfin face. He reminds me of someone—a cartoon character—Richie Rich or Dennis the Menace or something. Just the sight of him makes me feel happy. “What’s your name?”
The little boy looks at Jack, and Jack nods. “It’s … Ethan,” he says.
“That’s a cool name,” I say. “Nice to meet you, Ethan.”
The little boy’s smile disappears. Jack is still smiling, but he’s always had a terrible poker face. When we were little, if one of us had to lie to Mom and Dad, I always told him to wait in the bedroom. For that reason, Mom always demanded Jack be the one to tell the version of how the vase got broken, or whatever scuffle we found ourselves in. Now, although his tone is patient and friendly, his face is stiff.
I don’t feel so happy anymore.
“I think you should go now,” I say, turning my back on them. I focus on the hole in the wall, the open hole. The air that drifts in and out is warm and dry. Because it’s summer.
“But we just got here—”
“I’m tired,” I say. “I want to sleep.”
I wait a moment. But when I look over my shoulder, they’re still there, limp, like those dolls on sticks who need someone to pull their strings. What are they called? I scrunch up my face, trying to bring up the word. It’s on the edge of my tongue.
I spin around. “What the fuck are those little dolls called?”
The words sound ugly, and the little boy flinches. There are tears on my face, and I feel like I might be sick. I expect the little boy to flee from the room but instead he forges toward me, closer and closer, until I’m the one who flinches. When he’s an inch away, he tugs me down and wraps his little arms around my neck. “It was nice to meet you, Anna,” he says. He’s a hard, wiry little boy, and he smells like sunshine and dirt. “I love you.”
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