“How am I going to explain this to others? Like, how will Clara ever understand?”
Clara. “Well, I helped your cause there. At the moment she’s angrier with me.”
“Aren’t you angry with her?”
“Aren’t you?” Patrick imagined what it must have been like to receive court documents in rehab and not be able to do much about it.
“You said you’d handle it, and I guess you did. I still don’t really know what happened.”
“That makes two of us.” It would be easy to assign Clara the blame, but he didn’t. He relented. “I went too far. I pushed her buttons.”
“You always push her buttons.”
“Yeah, but something was different this time. I think she was coming to me for help.”
Greg’s head flopped to one side like a rag doll’s. “What do you mean?”
“She’s going through some stuff.”
Greg kicked a leg in Patrick’s direction, but the couch was so vast he didn’t come close to making contact. “We’re all going through stuff.”
Patrick tilted his head back over the side of the sofa until he was looking at the Christmas tree upside down. It started with a point and broadened out from there, an upside-down pink triangle, glimmering with soft light.
“Can you make it right?” Greg asked. “I’m sort of in an all-hands-on-deck situation here.”
Marlene glanced up from her perch behind Patrick’s knees. She seemed concerned about this new arrival, unsure what Greg was about. She struggled to keep alert until she had a better sense of his agenda. Patrick stroked her behind the ears.
He wanted to make things right, but in the moment he didn’t know how. He tore his attention from the tree, pulled himself back up on the couch, and shook the dizziness from his head. Greg looked healthier than he did at the funeral, less gaunt. He’d gained weight, in a good way; the result, he guessed, of having regular, healthy meals prepared for him and people ensuring he ate them. “She feels betrayed, but she’ll get over it. She doesn’t love Darren.”
“What? That’s crazy.” Greg lazily tossed a throw pillow at Patrick, who tucked it into his chest and hugged his arms around it. “How would you know?”
“I have a hunch.”
“You have a hunch she doesn’t love her husband.”
Patrick and Greg had once shot Clara with a BB gun when they were kids. Not Clara, exactly—a rock at her feet. But the BB ricocheted and stung her ankle like a yellow jacket. It was an accident; they were boys being stupid. But the vitriol that came at them, the historical grievances that they had to bear—paying the price for violence perpetrated against all women from seemingly the dawn of time—made it believable that there was no way she would ever be able to forgive mankind enough to forgive even one man. “I’ll help her through this,” Patrick said, suddenly eager for a new Sisyphean task. “I failed Sara. I can do better for Clara.” Tomorrow, though. Right now, he wasn’t getting off his couch.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Greg protested. “Hold on. How did you fail Sara?”
“She would have expected more out of me. From this summer. With the kids.”
“The kids love you, Patrick,” he declared. “It’s so obvious from the way they look at you.”
“Oh, god, I hope not.”
Greg leaned forward and punched his brother just below the knee. “What is wrong with you?”
“Ow!”
“Seriously.”
“That was my shin.” Patrick massaged his leg for sympathy.
“I’ll punch you in the other shin.” Greg made a fist before abandoning it, and then let his hand drop to his side. “Your whole life is about being loved. By strangers, by everyone. Why not my kids?”
Patrick felt his throat closing from an allergic reaction to . . . attachment. He swallowed three times for air. “I walked away from all that. Adoration.”
“And none of us understood why.”
In the moment, Patrick wasn’t quite sure he understood, either. He never wanted other people to see the sadness. He was so afraid people wouldn’t laugh if everyone knew how twisted he looked on the inside. And then the show ended and he didn’t feel like making people laugh anymore. To play other roles—serious roles—he would have to access parts of himself, and . . . he didn’t want to do that, either. “Turns out it’s painful to be loved. Intolerable even, at times.”
Greg nodded, still in the throes of his own intolerable mess. “This was all Sara’s idea, you know.”
“What was?”
Greg made a gesture to encompass the room. “All of this. I came clean to her a few weeks before the end. About my addiction, the pills. Everything. Typical Sara. Sprang into crisis mode. By the end of the afternoon, she had cooked up this plan.”
“For me to take the kids?” Patrick propped himself up on his elbows in disbelief. “She didn’t think I’d screw it up?”
“I think she most definitely thought you’d screw it up.” Greg smiled before adding, “But kids are resilient.”
It felt like a betrayal of sorts, the benefaction of her kids. How dare she see him so clearly in need. They weren’t friends like that. Not anymore. Not at the end. And yet, her last act was a gift? None of it made any sense.
Greg snapped to get Patrick’s attention. “Was she right? Sara? Did she do the right thing?”
Patrick stood up, his head spinning. “All of you and your endless questions. All the time. ‘What would happen if we didn’t have any elbows—how would people eat soup?’ And it’s like, the fuck do I know? Do you eat soup with your elbows now?”
Greg laughed.
“It’s not funny!”
“We do eat soup with our elbows,” he declared. “Kind of.”
“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUR FAMILY?”
“If you don’t have any elbows, how the hell are you going to bring a spoon to your mouth?” Greg locked his arms straight like a zombie in an attempt to prove his point.
Patrick scrambled from the couch, Greg in pursuit, slowly, grunting like the undead. He followed his brother to the bookshelves, where something caught his eye.
“Your Golden Globe is dented.”
“Yeah.”
“My kids do that?”
“I’ll put it on your tab.”
Greg grimaced. He had no idea what a Golden Globe statue cost, but it couldn’t be cheap.
“It fell in the earthquake,” Patrick said, letting his brother off the hook. “And I was just kidding about your rotten kids. Of course I love them, too.”
Greg pulled his brother into a tight hug; Patrick extricated himself before things grew any squishier. “You got affectionate in rehab.”
“Is it too gay?” Greg winked at his brother. Patrick made a playful fist.
He led the way to the kitchen and retrieved a few of the pies from the fridge. Together, they eased back the plastic wrap and picked at a few bites. Chocolate, banana crème, coconut, lemon, key lime. They stood there in comfortable silence; only with family can total silence be this agreeable.
“Save some of the lemon for Rosa. She’ll like that. She’s always asking for lemons from my yard.”
“Okay.” Greg scraped his fork through some of the banana filling before letting it sit on his tongue. “How am I going to do it?”
Patrick reached for a bite of coconut, bent his elbow (newly aware of its importance), and brought the pie to his mouth. He let it melt, buttery and soft, until it reminded him of yellowtail sushi. “Grief orbits the heart. Some days the circle is greater. Those are the good days. You have room to move and dance and breathe. Some days the circle is tighter. Those are the hard ones.”
Greg stabbed aimlessly at the banana pie. “They’re all hard ones.”
“Right now they are. The easier ones are ahead. They come with time.”
“Wha
t do I do until then?”
Patrick smushed what was left of the filling against the back of his teeth and then carefully licked it off. “Endure.” He felt sleep encroaching.
“Come home with us,” Greg said.
“No.”
“The kids—”
“—Greg.”
“What?”
Patrick put his fork in the sink. For the first time in weeks he couldn’t wait to walk through his front door and be completely, totally alone. He imagined lying still, luxuriating in the silence—the only annoyance the sound of the desert wind, and even that would be blowing his cares away.
He stretched the plastic back over the pies and returned them to the fridge over Greg’s objections. “I wasn’t done with that.”
Marlene scratched her ears, her collar jingling a clarion ring.
“That’s enough for tonight.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Patrick observed the kids run ahead, down the carpeted hallway and past the ticketing desks toward the entrance to the airport’s second terminal that housed the arrival and departure gates. “Stay where I can see you!” It was almost laughable, his avuncular overprotection in the company of their father; he was the laborer who stayed after his shift to comment on everyone else’s work. The airport itself was small (you could see clear from one end of the hall to the other) and largely empty; September was still the off-season. He dragged the kids’ carry-ons as they wiggled like salamanders, forging ahead undeterred.
Greg offered, “It’s not too late, you know.”
“Too late for what?”
“For you to come with us.”
Patrick stopped in front of the departures board; he wasn’t having this conversation again. “You all need some time alone. As a family.” He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The airport’s cooling system was fighting a losing battle.
“We are family.”
Sister Sledge ran through Patrick’s head like they’d been transported to a 1980s gay bar. “I’m sure the kids have had enough of me.” One of the wheels on Grant’s suitcase caught on a snag in the carpet.
“I haven’t had my time with you.”
Patrick placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder. Greg needed his own room to grieve. He shouldn’t carry Sara inside him like Patrick had carried Joe these past dozen years; he didn’t have the luxury of drifting through life unhealed—not with children to raise.
A young straight couple passed them; the woman, in hiking gear with a backpack and Nalgene bottle, focused her eyes on Patrick. Greg was invisible to them, but he stared back nonetheless.
“How do you do it?” Greg asked when the couple was out of earshot.
“What?”
“Those people who just walked by. Staring.”
“What people?”
Greg pointed beyond Patrick’s shoulder. He turned just in time to see the couple lean into each other and giggle. “I couldn’t be watched like that. Just the thought of eyes on me all the time.”
Patrick didn’t even notice it anymore. “Get used to it. You’re going to have eyes on you at all times. Mom, Dad. The kids as they get older. Clara will be on you like a hawk.”
Patrick could see on his brother’s face how much he wanted to just have everyone’s trust without earning it.
“You can do this, you know. I have faith in you.”
Greg looked everywhere but at his brother.
“Did you remember to put your phone charger in your carry-on? The kids will want to watch YouTube. Do you want granola bars for the plane?”
“Listen to you.” Patrick was Sara in that moment, mothering him and the kids. Greg fished in his pocket for the boarding passes they had printed back at the house.
Patrick watched Maisie chase Grant in a tight circle. They were laughing in the way that you can when the rest of the world drops away. “I’m going to miss them, you know.” The promise of a quiet house swiftly seemed less appealing. He wished like hell it was Wednesday just so Rosa would be puttering around or he could smell her enchilada sauce simmering in the kitchen.
“Settle down, Patrick.”
Patrick’s hackles were instantly raised. “Am I making a scene?”
“No, settle down. Find someone.”
Patrick chuckled. “I’m good.”
“You could have kids of your own. You’re so good with them. I watched you with Grant yesterday. Teaching him to put his face in the water. I was actually jealous of your time with them this summer. That should have been me.”
“I wasn’t teaching him to put his face in the water, I was trying to drown him.” Patrick shoved his hands in his pockets.
Greg shook his head. “I hate thinking of you all alone.”
Patrick removed his cap to muss his hair before crouching into a squat. He hid his face in his hat until he regained his composure. Greg fanned himself with the boarding passes. Maisie and Grant plopped in two chairs by the floor-to-ceiling windows to catch their breath. Patrick scrutinized Grant as the boy swung his feet, so carefree. Next summer his legs would properly reach the floor; another token of childhood gone forever.
Greg placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I worry about you.”
Patrick stood, dragging his foot across the ragged carpet. He studied the sole of his shoe as if he had stepped in something unpleasant. “Don’t.”
The lump in Patrick’s throat doubled in size. Coupled with the pounding in his chest, compounded by the precipitous drop in his stomach—it was time to rip off the Band-Aid. He pushed Greg forward until they reached the atrium, the dingy airport suddenly awash in sunlight. “I’m the normal one in the family. Remember that. I’m the most normal.”
“You say it like it’s a competition.”
“Everything’s a competition.”
Patrick’s phone dinged. He pulled it out of his pocket and studied the screen.
“What is it?” Greg asked.
“Package delivered from the Hollywood Foreign Press. I think it’s my new Golden Globe.”
Greg laughed. “Yeah. You’re definitely the most normal.” He looked up at the glass above them. There was a small brown bird, confused by all the windows, flying back and forth from one side of the glass enclosure to the other, looking for a way out. Greg waved at the bird. “That’s us,” he said. “Trapped,” as if the atrium was their grief.
Patrick didn’t want to be included in this diagnosis. “Maybe he’s comfortable in here.”
Greg offered a dismissive shrug. “Trapped, nonetheless.”
And it was true. The bird didn’t belong inside. There might have been comforts—air-conditioning, a Starbucks where people bought muffins that crumbled and left behind delicious, bird-sized treats—but it was ultimately out of place. An airport was not where a bird belonged; even the man-made birds needed to pull back from their gates to pick up speed and fly. The only way out was the sliding door. The bird, high above them, would have to sink lower in order to make its escape.
Patrick heard thundering footsteps with no sign of slowing. Maisie hit her uncle’s legs with such force, Patrick took three steps backward to avoid toppling over. She wrapped her arms around him. “Bye, GUP.” She didn’t let go.
Grant arrived with a second, less forceful, thump, adding to their hug by gripping his sister, his little hands just reaching Patrick’s leg. “Bye,” he said, and added something in Grant-speak, something like Thee you thoon.
Maisie wore one of her rash guard shirts, as if the airplane might have a pool. Patrick smiled. He crouched to roll the sleeves up her forearms. “This is the best costume for today,” he started.
Greg looked puzzled.
Maisie lifted her uncle’s chin and replied, “And I can always take off the skirt and use it as a cape.”
“Maisie, you’re not wearing a skir
t. You hate skirts.” Greg scratched his chin. “What are you talking about?”
“We’re doing a bit,” Patrick replied.
“It’s from Grey Gardens,” Maisie added.
“What’s Grey Gardens?” Greg was totally confused.
Maisie sighed. “It’s a 1975 documentary by the Maysles brothers. We watched it while you were gone.”
“I gave these kids an education,” Patrick said. It sounded like edu-gay-tion.
Greg smiled. No doubt he’d be hearing about it for weeks.
Patrick’s eyes burned; he stood, pinching the bridge of his nose in a futile effort to get it to stop. As angry as he had been with Greg for leaving his kids with him, he was now twice as angry at his brother for taking them away. He hugged them tight to his leg. “I need you to remember something. We’ll call it Guncle Rule sweet sixteen: I want you to really live. To live is the rarest of things. Most people merely exist.” It was another lesson cribbed from Oscar Wilde, but often what kept families apart was the unbearable thought that other people shared our own faults—and Patrick did not want to be responsible for the children sharing his.
Greg pulled Patrick in close; in all his life, Patrick could not remember being hugged this tight.
“Come home,” Greg whispered.
Patrick flinched. He kicked his leg slightly to free himself from Maisie, taking a step backward until it was only Greg’s fingertips on him, and then another step until he was just out of reach. “You’re going to miss boarding.”
Maisie frowned, then started to cry. Greg put his hands on his daughter’s shoulders. This was just their uncle’s way.
“You’ll take care of Marlene?” Maisie sobbed.
It had been Greg’s idea that Marlene stay in Palm Springs. He told a reluctant Maisie to think about her uncle. How he would be all alone once they were gone. How Marlene would be good for him, and how they would all be back to visit. “I will,” Patrick agreed, but he wasn’t certain he’d said the words aloud.
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