The pace of her life has slowed, and sometimes time drags, especially when it’s just the two of them on long drives to games or staring at each other across the dinner table. But that’s okay too. She feels Mark’s absence not in those moments, but when she’s making mistakes, packing Noah a PB&J for his school lunch—the school is nut-free this year—or forgetting what days the trash goes out. It’s then she recognizes all the things he did for her all those years. Things she didn’t even know about, like cleaning the lint trap in the dryer and changing the cats’ water and putting Odor-Eaters in Noah’s cleats so they don’t stink up the car, and she resolves to thank him properly someday soon. She sees him nearly every day—he’s rented a town house just a few blocks away—but she’s waiting for him to be less angry with her, or less sad. Or maybe she’s waiting for her own regret to lessen some, if only a little.
Edith is still a part of her life. They see each other when Noah is with his dad. Ginny likes being with her, even if it’s just eating lunch together at the hospital, or reading in the same room. She likes Edith’s house, and the way she feels when she’s in it. Warm and light. It’s easy to be happy when they’re together in Edith’s kitchen, in her bed. But when Edith offers to come over, to stay the night at Ginny’s house, she hesitates. What would it look like if Edith became a part of Noah’s life, not just hers? Maybe Ginny will be ready to find out someday. But not yet.
She and the kids reach the campsite, and Noah points to a spot on the ground thick with pine needles. “Should we put the tents here?” After his latest growth spurt, he doesn’t need to raise his eyes to hers anymore. They are exactly the same height.
“Looks like a good spot to me.” They spread tarps on the ground and screw together tent poles. Ginny pulls the shiny blue fabric over the top of the tent she and Noah will share. Peter and Livi each have their own small tents, and Noah helps them tamp the tent stakes into the soft earth. They unroll their sleeping bags and unpack their dinner. It’s getting dusky by the time they’re done, and the kids find kindling while Ginny starts a fire. At first she worries she’s forgotten how to do it. The twigs and logs are damp and won’t catch.
Peter and Livi try out each other’s tents, zipping and unzipping them, and Noah comes to stand by Ginny’s side. “Dad always strips away the outer layer of wood,” he says. “To get at the dry wood inside.” His tone is hesitant. They are careful with each other these days. They are feeling their way through this new reality, with Noah dividing his time between his two parents. He has two homes now, two rooms, two sets of clothes, two backyards with soccer nets staked in the wet grass. But so far he’s adapted to all of this just fine. Better than she has.
“I forgot that trick.” She smiles. She wants him to know it’s okay to talk about his dad. She wants him to know they’re going to be fine. She and Mark, and their family, in this new configuration. They might even be better this way.
They work together to pull the wet bark off the twigs, and the sharp and sweet smell of cedar sap fills the air. They light the fire again and the wood smokes, sparks, and then ignites.
As the sun goes down the air turns cooler and the forest grows noisier still, the chirps of frogs joined by the hoots of a great horned owl. They eat their dinner of sandwiches and potato chips and hot cocoa. Livi tries to read a book by firelight, and Noah and Peter’s eyes begin to droop. They played hard at soccer earlier, and Ginny’s learned to get Noah to bed early on days he has a game, otherwise he wakes up tired and surly.
They brush their teeth using a water bottle and a plastic mug. Ginny checks the kids’ tents for spiders, at Peter’s request, and they all say good night. Inside their tent she and Noah zip themselves into their sleeping bags and listen to the sounds of the forest. She knows Noah’s almost too old to share a two-person tent with his mom, and after he’s drifted off to sleep beside her, his steady breathing filling the small space, she feels grateful in a way she hasn’t in a long time.
THIRTY-FIVE
CASS LIES IN bed marking up the pages of her manuscript. Amar brings Leah into the room, dressed for bed. He lies down and settles her on his chest. The baby lifts her head, smiles, and drools. She’s got two tiny teeth poking out of her bottom gum. She’ll be eight months old tomorrow.
When the pregnancy test Cass took six months ago was negative, when she saw the single pink line, she felt relief. But now that Leah’s older, and a better sleeper, and now that Cass has transformed her undergraduate paper into a two-hundred-page manuscript, she does think about having another baby someday. But not yet. She remembers taking the test: the feeling of its plastic handle between her fingers, the sound of the rain against the roof, the look in her daughter’s dark eyes—she was so little then—as she stared up at her from the bath mat.
That was the night of the steam plume, which was what caused the floor to shake so intensely. She read about it the next morning online. It appeared on the eastern side of Broken Mountain. The supposedly dormant volcano was not so dormant, scientists said. They were studying the event, and taking steps to monitor the mountain for any activity that might foretell a full eruption.
Of course it would be hard to forget that night for another reason, because of what she saw, the woman who looked just like her, who she hasn’t seen since. She thinks about that woman—that other Cass—a lot. She is, after all, the proof that her theory of the multiverse is true. But she worries, too, about what happened after that Cass climbed down the stairs. She looked like she was in so much pain. Did she have her baby? Was it a girl like Leah? Or a boy?
Sometimes in the middle of the night, when she’s sitting in the rocker nursing Leah, Cass imagines the face of that other baby. A boy with lighter eyes and a rounder face. Liam—that’s the name they planned for if Leah had been a boy. But then the face changes, and Liam disappears. He’s replaced by another baby, a girl with no hair and pursed lips. Then she is replaced by another baby. And another after that. They all feel familiar and also strange, and in those brief moments Cass feels the loss of these other babies she’ll never know.
Amar lifts Leah up in the air above his face, and she cackles with glee.
“Don’t get her all riled up before bed,” Cass says, but she laughs in spite of herself. There’s a stain on the sleeve of Leah’s white-and-pink pajamas that didn’t come out in the wash. Cass rubs it with her thumb then turns back to her pages.
“I don’t have to be at the lab until nine,” Amar says, “so I can take Leah to daycare in the morning.” He lays her in between them, and Leah turns over on her stomach and nestles her head against his side.
“Good. I told Robby I’d get this draft to him by the end of the week.”
Amar’s eyes have closed. Leah’s too. Cass watches their sleeping faces for a minute, the way they look like each other but not exactly. She registers the warmth of Leah’s body and the heat that radiates from Amar’s, and she feels good. She knows the feeling won’t last. Leah will wake up crying, or she’ll find some problem in her manuscript. So she tries to revel in it, this happy, full feeling that’s almost too much.
Her life doesn’t look like she thought it would. There are still two unpacked boxes in the corner of the room. A tumble of shoes partially blocks the door. An overflowing basket of clean but unfolded laundry sits by the bed. Some days it feels like she has a handle on it all, caring for Leah, writing, stealing little moments of time with Amar. Other days it feels impossible, and that trying to do it all means doing everything badly.
But even on the bad days, even when she hasn’t managed to type a single word, her manuscript—her Theory of Everything—is there. It exists. In her mind it gives off heat like a living creature. It almost feels like a second child, or the promise of a second child. It isn’t finished, not yet, but when it is, just like Leah it will have a life of its own.
She makes one more note and then rests the pages on top of the heap of clothe
s in the laundry basket. After she’s turned out the light, she rolls toward Amar and Leah, feels their breath—Leah’s quick, Amar’s steady. She pulls the covers over the three of them and lets her eyes close.
For my parents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
IMMENSE GRATITUDE TO:
My extraordinary agent, Brettne Bloom, and the best editor I can imagine, Andrea Walker. How lucky I am to have their eyes and experience; their intelligence and wisdom shaped every page for the better.
Everyone at Random House, especially Emma Caruso, and at Transworld, especially my U.K. editor, Jane Lawson, and Alice Youell. Everyone at The Book Group, especially Elisabeth Weed and Hallie Schaeffer. Jenny Meyer and Sarah Goewey at Jenny Meyer Literary. Jason Richman and Sam Reynolds at United Talent Agency.
My longtime writing partners, Lindsey Lee Johnson, Kevinne Moran, and Rita Michelle Pogue. They are always right. Readers Danya Bush, Annie Hughes, Ted Johnson, Katrina Carrasco, Alissa Lee, Aimee Molloy, and Karen Remedios, who provided excellent feedback on drafts. My dad, David Johnson, who lent his sharp editorial eye. My husband, Kevin Day, who helped me get the medical details right.
Teachers Jennifer Lauck, Karen Shepard, Luis Urrea, and Lidia Yuknavitch, who provided guidance and inspiration. Janis Cooke Newman, who put everything in motion. Daniel Torday, who gives the best advice. Lauren LeBlanc, who was my eyes and ears. Also Justin McLachlan, Scott Sparks, Dala Botha, Boone Rodriguez, and Janelle Wicks. The Crees Building. Everyone at Tried and True Coffee.
The Attic Institute, Hugo House, Tin House Summer Writer’s Workshop, the Squaw Valley Community of Writers Workshop in Fiction, and Lit Camp. My professors at the University of Pittsburgh, including Paul Bove, Jonathan Arac, John Twyning, Ronald Judy, James Lennox, and most especially Eric Clarke.
The Barbara Deming Memorial Fund for funding a room of my own.
Perpetual thanks to:
My parents, David and Jean Johnson, who taught me that books are the way to become a better human being.
My husband, Kevin Day, who believes I can do anything I put my mind to. That belief carried me through every draft of this book. My children, Bennett and Sullivan. They make the familiar strange and beautiful, and their curiosity and imagination always inspires me.
Last but not least:
This book was written when my kids were babies and toddlers, and some remarkable people cared for them during the hours I was able to get away to write, including Brittany Sachs, Camille Carrington, and of course my amazing mom, Jean Johnson, who is the next best thing to my being in two places at once.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KATE HOPE DAY holds a B.A. from Bryn Mawr College and a Ph.D. in English from the University of Pittsburgh. She was an associate producer at HBO. She lives in Oregon with her husband and their two children.
katehopeday.com
Facebook.com/katehopeday
Twitter: @katehopeday
Instagram: @katehopeday
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