Alone With You

by Marisa Silver

  Martha took small, mincing steps toward the door off the kitchen. Before the pregnancy, Julia and Burton had bought her a shiny blue kimono decorated with chrysanthemums along with traditional wooden sandals. Until Martha had gotten too clumsy to balance on the shoes, she had worn the outfit around the house nearly every day, pretending to be Japanese.

  “And hang up your suit in the bathroom!” Julia called, as Martha disappeared into the cool darkness of the house. “Did you hear me, Martha? Don’t just drop it on the floor!”

  “She’ll do it,” Burton said, picking up his briefcase from the ground. The front of his shirt was soaked through and Julia could see his dark nipples.

  “No, she won’t,” Julia said, without rancor. In earlier years, Burton’s confidence had caused arguments. How easy it was for him to spend hours teaching classes and talking with colleagues about number theory and then come home and see only the good in Martha’s behavior. Julia thought his unwillingness to descend the rabbit hole of her daily disappointments grew out of his relief at not having to contend with another complex mind. Julia was the one who spent every hour of each day with Martha. And even when Martha started school, Julia would often sit in the classroom in order to put the teacher on notice that Julia expected more out of Martha and the teacher should too. There was one year when Martha had a particularly hard time—there was biting and hitting and tears. Julia stood in the schoolyard during every recess and every lunch hour to help monitor Martha’s behavior, driving back and forth to the elementary campus four times a day. Julia had spent the last twenty-four years training the world not to treat her daughter like a permanent child, and then to have Burton come in and twirl Martha around as though she were three years old all over again …

  In Julia’s darker moments, she wondered whether Burton’s endless supply of optimism was a ruse, a screen he erected that made it impossible for Julia to express what each one knew to be true: that Burton not only found intellectual solace outside of the house, but on more than one occasion had found physical escape as well. She had learned that his cheerful intimacy was a disguise worn by a remote man who waved at his own life as if from a distant shore.

  But Julia had become adept at rationalizations. Accommodating her husband did not, finally, seem that far removed from the myriad daily concessions she made. The notion of what it would mean to be a mother was slowly overtaken by what it meant to mother Martha, just as her idea of a husband gave way to the reality of her husband. Was she angry or jealous? Insulted or relieved? Had his indiscretions been at her expense or had they somehow become her strength? She knew that whatever love was, it was also the opposite. Her love for her daughter proved that.

  She reminded herself of what she sometimes forgot due to the challenges of raising Martha and the recognition of how small her own life had become: that her daughter was all the best words there were, words that people who grew up to become adults seemed to forget. Martha was joy. She was delight. She was glee.

  “What’s dinner?” Burton said.

  “Dinner is a meal.”

  Burton reacted playfully as if she had zinged an arrow toward his chest. She’d been a bankruptcy lawyer in a downtown law firm before Martha was born, and there were certain housewifely tasks that, even after a quarter of a century, still rankled her.

  “It’s a meal consisting of chicken and tomatoes and mozzarella,” Julia said, relenting.

  “Basil?” Burton asked hopefully.

  “No basil,” Julia said. “We didn’t make it to the store.”

  “Problems?” he said pleasantly, not wanting an answer.

  She had argued to sue the adult day program Martha had been enrolled in, but Burton convinced her otherwise. He knew she was right, that had the program not been understaffed, perhaps someone would have noticed that Martha and that young man with Down syndrome were not in the darkened television room watching the science program about termites. Someone might have heard the noises that must surely have emanated from the cleaning closet. And if the caregivers were astute and not simply paid babysitters, they would have noticed the curious change that came over Martha in the weeks following—her silence, the way she sat away from the group, the bouts of confusion as if she did not remember where she was. But was it worth dragging Martha to court? What would be the cost of making her speak about something she might not fully comprehend? Julia had been careful to explain sex when Martha had first gotten her period, had showed her pictures, described things in graphic detail so that Martha would not misunderstand. Then thirteen, Martha’s obvious horror and disgust in the face of this information was a comfort and a form of security. But Julia had to admit that as Martha grew older, Julia pretended that her daughter still existed in that state of childish disbelief, and that Martha hadn’t begun to have urges and curiosities of her own. Martha’s body was more womanly than Julia’s, which was slender as a boy’s, her breasts mere swells that barely necessitated a bra. Still, Julia persisted in asking if Martha needed to use the bathroom whenever Martha’s hand found her crotch.

  Burton had quietly raised the idea of abortion. Julia had reacted strongly, as if Burton had recommended killing Martha. Never once had they allowed themselves to indulge in revisionist thinking. What if they had conceived their only child a day, a month later? What if Martha had never been born? Those questions lingered on the outskirts of their marriage like Burton’s nameless, faceless lovers: derelict dogs best not fed. Still, Julia’s lawyerly inclination nudged at her, and one Saturday afternoon, when Burton and Martha went to the movies, Julia sat in the university law library and studied cases. After four hours, she knew a competent lawyer could argue that Martha was unable to properly care for a child, and that a baby would be an economic and emotional hardship for Julia and Burton, given the care Martha would require until the end of her life. But Julia didn’t discuss with Burton what she’d learned. The notion of overriding Martha’s agency by demanding an abortion went against everything Julia had ever believed—that their daughter should be treated like a full person even though her intellect had stuttered to a halt. More than that, Julia knew that an abortion would raise the unasked question of whether, had Burton and Julia known what their future would hold, they would have made the same choice.

  Julia took to the pregnancy with the earnest attention she’d exhibited while raising Martha. She showed Martha pictures of what was happening inside her, how the baby was growing from a lima bean into an infant. She bought a lifelike baby doll so that Martha could practice holding and diapering. One afternoon, Burton walked in from work to see Julia holding the doll in her arms while stirring a pot of chili, gently rocking from side to side the way she had when Martha was a baby. She was surprised to see him, and then even more surprised to realize what she was doing with the doll. “Oh! I had no idea!” she said brightly, laughing at herself, but she stopped when she saw his pained expression.

  “I like your hair.” Burton said now, moving forward to touch Julia’s head. She and Martha had gone to the salon that afternoon. Waiting their turns at the washing sinks, Martha had overhead the babies-having-babies comment. Julia held back from reprimanding the gossips, knowing that the owner of the salon had put up with Martha’s occasional tantrums over the years, and that this sanctuary of beauty was one of the few places she and Martha could both get what they needed. Julia reached up to touch her hair. Burton’s compliment made her feel unexpectedly shy.

  “Mommy!” Martha called from deep inside the house.

  “What?”

  “I peed!”

  Burton raised his eyebrows. Julia sighed. “That’s good, honey!”

  “All over the floor!”

  Thirty-two hours later, a baby boy was born.

  Gary loved the duck pond. He was only two years old, but Martha knew he loved it just as much as she did. Every Saturday, she would ask her mom to take her and her baby to the pond so they could feed the ducks the leftover ends of bread Martha kept in a plastic grocery bag under th
e kitchen sink. Martha’s father lived in an apartment near his work now. She and Gary visited him there, but he said the duck pond was too far away so they played at a nearby park or they ordered takeout and watched TV.

  Gary pointed and Martha said “Duck! Duck!” and Gary said “Duck!” and Julia clapped her hands.

  “Did you hear him, Martha? He has so many words now!”

  It was a chilly morning and Martha wore her red sweater that zipped up all the way over her chin. She liked to hide. It was fun to crawl under the covers of her bed when someone was looking for her, or to play with Gary in a tent made of sheets. Gary sat in her lap by the edge of the pond. Her mother sat next to them. Julia had cut her hair very short and went to work every day. She had to make money now that Martha’s father didn’t live at home anymore. Julia was too old and out of practice to get her law job back. Now she worked in an office and typed up papers that told big ships where to go. Sometimes they had to go to Korea. Sometimes they had to go to China. And sometimes the Chinese ships had to come to America. “That’s how we get our toys!” she said, when Martha complained about Yanni, who took care of Martha and Gary while Julia was at work. Sometimes Martha thought that when her mother walked out the door each morning, she just hid in the garden until the end of the day, but when Martha checked, she could never find her mother anywhere.

  “You’re teaching him to talk. Just keep repeating words,” Julia said.

  “Okay, Mom,” Martha said.

  “Mama,” Gary said.

  “And then point,” Julia said. She pointed her finger at Martha. “Mom!” she said.

  Martha pointed to Julia. “Mom!” She laughed so loudly that two ducks began to beat their wings on the water. The ruckus made Gary whimper.

  Martha leaned away from him. “He’s going to cry,” she said.

  “He’s fine. The ducks startled him, that’s all.”

  Martha liked Gary all the time except when he cried. She closed her eyes to keep his voice from going right into the middle of her head.

  “Never shut your eyes while you’re with Gary,” Julia said, reaching out to steady the baby. “And keep your hands on him all the time. You have to watch a baby every second, Martha.”

  But Gary was still crying and Martha had to cover her ears and start humming.

  “Stop that, Martha! You have to listen to what I’m saying. You’re the mother.”

  “Are you mad at me?” Martha said, opening her eyes, her voice wavering.

  “I’m not mad at you. I’m just trying to teach you how to take care of Gary.”

  “You yelled at me.”

  “I didn’t yell.”

  “Yes you did. You hurt my feelings.” Martha started to cry. Gary cried harder, so she cried even louder to drown him out.

  Julia reached over and took Gary from Martha’s lap and bounced him until he settled down.

  “You’re mean,” Martha said, her tears dissipating.

  “I’m not mean,” her mother said.

  “Yes, you are. And your hair is ugly. I hate it.”

  Julia touched her hair with one hand. “That’s not a very nice thing to say, Martha,” she said quietly.

  “I’m sorry,” Martha said. She leaned over and put her head in her mother’s lap right next to Gary’s bottom, but sat up immediately. “Gary has a poopy diaper.”

  Julia put her nose to his bottom. “You’re right. Gary needs a new diaper.”

  “I can do it!” Martha said, reaching for the diaper bag.

  Julia laid Gary down on the changing pad. Martha knew Gary would get squirmy if he didn’t have something to play with so she got a stick from the ground and gave it to him. “Here, baby. Here’s a toy for you,” she said.

  “Good thinking,” Julia said.

  “Gary toy,” Gary said, and waved the stick above his face.

  “You’re so smart. What a smart baby!” Martha said. The ladies at the hair salon always said this whenever Martha and her mother brought Gary there.

  Martha kneeled down on the ground and started to remove Gary’s diaper. Her mother told her she was very good at changing diapers and she liked to do it except when Gary’s poop was mushy, which was gross, and except when Gary touched his thing, which was also gross but funny. She held Gary’s legs up the way Yanni did with a chicken when she was putting a lemon inside it. She took a wipe and cleaned the crack of Gary’s butt. Then she blew on his skin there because this made Gary laugh. He laughed so hard he dropped his stick.

  “Tick, tick!” he shrieked.

  “Get his stick, Mom,” Martha said. “Gary needs his stick.”

  Julia smiled at her. “You’re a good mother, Martha.”

  “You’re a good mother, too.”

  “Thank you, Martha.”

  Martha adjusted the new diaper and then pulled Gary up so he was standing. She had chosen Gary’s name, and every morning she chose his clothes. While she pulled up his little blue jeans, Julia reached into the plastic bag and took out a heel of bread. She tore off two small pieces and handed one to Martha and one to Gary. Martha held Gary’s hand and they walked to the edge of the water. She threw her bread and when it landed, tiny ripples appeared on the pond’s surface. Soon, ducks glided over, their green and blue heads glinting in the sun.

  “The race is on!” Julia said.

  “Go! Go! Go!” Martha said.

  “Go! Go!” Gary cried. He heaved his body up and down, his knees bending and straightening as if he were jumping although his feet never left the ground.

  One duck pulled ahead of the others. In a violent jerk, it grabbed the piece of bread with its beak.

  “You won! You won!” Martha cried out to the victorious duck, which now paddled in a circle.

  “No, Duck!” Gary called out. He pointed to the center of the pond where a duck swam all alone. Only it wasn’t really swimming. It was still. And its neck and head were not sticking up but were lying on the surface of the water, the way Julia had instructed Martha to do when she was learning to swim the crawl.

  Julia came to the edge of the water and put her hand to her forehead in order to block the sun.

  “No! Duck!” Gary cried out. “No, no, no!”

  Julia crouched down next to Gary. “It’s okay, love. The duck is sleeping,” she said.

  “No, Duck!” Gary said.

  “The duck is just tired,” Julia said. “He’s taking a nap.”

  “Duck night-night?” Gary said.

  “Yes. The duck is going night-night. He’s very, very sleepy.” She pretended to yawn.

  Martha stared at her mother. “That duck is dead.”

  Julia shook her head to stop Martha from continuing. “The duck is soooo tired,” she said to Gary. “He just has to sleep so he can get the energy to play. Just like when Gary takes a nap.”

  “No! Duck! No!” he cried.

  “He’s not sleeping. He’s dead,” Martha said.

  “Martha!”

  “Ducks die. Old ducks die. Old people die,” Martha said. When Martha’s grandmother died, Julia cried as she was brushing her teeth and all the toothpaste bubbled up on her lips and ran down her chin. She didn’t clean herself. She just kept crying and brushing.

  “You don’t talk about things like that around a baby, Martha. You’ll scare him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Julia said. “Because …” but she didn’t finish what she was saying.

  Martha thought her mother looked strange, like the old lady they had met one day at the grocery store who didn’t know where she was and couldn’t remember her name. Driving home from the store, Julia said that sometimes your whole life got lost. Martha said the lady should go and find her life. But Julia said that it was too late.

  “You’re not Gary’s mommy,” Martha said.

  “I know. Martha, I know you’re his mother. I would never want to—”

  Martha looked at Gary. “The duck is dead.”

  “No!” Gary said, sounding mournful.
“No night-night! Nooooo!” Gary started to cry again.

  “See what you’ve done now, Martha?” her mother cried. “See what you’ve done?”

  Martha picked up Gary and carried him toward the parking lot. The car was locked, so she sat Gary on the hood, remembering to hold on to him just as Julia had taught her to do so that he didn’t fall off. Finally, Julia arrived, carrying the diaper bag.

  “What did you do with the bread?” Martha asked, lifting Gary into her arms.

  “I gave it to the ducks, Martha.”

  “Those ducks are going to get fat.”

  Gary squirmed in Martha’s arms and reached for Julia.

  “I’m tired. I want to go home,” Martha said, as her mother took Gary from her.

  “Me too,” her mother said.

  They rode in silence for a long time. Gary slept in his car seat. Martha sat next to him, holding his warm, sticky hand.

  “Check this out, Grandpa!”

  Burton squinted into the sun. Gary stood a few paces ahead of him at the edge of the river, skimming stones. He was nine and had grown soft over the last year, flesh covering the bones that used to show through his skin at his ribs and knees. Gary’s scapulas used to stick out in a way that made Burton aware of the elegiac beauty of the human who was his grandson. This was his curse, he now understood, to see things at a distance, to appreciate—that awful word. His intellect was always there, mediating his experience, narrating his life as if he wouldn’t understand it otherwise.

  “Seven!” Gary cried out, after watching the successively smaller hops his stone made as it skipped across the river’s surface.

  “I counted five, my friend.”

  “You counted wrong, Mr. Math Professor!” Gary said, grinning mischievously, his eyes shutting to slits, his mouth bending up into a cartoon version of a smile. It hurt Burton to feel for the boy as he did, as if the emotion of simply loving Gary included the darker, more complicated kinds of love he had for Martha, who played in the shallows nearby, kicking up water with her feet, and for Julia, whom he had left.