The Push (Ashley Audrain [Audrain, Ashley])

ThePush
ASHLEYAUDRAIN
MICHAELJOSEPHanimprintofPENGUINBOOKS
FREEPROOFEBOOK–NOTFORRESALE
Thisebookisanuncorrectedadvanceproof.Itismadeavailableonaconfidentialbasisandmaynotbesoldorotherwisecirculated.Theappearanceandcontentsofthisproofmaynotresemblethefinishedbookandundernocircumstancesmayitoranyofitscontentsbereproducedbeforepublicationofthefinishedbookwithoutthepublisher’sconsent.
Copyright
MICHAELJOSEPH
UK|USA|Canada|Ireland|AustraliaIndia|NewZealand|SouthAfrica
MichaelJosephispartofthePenguinRandomHousegroupofcompanieswhoseaddressescanbefoundatglobal.penguinrandomhouse.com
Firstpublished2020
Copyright?AshleyAudrain,2020
Themoralrightoftheauthorhasbeenasserted
ISBN:978-1-405-94505-9
Epigraph
Itisoftensaidthatthefirstsoundwehearinthewombisourmother’sheartbeat.Actually,thefirstsoundtovibrateournewlydevelopedhearingapparatusisthepulseofourmother’sbloodthroughherveinsandarteries.Wevibratetothatprimordialrhythmevenbeforewehaveearstohear.Beforewewereconceived,weexistedinpartasanegginourmother’sovary.Alltheeggsawomanwillevercarryforminherovarieswhilesheisafour-month-oldfetusinthewombofhermother.Thismeansourcellularlifeasaneggbeginsinthewombofourgrandmother.Eachofusspentfivemonthsinourgrandmother’swombandsheinturnformedwithinthewombofhergrandmother.Wevibratetotherhythmsofourmother’sbloodbeforesheherselfisborn…”
WhenTheDrummersWereWomenbyLayneRedmond
Yourhouseglowsatnightlikeeverythinginsideisonfire.
Thedrapesshechoseforthewindowslooklikelinen.Expensivelinen.TheweaveislooseenoughthatIcanusuallyreadyourmood.Icanwatchthegirlflipherponytailwhileshefinisheshomework.Icanwatchthelittleboytosstennisballsatthetwelve-footceilingwhileyourwifelungesaroundthelivingroominleggings,reversingtheday’smess.Toysbackinthebasket.Pillowsbackonthecouch.
Tonight,though,you’veleftthedrapesopen.Maybetoseethesnowfalling.Maybesoyourdaughtercouldlookforreindeer.Shedoesn’tbelieveanymore,butshewouldpretendforyou.Anythingforyou.
You’vealldressedup.Thechildrenareinmatchingplaid,sittingontheleatherottomanasyourwifetakestheirpicturewithherphone.Thegirlisholdingtheboy’shand.You’refiddlingwiththerecordplayeratthebackoftheroomandyourwifeisspeakingtoyou,butyouholdupafinger—you’vealmostgotit.Thegirljumpsupanddownandyourwife,shesweepsuptheboy,andtheyspin.Youliftadrink,Scotch,andsipitonce,twice,andslinkfromtherecordlikeit’sasleepingbaby.That’showyoualwaysstarttodance.Youtakehim.Hisheadthrowsback.Youtiphimupsidedown.YourdaughterreachesupforDaddy’skissandyourwifeholdsyourdrinkforyou.Sheswaysovertothetreeandadjustsastringoflightsthatisn’tsittingquiteright.Andthenyouallstopandleantowardseachotherandshoutsomethinginunison,someword,perfectlytimed,andthenyouallmoveagain—thisisasongyouknowwell.Yourwifeslipsoutoftheroomandherson’sfacefollowsrobotically.Irememberthatfeeling.Ofbeingtheneededone.
Matches.ShecomesbacktolightthecandlesonthedecoratedmantelandIwonderifthesnakingfirboughsarereal,iftheysmelllikethetreefarm.Iletmyselfimagine,foramoment,watchingthoseboughsgoupinflameswhileyouallsleeptonight.Iimaginethewarm,butter-yellowglowofyourhouseturningtoahot,cracklingred.
Theboyhaspickedupanironpokerandthegirlgentlytakesitawaybeforeyouoryourwifenotice.Thegoodsister.Thehelper.Theprotector.
Idon’tnormallywatchforthislong,butyou’reallsobeautifultonightandIcan’tbringmyselftoleave.Thesnow,thekindthatsticks,thekindshe’llwanttoplayincomemorning.Twelve,itseems,isn’ttoooldforsnowangels.Iturnonmywipers,adjusttheheat,andnoticetheclockchangefrom19:29to19:30.Thisiswhenyou’dhavereadherThePolarExpress.
Yourwife,she’sinthechairnow,andshe’swatchingthethreeofyoubouncearoundtheroom.Shelaughsandcollectsherlong,loosecurlstotheside.Shesmellsyourdrinkandputsitdown.Shesmiles.Yourbackistohersoyoucan’tseewhatIcan,thatshe’sholdingherstomachwithonehand,thatsherubsherselfeversoslightlyandthenlooksdown,thatshe’slostinthethoughtofwhat’sgrowinginsideher.Theyarecells.Buttheyareeverything.Youturnaroundandherattentionispulledbacktotheroom.Tothepeoplesheloves.
Shewilltellyoutomorrowmorning.
Istillknowhersowell.
Ilookdowntoputonmygloves.WhenIlookbackupthegirlisstandingatyouropenfrontdoor.Herfaceishalf-litbythelanternaboveyourhousenumber.Theplateshe’sholdingisstackedwithcarrotsandcookies.You’llleavecrumbsonthetilefloorofthefoyer.You’llplayalongandsowillshe.You’lldoanythingforeachother.
Nowshe’slookingatmesittinginmycar.Sheshivers.ThedressyourwifeboughtheristoosmallandforthefirsttimeIcanseethatherhipsaregrowing,thatherchestisblooming.Withonehandshecarefullypullsherponytailoverhershoulderandit’smorethegestureofawomanthanalittlegirl.
ForthefirsttimeinherlifeIthinkourdaughterlookslikeme.
IputdownthecarwindowandIliftmyhand,ahello,asecrethello.Sheplacestheplateatherfeetandstandsagaintolookatmebeforesheturnsaroundtogoinside.Toherfamily.Iwatchforthedrapestobeyankedclosed,foryoutocometothedoortoseewhythehellIamparkedoutsideofyourhomeonanightliketonight.Andwhat,really,couldIsay?Iwaslonely?Imissedher?Ideservedtobethemotherinsideyourglowinghouse?
Insteadsheprancesbackintothelivingroomwhereyou’vecoaxedyourwifeupfromthechair.Whileyoudancetogether,close,feelingupthebackofhershirt,ourdaughtertakestheboy’shandandleadshimtothecenteroftheliving-roomwindow.Anactorhittinghermarkonthestage.Theywereframedsoprecisely.
HelooksjustlikeSam.Hehashiseyes.Andthatwaveofdarkhairthatendsinacurl,thecurlIwrappedaroundmyfingeroverandoveragain.
Ifeelsick.
Ourdaughterisstaringoutthewindowlookingatme,herhandsonyourson’sshoulders.Shebendsdownandkisseshimonthecheek.Andthenagain.Andthenagain.Theboylikestheaffection.Heisusedtoit.Heispointingtothefallingsnowbutshewon’tlookawayfromme.Sherubsthetopofhisarmsasthoughshe’swarminghimup.Likeamotherwoulddo.
Youcometothewindowandkneeldowntotheboy’slevel.Youlookoutandthenyoulookup.Mycardoesn’tcatchyoureye.Youpointtothesnowflakeslikeyourson,andyoutraceapathacrosstheskywithyourfinger.You’retalkingaboutthesleigh.Aboutthereindeer.He’ssearchingthenight,tryingtoseewhatyousee.Youflickhimplayfullyunderthechin.Hereyesarestillfixedonme.Ifindmyselfsittingbackinmyseat.Iswallowandfinallylookawayfromher.Shealwayswins.
WhenIlookbackshe’sstillthere,watchingmycar.
Ithinkshemightreachforthecurtain,butshedoesn’t.Myeyesdon’tleaveherthistime.Ipickupthethickstackofpaperbesidemeonthepassengerseatandfeeltheweightofmywords.
I’vecomeheretogivethistoyou.
Thisismysideofthestory.
Contents
Cover
TitlePage
Copyright
Epigraph
Chapter1
Chapter2
Chapter3
Chapter4
Chapter5
Chapter6
Chapter7
Chapter8
Chapter9
Chapter10
Chapter11
Chapter12
Chapter13
Chapter14
Chapter15
Chapter16
Chapter17
Chapter18
Chapter19
Chapter20
Chapter21
Chapter22
Chapter23
Chapter24
Chapter25
Chapter26
Chapter27
Chapter28
Chapter29
Chapter30
Chapter31
Chapter32
Chapter33
Chapter34
Chapter35
Chapter36
Chapter37
Chapter38
Chapter39
Chapter40
Chapter41
Chapter42
Chapter43
Chapter44
Chapter45
Chapter46
Chapter47
Chapter48
Chapter49
Chapter50
Chapter51
Chapter52
Chapter53
Chapter54
Chapter55
Chapter56
Chapter57
Chapter58
Chapter59
Chapter60
Chapter61
Chapter62
Chapter63
Chapter64
Chapter65
Chapter66
Chapter67
Chapter68
Chapter69
Chapter70
Chapter71
Chapter72
Chapter73
Chapter74
Chapter75
Chapter76
Chapter77
Chapter78
Chapter79
Chapter80
Chapter81
Chapter82
Chapter83
Chapter84
Chapter85
1.
YouslidyourchairoverandtappedmytextbookwiththeendofyourpencilandIstaredatthepage,hesitanttolookup.“Hello?”Ihadansweredyoulikeaphonecall.Thismadeyoulaugh.Andsowesatthere,giggling,twostrangersinaschoollibrary,studyingforthesameelectivesubject.Theremusthavebeenhundredsofstudentsintheclass—Ihadneverseenyoubefore.Thecurlsinyourhairfelloveryoureyesandyoutwirledthemwithyourpencil.Youhadsuchapeculiarname.Youwalkedmehomelaterintheafternoonandwewerequietwitheachother.Youdidn’thidehowsmittenyouwere,smilingrightatmeeverysooften.Ihadneverexperiencedattentionlikethatfromanyonebefore.Youkissedmyhandoutsideofmydormandthismadeuslaughalloveragain.
Soonweweretwenty-oneandwewereinseparable.Wehadlessthanayearleftuntilwegraduated.Wespentitsleepingtogetherinmyraftofadormbed,andstudyingatoppositeendsofthecouchwithourlegsintertwined.We’dgoouttothebarwithyourfriends,butwealwaysendeduphomeearly,inbed,inthenoveltyofeachother’swarmth.Ibarelydrank,andyou’dhadenoughofthepartyscene—youonlywantedme.Nobodyinmyworldseemedtomindmuch.Ihadasmallcircleoffriendswhoweremorelikeacquaintances.IwassofocusedonmaintainingmygradesformyscholarshipthatIdidn’thavethetimeorinterestforatypicalcollegesociallife.IsupposeIhadn’tgrownveryclosetoanyoneinthoseyears,notuntilImetyou.Youofferedmesomethingdifferent.Weslippedoutofthesocialorbitandwerehappilyalleachotherneeded.
ThecomfortIfoundinyouwasconsuming—IhadnothingwhenImetyou,andsoyoueffortlesslybecamemyeverything.Thisdidn’tmeanyouweren’tworthyofit—youwere.Youweregentleandthoughtfulandsupportive.YouwerethefirstpersonI’dtoldthatIwantedtobeawriter,andyoureplied,“Ican’timagineyoubeinganyoneelse.”Ireveledinthewaygirlslookedatus,liketheyhadsomethingtobejealousabout.Ismelledyourheadofwaxydarkhairwhileyousleptatnightandtracedthelineofyourfuzzyjawtowakeyouupinthemorning.Youwereanaddiction.
Formybirthday,youwrotedownonehundredthingsyoulovedaboutme.14.Ilovethatyousnorealittlebitrightwhenyoufallasleep.27.Ilovethebeautifulwayyouwrite.39.Ilovetracingmynameonyourback.59.Ilovesharingamuffinwithyouonthewaytoclass.72.IlovethemoodyouwakeupinonSundays.80.Ilovewatchingyoufinishagoodbook,thewayyouholdittoyourchestattheend.92.Ilovewhatagoodmotheryou’llbeoneday.
“WhydoyouthinkI’llbeagoodmother?”Iputdownthelistandfeltforamomentlikemaybeyoudidn’tknowmeatall.
“Whywouldn’tyoubeagoodmother?”Youpokedmeplayfullyinthebelly.“You’recaring.Andsweet.Ican’twaittohavelittlebabieswithyou.”
Therewasnothingtodobutforceasmile.
I’dnevermetsomeonewithaheartaseagerasyours.
“Onedayyou’llunderstand,Blythe.Thewomeninthisfamily…we’redifferent.”
Icanstillseemymother’stangerinelipstickonthecigarettefilter.Theashfallingintothecup,swimminginthelastsipofmyorangejuice.Thesmellofmyburnttoast.
Youonlyaskedaboutmymother,Cecilia,onafewoccasions.Ionlytoldyouthefacts:1)sheleftwhenIwaselevenyearsold,2)Ionlyeversawhertwiceafterthat,and3)Ihavenoideawheresheisnow.
YouknewIwasholdingbackmore,butyouneverpressed—youwerescaredofwhatyoumighthear.Iunderstood.We’reallentitledtohavecertainexpectationsofeachotherandofourselves.Motherhoodisnodifferent.Weallexpecttohave,andtomarry,andtobe,goodmothers.
1939—1958
EttawasbornontheverysamedayWorldWarIIbegan.ShehadeyesliketheAtlanticOceanandwasred-facedandpudgyfromthebeginning.
Shefellinlovewiththefirstboysheevermet,thetowndoctor’sson.HisnamewasLouis,andhewaspoliteandwell-spoken,notcommonamongsttheboyssheknew,andhewasn’tthetypetocarethatEttahadn’tbeenbornwiththeluckofgoodlooks.LouiswalkedEttatoschoolwithonehandbehindhisback,fromtheirveryfirstdayofschooltotheirlast.AndEttawascharmedbythingslikethat.
Herfamilyownedhundredsofacresofcornfields.RightaftersheandLouismarriedwhentheyturnedeighteen,Etta’sfathersaidhisnewson-in-lawhadtolearnhowtofarm.Hehadnosonsofhisown,andhewantedLouistotakeoverthefamilybusiness.ButEttathoughtherfatherjustwantedtoproveapointtotheyoungman:farmingwashardandrespectablework.Itwasn’tfortheweak.Anditcertainlywasn’tforanintellectual.Ettahadchosensomeonewhowasnothinglikehim.
Louishadplannedtobeadoctorlikehisownfatherwas,andhadascholarshipwaitingformedicalschool.ButhewantedEtta’shandinmarriagemorethanhewantedamedicallicense.DespiteEtta’spleastotakeiteasyonhim,herfatherworkedLouistothebone.Hewasupatfouro’clockeverymorningandoutintothedewyfields.Fourinthemorninguntildusk,andasEttalikedtoremindpeople,henevercomplainedonce.Louissoldthemedicalbagandtextbooksthathisownfatherhadpasseddowntohim,andheputthemoneyinajarontheirkitchencounter.HetoldEttaitwasthestartofacollegefundfortheirfuturechildren.Ettathoughtthissaidalotabouttheselflesskindofmanhewas.
Onefallday,beforethesunrose,Louiswasseveredbythebeateronasilagewagon.Hebledtodeath,aloneinthecornfield.Etta’sfatherfoundhimandsenthertocoverupthebodywithatarpfromthebarn.ShecarriedLouis’smangledlegbacktothefarmhouseandthrewitatherfather’sheadwhilehewasfillingabucketofwatermeanttowashawaythebloodonthewagon.
Shehadn’ttoldherfamilyyetaboutthechildgrowinginsideofher.Shewasabigwoman,seventypoundsoverweight,andhidthepregnancywell.Thebabygirl,Cecilia,wasbornfourmonthslateronthekitchenfloorinthemiddleofasnowstorm.Ettastaredatthejarofmoneyonthecounteraboveherwhileshepushedthebabyout.
EttaandCecilialivedquietlyatthefarmhouseandrarelyventuredintotown.Whentheydid,itwasn’thardtoheareveryone’swhispersaboutthewomanwho“sufferedfromthenerves.”Inthosedays,notmuchmorewassaid—notmuchmorewassuspected.Louis’sfathergaveEtta’smotheraregularsupplyofsedatives.AndsoEttaspentmostdaysinthesmallbrassbedintheroomshegrewupinandhermothertookcareofCecilia.
ButEttasoonrealizedshewouldnevermeetanothermanlayingdopeduplikethatinbed.ShelearnedtofunctionwellenoughandeventuallystartedtotakecareofCecilia,pushingheraroundtowninthebuggywhilethepoorgirlscreamedforhergrandmother.Ettatoldpeopleshe’dbeenplaguedwithaterriblechronicstomachpain,thatshecouldn’teatformonthsonend,andthat’showshe’dgotsothin.Nobodybelievedthis,butEttadidn’tcareabouttheirlazygossip—shehadjustmetHenry.
Henrywasnewtotownandtheywenttothesamechurch.Hemanagedastaffofsixtypeopleatacandymanufacturingplant.HewassweettoEttafromtheminutetheymet—helovedbabiesandCeciliawasparticularlycute,sosheturnedoutnottobetheproblemeveryonesaidshe’dbe.
Beforelong,HenryboughtthemaTudor-stylehouseinthemiddleoftownwithmint-greentrim.Ettaleftthebrassbedforgoodandgainedbackalltheweightshe’dlost.Shethrewherselfintomakingahomeforherfamily.Therewasawell-builtporchwithaswing,lacecurtainsoneverywindow,andchocolatechipcookiesalwaysintheoven.Onedaythenewlivingroomfurniturewasdeliveredtothewronghouse,andtheneighborletthedeliverymansetitallupinherbasementeventhoughshehadn’torderedit.Whenshecaughtwindofit,Ceciliarandownthestreetafterthetruck,yellingprofanityinherhousecoatandcurlers.Thisgaveeveryoneagoodlaugh,including,eventually,Cecilia.
Shetriedveryhardtobethewomanshewasexpectedtobe.
Agoodwife.Agoodmother.
Everythingseemedlikeitwouldbejustfine.
2.
ThingsthatcometomindwhenIthinkaboutthebeginningofus:
Yourmotherandfather.Thismightnothavebeenasimportanttootherpeople,butwithyoucameafamily.Myonlyfamily.Thegenerousgifts,theairplaneticketstobewithyouallsomewheresunnyonvacation.Theirhousesmelledlikewarmlaunderedlinens,always,andIneverwantedtoleavewhenwevisited.Thewayyourmothertouchedtheendsofmyhairmademewanttocrawlontoherlap.Sometimesitfeltlikeshelovedmeasmuchasshelovedyou.
Theirunquestioningacceptanceaboutwheremyfatherwas,andthelackofjudgementwhenhedeclinedtheirinvitationtovisitfortheholidays,werekindnessesIwasgratefulfor.Cecilia,ofcourse,wasneverdiscussed;you’dthoughtfullyprefacedthiswiththembeforeyoubroughtmehome.(Blytheiswonderful.Shereallyis.Butjustsoyouknow…)Mymotherwouldn’thavebeensomeoneyougossipedaboutamongstyourselves;noneofyouhadanappetiteforanythingbutthepleasant.
Youwereallsoperfect.
Youcalledyourlittlesister“darling”andsheadoredyou.YouphonedhomeeverynightandIwouldlistenfromthehallway,wishingIcouldhearwhatyourmothersaidthatmadeyoulaughlikeyoudid.Youwenthomeeveryotherweekendtohelpyourdadaroundthehouse.Youhugged.Youbabysatyoursmallcousins.Youknewyourmother’sbananabreadrecipe.Yougaveyourparentsacardeveryyearontheiranniversary.Myparentshadneverevenmentionedtheirwedding.
Myfather.Hedidn’treturnmymessageinforminghimIwouldn’tbehomeforThanksgivingthatyear,butIliedtoyouandsaidhewashappyI’dmetsomeone,andthathesendshisbestwishestoyourfamily.Thetruthwaswehadn’tspokenmuchsincewemet.We’dcommunicatedmostlythroughouransweringmachines,andeventhen,ithadbecomeaseriesofstale,genericexchangesthatIwouldhavebeenembarrassedforyoutohear.I’mstillnotsurehowwegotthere,heandI.Theliewasnecessary,likethescatteringofotherliesI’dtoldsothatyoudidn’tsuspectjusthowfuckedupmyfamilywas.Familywastooimportanttoyou—neitherofuscouldriskhowthewholetruthaboutminemightchangethewayyousawme.
Thatfirstapartment.Ilovedyouthemosttherewhenitwasmorning.Thewayyoupulledthesheetoveryoulikeahoodandsleptsomemore,thethickboyishsmellyouleftonourpillowcases.Iwaswakingupearlythen,beforethesunmostofthetime,towriteattheendofthegalleykitchenthatwasalwayssodamncold.IworeyourbathrobeanddrankteafromaceramiccupI’dpaintedforyouatoneofthosepotteryplaces.You’dcallmynamelateron,whenthefloorshadwarmedandthelightfrombehindtheblindswasenoughforyoutoseethedetailsofmyflesh.You’dpullmebackinandwe’dexperiment—youwereboldandassertiveandunderstoodwhatmybodywascapableofbeforeIwas.Youfascinatedme.Yourconfidence.Yourpatience.Theprimalneedyouhadforme.
NightswithGrace.ShewastheonefriendfromcollegeIstayedintouchwithafterwegraduated.Ididn’tletonhowmuchIlikedherbecauseyouseemedabitjealousofhertimewithmeandthoughtwedranktoomuch,althoughIgaveherverylittleasfarasfemalefriendshipsgo.Butstill,yougaveusbothflowersonValentine’sdaytheyearshewassingle.Iinvitedhertodinneronceamonthorso,andyou’dsitasourthirdonthegarbagepailflippedupsidedown.You’dalwaysstopforthegoodbottleofwineonyourwayhomefromwork.Whenthegossiptookover,whenshebroughtoutthecigarettes,you’dexcuseyourselfpolitelyandopenabook.Onenightweheardyouspeakingtoyoursisteronthebalconywhilewesmokedinside(imagine?).Shewasgoingthroughabreak-upandshehadcalledherbrother,herconfidante.Graceaskedmewhatwaswrongwithyou.Badinbed?Temper?Therehadtobesomethingbecausenomanwasthisperfect.Buttherewasn’t.Notthen.NotthatIunderstood.Iusedthewordluck.Iwaslucky.Ididn’thavemuch,butIhadyou.
Ourwork.Wedidn’tspeakaboutitoften.Ienviedyourrisingsuccessandyouknewit—youweresensitivetothedifferencesinourcareers,ourincomes.YouweremakingmoneyandIwasdreaming.Ihadmadenexttonothingsincegraduating,exceptfromafewsmallfreelanceprojects,butyousupportedusgenerouslyandgavemeacreditcard,sayingonly:“Useitforwhateveryouneed.”Bythenyou’dbeenhiredatthearchitecturefirmandpromotedtwiceinthetimeittookmetowritethreeshortstories.Unpublishedones.Youwouldleaveforworklookinglikeyoubelongedtosomeoneelse.
Myrejectionletterscameinliketheyweresupposedto—thiswaspartoftheprocess,youremindedme,kindlyandoften.It’llhappen.Yourunconditionalbeliefinmefeltmagical.IdesperatelywantedtoprovetomyselfthatIwasasgoodasyouthoughtIwas.“Readtome.Whateveryouwrotetoday.Please!”Ialwaysmadeyoubegandthenyou’dchucklewhenIfeignedexasperationandagreed.Oursillyroutine.You’dcurluponthecouchafterdinner,exhausted,yourofficeclothesstillon.YouwouldcloseyoureyeswhileIreadyoumyworkandyouwouldsmileatallofmybestlines.
ThenightIshowedyoumyfirstpublishedstory,yourhandshookasyoutooktheheavy-stockmagazine.I’vethoughtofthatoften.Thatprideyouhadinme.Iwouldseethatshakinghandagainyearslater,holdinghertinywethead,markedwithmyblood.
Butbeforethen:
Youaskedmetomarryyouonmytwenty-sixthbirthday.
WitharingIsometimesstillwearonmylefthand.
3.
Ineveraskedyouifyoulikedmyweddingdress.IboughtitusedbecauseIsawitinthewindowofvintagestoreandcouldn’tgetitoutofmymindwhileIbrowsedtheexpensiveboutiqueswithyourmother.Youneverwhispered,assomeawedgroomsdo,sweatingatthealtarandrockingontheirfeet,Youlookbeautiful.Younevermentionedmydresswhenwehidbehindtheredbrickwallatthebackoftheproperty,waitingtofloatintothecourtyardwhereourguestsdrankchampagneandtalkedabouttheheatandwonderedwhenthenextcanapéwouldpass.Youcouldbarelylookawayfrommyshiningpinkface.Youcouldbarelyletgoofmyeyes.
YouwerethemosthandsomeyouhadeverbeenandIcanclosemyeyesnowandseetwenty-sevenyearoldyou,thewayyourskinlookedbrightandyourhairstillcurleddownaroundyourforehead.Iswearyouhadremnantsofbabyfatinyourcheeks.
Wesqueezedeachother’shandsallnight.
Weknewsolittlethenabouteachother,aboutthepeoplewewouldbe.
Wecouldn’thavecountedourproblemsonthepetalsofthedaisyinmybouquet,butitwouldn’tbelongbeforewewerelostinafieldofthem.
“Therewillbenotableforthefamilyofthebride,”Ihadoverheardtheweddingplannersayinalowvoicetothemanwhosetupthefoldingchairsandplacecards.Hegaveherasubtlenod.
Yourparentsgaveustheweddingbandsbeforetheceremony.Theyhandedustheringsinasilverclamshellthathadbeengiventoyourgreat-grandmotherbythemanshelovedwhohadgonetowarandnevercomehome.Insidewasengravedaproclamationfromhimtoher:Violet—youwillalwaysfindme.Youhadsaid,“Whatabeautifulnameshehad.”
Yourmother,cloakedinafancypewter-coloredshawl,gaveusatoast:“Marriagescanfloatapart.Sometimeswedon’tnoticehowfarwe’vegoneuntilallofasudden,thewaterjustmeetsthehorizonanditfeelslikewe’llnevermakeitback.”Shepausedandlookedonlyatme.“Listenforeachother’sheartbeatinthecurrent.You’llalwaysfindeachother.Andthenyou’llalwaysfindtheshore.”Shetookyourfather’shandandyoustoodtoraiseyourglass.
Wecompliantlymadelovethatnightbecauseweweresupposedto.Wewereexhausted.Butwefeltsoreal.Wehadweddingbandsandacateringbillandadrenalineheadaches.
Iforevertakeyou,mybestfriendandmysoulmate,tobemypartnerinlife,througheverythingthat’sgood,andeverythingthat’shard,andthetensofthousandsofdaysthatfallsomewhereinbetween.You,FoxConnor,arethepersonIlove.Icommitmyselftoyou.
Yearslater,ourdaughterwatchedmestuffthedressintothetrunkofourcar.IwasgoingtotakeitbacktothesameplaceI’dfoundit.
4.
Irememberexactlywhatlifewaslikeinthetimethatfollowed.
TheyearbeforeourownVioletcame.
Weatedinner,late,onthecouch,whilewewatchedcurrentaffairsshows.Everynight,AndersonCooper.Withspicytake-outonthatblackmarblecoffeetablewiththeviciouscorners.Wedrankglassesoffizzywineattwoo’clockonweekendafternoonsandthenwenappeduntilsomeonewasroused,hourslaterbythesoundofpeoplewalkingoutsidetothebar.Sexhappened.Haircutshappened.Ireadthetravelsectionofthenewspaperandfeltitwasresearch,realisticresearch,fortheplacewe’dgonext.Ibrowsedexpensivestoreswithahot,foamybeverageinmyhands.IworeexpensiveItalianleatherglovesinthewinter.Yougolfedwithfriends.Icaredaboutpolitics!Wecuddledontheloungechairandthoughtitwasnicetobetogether,touching.MovieswereathingIcouldwatch,somethingthatcouldtakemymindawayfromtheplacewhereIsat.Lifewaslessvisceral.Ideaswerebrighter.Wordscameeasier!Myperiodwaslight.Youplayedmusicthroughoutthehouse,newstuff,artistssomeonehadmentionedtoyouoverabeeratanestablishmentfilledwithadults.Thelaundrysoapwasn’torganicandourclothessmelledartificiallymountainfresh.Wewenttothemountains.Youaskedaboutmywriting.Ineverlookedatanothermanandwonderedwhathe’dbeliketofuckinstead.Youdroveaveryimpracticalcareverydayuntilthefourthorfifthsnowfalloftheyear.Youwantedadog.Wenoticeddogs,onthestreet;westoppedtoscratchtheirnecks.Theparkwasnotmyonlyreprievefromhousework.Thebookswereadhadnopictures.Wedidnotthinkabouttheimpactoftelevisionscreensonbrains.Wedidnotunderstandthatchildrenlikedthingsbestiftheyweremanufacturedforthepurposeofanadult’suse.Wethoughtwekneweachother.Andwethoughtweknewourselves.
5.
Thesummerweweretwenty-nine.Twoweatheredfoldingchairsonthebalconyoverlookingthealleybetweenusandthebuildingnextdoor.ThestringofwhitepaperlanternsIhunghadsomehowmadepalpablethecreepingsmellofhotgarbagefrombelow.Thatwaswhereyousaidtomeoverglassesofcrispwhitewine,“Let’sstarttrying.Tonight.”
We’dtalkedaboutitbefore,manytimes.YouwerepracticallygleefulwhenIheldotherpeople’sbabiesorgotdownonmykneestoplaywiththem.You’reanatural.ButIwastheonewhowasimagining.Motherhood.Whatitwouldbelike.Howitwouldfeel.Looksgoodonyou.
Iwouldbedifferent.Iwouldbelikeotherwomenforwhomitallcamesoeasily.Iwouldbeeverythingmyownmotherwasnot.
Shebarelyenteredmymindinthosedays.Imadesureofit.Andwhensheslippedinuninvited,Iblewheraway.Likeshewerethoseashesfallingintomyorangejuice.
Bythatsummer,we’drentedabiggerapartmentwithasecondbedroominabuildingwithaveryslowelevator;thewalkupwelivedinbeforewouldn’tworkforastroller.Wedreweachother’sattentiontobabythingswithsmallnudges,neverwords.Tinytrendyoutfitsinstorewindows.Littlesiblingsdutifullyholdinghands.Therewasanticipation.Therewashope.MonthsearlierIhadstartedpayingmoreattentiontomyperiod.Trackedmyovulation.I’dmadenotestomarkthedatesinmydayplanner.OnedayIfoundlittlehappyfacesdrawnnexttomy“O’s”.Yourexcitementwasendearing.Youweregoingtobeawonderfulfather.AndIwouldbeyourchild’swonderfulmother.
IlookbackandmarvelattheconfidenceIfoundthen.Inolongerfeltlikemymother’sdaughter.Ifeltlikeyourwife.IhadbeenpretendingIwasperfectforyouforyears.Iwantedtokeepyouhappy.IwantedtobeanyoneotherthanthemotherIcamefrom.AndsoIwantedababytoo.
6.
TheEllingtons.TheylivedthreedoorsdownfromthehouseIgrewupinandtheirlawnwastheonlyoneintheneighborhoodthatstayedgreenthroughthedry,relentlesssummers.Mrs.Ellingtonknockedonourdoorexactlyseventy-twohoursafterCeciliahadleftme.Myfatherwasstillsnoringonthesofawherehehadslepteachnightforthepastyear.Ihadonlyrealizedanhourearlierthatmymotherwasn’tgoingtocomehomethistime.I’dgonethroughherdresserandthedrawersinthebathroomandtheplacewhereshestashedcartonsofhercigarettes.Everythingthatmatteredtoherwasgone.Iknewenoughbythennottoaskmyfatherwhereshewent.
“WouldyouliketocomeforaniceSundayroastatourhouse,Blythe?”Hertightcurlswereshinyandhard,freshfromthesalon,andIcouldn’thelpbutreplydirectlytothemwithanodandathankyou.Iwentstraighttothelaundryroomandputonmybestoutfit—anavybluepinaforeandarainbowstripedturtleneck—inthewashingmachine.Ihadthoughtofaskingherifmyfathercouldcometoo,butMrs.EllingtonwasthemostsociallyappropriatewomanIknew,andIfiguredifshedidn’tincludehiminherinvitation,therewasareason.
ThomasEllingtonJr.wasthebestfriendIhad.Idon’trememberwhenI’dgivenhimthatdistinction,butbythetimeIwasten,hewastheonlypersonIcaredtoplaywith.Othergirlsmyagemademeuneasy.Mylifelookeddifferentthantheirs—theirEasyBakeOvens,theirhomemadehairbows,theirpropersocks.Theirmothers.Ilearnedveryearlyonthatbeingdifferentfromthemdidn’tfeelgood.
ButtheEllingtonsmademefeelgood.
ThethingaboutMrs.Ellington’sinvitationwasthatshemusthavesomehowknownmymotherhadleft.BecausemymothernolongerallowedmetoattenddinnerattheEllingtons’.AtsomepointshehaddecidedIneededtobehomebyaquartertofiveeverynight,althoughtherewasnothingtocomehometo:theovenwasalwayscoldandthefridgewasalwaysempty.Bythen,mostevenings,myfatherandIateinstantoatmeal.He’dbringhomesmallpackagesofbrownsugarforthetop,oneshestuffedinhispocketsfromthecafeteriaatthehospitalwherehemanagedthecleaningstaff.Hemadedecentenoughmoneythen,bylocalstandardsatleast.Wejustdidn’tseemtolivethatway.
Ihadsomehowlearnedthatitwaspolitetobringagiftwheninvitedtoanicedinner,soIhadclippedafistofhydrangeafromourfrontbush,althoughlateSeptemberhadturnedmostofthewhitepetalscrispy.Itiedthestemswithmyrubberhairelastic.
“You’resuchathoughtfulyoungwoman,”Mrs.Ellingtonhadsaid.Sheputtheminabluevaseandplacedthemcarefullyonthetableinthemiddleofthesteamingdishes.
Thomas’syoungerbrother,Daniel,adoredme.WeplayedtrainsinthelivingroomafterschoolwhileThomasdidhishomeworkwithhismother.Ialwayssavedmineforaftereighto’clock,whenCeciliawenttobedorwasgoneforthenighttothecity.Shedidthatoften—wenttothecity,andcamebackthenextday.SodoingmyhomeworkthengavemesomethingtodowhileIwaitedformyeyestogettired.LittleDanielfascinatedme.Hespokelikeanadultandknewhowtomultiplywhenhewasjustfiveyearsold.IwouldquizhimonthetimestableswhileweplayedontheEllingtons’itchyorangerug,amazedathowcleverhewas.Mrs.Ellingtonwouldpopintolistenandalwaystouchedeachofourheadsbeforesheleft.Goodjob,youtwo.
Thomaswassmarttoo,butindifferentways.Hemadeupthemostincrediblestoriesthatwe’dwriteinthetinyspiralnotebookshismotherboughtusfromthecornerstore.Thenwe’ddrawpicturestogoalongwitheachpage.Eachbookwouldtakeusweeks—wepainstakinglydiscussedwhattodrawforeachpartofthestoryandthentookourtimesharpeningthewholeboxofpencilsbeforewebegan.OnceThomasletmebringonehomeastoryIlovedaboutafamilywithabeautiful,kindmotherwhobecameverysickwithararecaseofdeadlychickenpox.Theygofortheirlastvacationtogetherasafamilytoafarawayremoteisland,wheretheyfindatiny,magicalgnomeinthesandnamedGeorge,whoonlyspeaksinrhymes.Hegrantsthemthegiftofonespecialsuperpowerinexchangeforbringinghimhomeintheirsuitcasetotheothersideoftheworld.Theyagree,andhegivesthemwhattheywishfor—yourmomwillliveforever,untiltheendoftime,wheneveryougetsad,justsingthislittlerhyme!Thegnomelivesinsidethemother’spocketfortherestofeternity,happilyeverafter.I’ddrawnthefamilycarefullyonthepagesofhisbook—theylookedjustliketheEllingtons,butwithathirdchildwhodidn’tlookanythinglikethem:adaughterwithCrayola-peachskinlikemine.
OnemorningIfoundmymothersittingontheedgeofmybed,flippingthroughthebookthatI’dhiddendeepinmydrawer.
“Wheredidthiscomefrom?”ShespokewithoutlookingatmeandstoppedonthepagewhereI’ddrawnmyselfaspartoftheblackfamily.
“Imadeit.WithThomas.Athishouse.”Ireachedforthebookinherhands,mybook.Thereachwaspleading.Sheyankedherarmawayfromme,andthentossedthebookatmyhead,asthoughthespiraledpagesandeverythingaboutthemdisgustedher.Thecornerclippedmychinandthebooklandedbetweenusonthefloor.Istaredatit,embarrassed.Ofthepicturesshedidn’tlike,ofthefactI’dbeenhidingitfromher.
Mymotherstoodup,herthinneckerect,hershouldersback.Sheshutthedoorquietlybehindher.
IbroughtthebookbacktoThomas’shousethenextday.
“Whydon’tyouwanttokeepit?Youweresoproudofwhatyoutwomadetogether.”Mrs.Ellingtontookitfrommyhandsandsawitwasbentinafewplaces.Shesmoothedthecoversoftly.“It’sokay,”shesaid,shakingherheadsothatIdidn’thavetoanswer.“Youcankeepithere.”
Sheputitonthebookshelfintheirlivingroom.WhenIwasleavingthatday,Inoticedshe’dturnedthebooktothelastpageandfaceditouttowardstheroom—thefamilyoffive,meincluded,ourarmsaroundeachother,anexplosionoftinyheartscomingfromoursmilingmotherwhostoodinthemiddle.
AttheSundaydinneronthenightmymotherleft,IofferedtocleanthekitchenwithMrs.Ellington.Sheclickedonacassettetapeandsangjustalittleassheclearedthetableandwipedthecounters.Iwatchedher,bashfully,fromthecornerofmyeyewhileIrinsedthedishes.Atonepointshestoppedandpickeduptheoven-mittfromthecounter.Shelookedatmewithaplayfulsmile,slippeditoverherhandandhelditupbesideherhead.
“MissBlythe,”shesaidinafunnyhigh-pitchedvoice,herhandmovinginthepuppet.“WeaskallofourcelebrityguestshereontheEllingtonAfter-DinnerTalkShowafewquestionsaboutthemselves.So.Tellus—whatdoyouliketodoforfun,hmm?Evergotothemovies?”
Ilaughedawkwardly,notsurehowtoplayalong.“Uh,yeah.Sometimes?”Ihadn’teverbeentothemovies.Ialsohadn’tevertalkedtoapuppet.Ilookeddownandshuffledsomedishesaroundinthesink.Thomascamerunninginthekitchensquealing,“Mommy’sdoingthetalkshowagain!”andDavidflewinbehindhim.“Askmesomething,askme!”Mrs.Ellingtonstoodwithonehandonherhipandtheotherhandchattingaway,hervoicesqueakingfromthecornerofhermouth.Mr.Ellingtonpoppedhisheadintowatch.
“NowDavid,whatisyourveryfavoritethingtoeat,andyoucan’tsayicecream!”saidthepuppet.HejumpedupanddownwhilehethoughtofhisanswerandThomasshoutedoptions.“Pie!Iknowit’spie!”Mrs.Ellington’soven-mittgasped,“PIE!Notrhubarbthough,right?Thatgivesmethetoots!”andtheboysscreamedovereachotherinlaughter.Ilistenedtothemcarryon.I’dneverfeltanythinglikethisbefore.Thespontaneity.Thesilliness.Thecomfort.Mrs.Ellingtonsawmewatchingfromthesinkandcalledmeoverwithherfinger.Sheputtheoven-mittonmyhandandsaid,“Aguesthosttonight!Whatatreat!”Andthenshewhisperedtome,“Goahead,asktheboyswhatthey’dratherdo.Eatwormsorsomeoneelse’sboogers?”Igiggled.Sherolledhereyesandsmiled,asiftosay,trustme,they’llloveit,thosesillyboys.
Shewalkedmehomethatnight,whichshehadneverdonebefore.Allofthelightsinmyhousewereoff.ShewatchedasIunlockedthedoortomakesuremydad’sshoeswereinthehallway.Andthenfromherpocketshepulledthebookaboutthemagicalgnomeandgaveittome.
“Thoughtyoumightwantthisbacknow.”
Idid.Iflippedthepageswithmythumbandthought,forthefirsttimethatnight,aboutmymother.
Ithankedheragainfordinner.Sheturnedaroundattheendofmydrivewayandcalled,“Sametimenextweek!IfIdon’tseeyoubeforethen.”Isuspectsheknewshewould.
7.
Iknewassoonasyoucameinsideofme.YourwarmthfilledmeandIknew.Icouldn’tblameyouforthinkingIwascrazy,butnearlythreeweekslaterwelaughedtogetherlyingonourbathroomfloorlikedrunkenfools.Everythinghadchanged.Youskippedworkfortheday,remember?Wewatchedmoviesinbedandorderedtake-outforeachmeal.Wejustwantedtobetogether.Youandme.Andher.Iknewshewasagirl.
Icouldn’twriteanymore.MyheadflewawayeverytimeItried.Towhatshewouldlooklikeandwhoshewouldbe.
Ibegandoingpre-natalexerciseclasses.Westartedeachclassinastretchingcirclewhereweintroducedourselvesandsaidhowmanymonthsalongwewere.Iwasfascinatedtoseewhatwascoming,lookingattheotherwomen’sbelliesinthemirroraswefollowedanaerobicroutinethatbarelyseemedworthdoing.MyownbodywasstillunchangedandIcouldn’twaittoseehermakeroomforherself.Inme.Intheworld.
Walkingthroughthecitytogoaboutmydayhadchanged.Ihadasecret.Ihalf-expectedpeopletolookatmedifferently.Iwantedtotouchmystill-flatbellyandsay,I’mgoingtobeamother.ThisiswhoIamnow.Iwasconsumed.
TherewasadayatthelibrarywhenIflippedthroughbooksforhoursinthePregnancyandChildbirthsection.Ihadjuststartedtoshow.Awomanwalkedbyme,searchingthespinesforaparticularbook.Theonesheslidoutfromtheshelfwasawell-usedguidetosleep.
“Howfaralong?”
“Sixmonths.”Shescannedthetableofcontentswithherfingerandthenlookedatmymiddlebeforemyface.“You?”
“Twenty-oneweeks.”Wenoddedtoeachother.Shelookedlikesheusedtomakehomemadekombuchaandgotoa6a.m.spinclass,butnowsettledforleftoverpuréeandawalktothestorefordiapers.“Ihaven’teventhoughtaboutsleepyet.”
“Yourfirst?”
Inoddedandsmiled.
“Thisismysecond.”Thewomanliftedthebook.“Honestly,justfigureoutthesleepandyou’llbefine.Nothingelsematters.Ireallyfuckedthatupthefirsttime.”
Ilaughed,sortof,andthankedherforthetip.Achild’swailbrokefromacrossthelibraryandshesighed.
“That’smine.”Shegesturedupandoverhershoulder,andthenpulledoutasecondcopyofthesamebookshewastherefor.ShehelditouttomeandInoticedshehadpinkmarkeronherhands.“Goodluck.”
Shelookedfullandfemininefrombehindasshewalkedaway,herwidehips,hershoulder-lengthhaircreasedfromwhatsleepshehadfound.Shefelt,tome,soobviouslyamother.Wasitthewayshelooked,ormoved?Wasitthewaysheseemedtohavemoretocareaboutthanme?Whenwouldthishappentome,thiscrossover?HowwasIabouttochange?
8.
“Fox,comesee.There’ssomuchstuff!”Itwasthethirdhugeboxyourmotherhadsentsincewetoldthemaboutthebaby.ShewasrelentlesswithherexcitementandcalledeveryweektoseehowIwasfeeling.Ipulledoutfancyswaddleblanketsandknittednewbornhatsandteeny-tinywhitesleepers.Atthebottomtherewasaseparatepackageonwhichshe’dwritten‘Fox’sBabyThings’.Therewasawornteddybearwithbuttonsforeyes,andathreadbareflannelblanketwithsilktrimthatoncehadbeenivorywhite.Asmallporcelainfigurineofababyboysittingonamoonwithyournameindelicategoldscript.Iliftedtheteddytomynoseandthentoyours.Youreminisced.Ihalf-listenedbutmymindwaselsewhere,searchingmypastforthesamekindoffamiliartokens,blankiesandstuffiesandfavoritebooks,butIcouldn’tfindthem.
“Doyouthinkwecandothis?”Iaskedyouoverdinnerthatnight,pushingmyfoodaroundtheplate.IcouldbarelystomachmeatsinceI’dbecomepregnant.
“Dowhat?”
“Beparents.Raiseachild.”
Youreachedoverandsmiledasyoustabbedmybeefwithyourfork.
“You’regoingtobeagoodmother,Blythe.”
Youtracedaheartonthetopofmyhand.
“Youknow,myownmother…shewasn’t…sheleft.Shewasn’tanythinglikeyours.”
“Iknow.”Youwerequiet.Youcouldhaveaskedmetosaymore.Youcouldhaveheldmyhandandlookedmeintheeyesandaskedmetokeeptalking.Youtookmyplatetothesink.
“You’redifferent,”yousaideventually,andhuggedmefrombehind.Andthen,withanindignationinyourvoicethatIdidn’texpect:“Youaren’tanythinglikeher.”
Ibelievedyou.LifewaseasierwhenIbelievedyou.
Afterwardswecuddleduptogetheronthecouchandyouheldmybellyliketheworldwasinyourhands.Welovedwaitingforhertomove,staringatmystretchedskin,theblue-greenhueoftheveinsunderneathlikethecolorsofearth.Somefatherstalkedtotheirwives’bellies—theysaythebabycanhear.Butaswewatchedforhertoshowusshewasinthere,youwerequietandawestruck,likeshewasadreamyoucouldn’tbelievewasreal.
9.
“Todaycouldbetheday.”
ThebabyfeltheavyandlowinthemorningandI’ddreamedallnightofmyamnioticfluidsoakingourbed.ThepaniccamequicklyandpulledmetoaplaceI’dconsciouslyavoidedfortheentirefortyweeksofmypregnancy.IwhisperedtomyselfasIboiledthewaterfortea.It’sokayifshecomes.It’sokayifthisisit.It’sokaytohavethisbaby.Isatatthekitchentableandwrotethesemantrasonapieceofpaperoverandoveruntilyouwalkedintheroom.
“Thecarseat’sin.I’llkeepmyphoneinmyhandallday.”
Islidthepieceofpaperundertheplacemat.Youkissedmeandleftforwork.Iknew.
Byseven-thirtythatnightwewereonthebedroomfloortogether,mykneessplinteredfromthegroovesintheoldparquetflooring.YoupressedonmyhipswhileItriedtobreathedeeply,evenly.We’dpracticedthis.We’ddonetheclass.ButIcouldn’tfindthatsenseofcalmI’dbeenpromised,theintuitionthatwassupposedtokickin.Youwerekeepingtrackofthingswithchickenscratch,minutesandcontractions.Irippedthescorecardfromyourhandandthrewitbackatyou.
“We’regoing,now.”Icouldn’tbeinourapartmentanymore.ShewasvolcanicandIwasfightingtokeepherin.NoneofwhatI’dpreparedforfeltpossible.Iwasn’topen,Iwasn’tready.Icouldn’tvisualizeherdroppingintomyopenpelvis,Icouldn’tcoaxmyselftoexpandlikethemouthofariver.Iwasclenchedandscared.Ididn’tknowwhattodo.
Whattheysayaboutthepainistrue—Icannolongerrememberwhatitfeltlike.Irememberthediarrhea.Irememberhowcoldtheroomwas.Irememberseeingtheforcepsonacartinthehallwayaswewalkedbetweencontractions.Thenursehadhandslikealumberjack.WhensheshovedtheminmetocheckmydilationIwouldwhimperandshewouldlookaway.
“Idon’twantthistohappen,”Iwhisperedtonobody.Iwasexhausted.Youwerestandingtwofeetaway,drinkingthewaterthenursehadbroughtforme.Icouldn’tkeepitdown.
“Youdon’twantwhattohappen?”
“Thebaby.”
“Youmeanthebirth?”
“No,Imeanthebaby.”
“Doyouwanttheepiduralnow?Ithinkyouneedit.”Youcranedyournecktolookforanurseandputacoldclothonthebackofmyneck.Irememberyourhandholdingmyhairlikeahorse’stail.
Ididn’twantthedrugs.Iwantedtofeelhowbaditcouldget.Punishme,Isaidtoher.Ripmeapart.YoukissedmyheadandIsmackedyouaway.Ihatedyou.Foreverythingyouwantedofme.
Ibeggedforthemtoletmepushonthetoilet—IwasmostcomfortablethereandIwasdeliriousbythatpoint.Icouldn’tfollowathinganyonesaidtome.Youcoaxedmebacktothebedandtheyorderedmeintothestirrups.Nothingaboutitfeltright.Theburning.IreacheddowntofeeltheflamesIwassurewerethere,butsomeonepushedawaymyhand.
“Fuckyou.”
“Comeonnow,”thedoctorsaid.“Youcandothis.”
“Ican’t.Iwon’t,”Ispatback.
“Youhavetopush,”yousaidcalmly.IclosedmyeyesandIwilledsomethinghorribletogowrong.Death.Iwantedadeath.Mineorthebaby’s.Ididn’tthink,eventhen,thatwewouldsurviveeachother.
Whenshecameout,thedoctorheldherovermyfacebutIcouldbarelyseeherintheassaultofbrightlight.IshookvigorouslyfromthepainandsaidthatImightbesick.Youappearedatmyhip,nexttothedoctor,andheturnedtowardsyouinstead,sayingthebabywasagirl.Youputyourhandunderherslipperyheadandbroughthercarefullytoyourface.Yousaidsomethingtoher.Idon’tknowwhat—youhadyourownsecretlanguagefromherfirstminuteinthisworld.Thedoctorthencuppedherbelly,likeshewasawetkitten,andhandedherovertothenurse.Hewentbacktowork.Myafterbirthsplashedontothefloor.HetuggedatmyopeningwithsuturethreadwhileIstaredatthelightinaweofwhatI’djustdone.Iwasoneofthemnow,themothers.Ihadneverfeltsoalive,soelectric.MyteethchatteredsohardthatIthoughttheymightchip.AndthenIheardher.Thehowl.Shesoundedsofamiliar.“Areyouready,Mom?”someonesaid.Theyplacedheronmybarechest.Shefeltlikeawarm,screamingloafofbread.Shehadbeencleanedofmybloodandbundledinthehospital’sflannelblanket.Hernosewasspeckledwithyellow.Hereyeslookedslimyanddarkandtheystaredrightintomine.
“I’myourmother.”
ThefirstnightinthehospitalIdidn’tsleep.Istaredatherquietlybehindtheperforatedcurtainthatsurroundedthebed.Hertoeswerearowoftinysnowpeas.Iwouldopenherblanketandtracemyfingeralongherskinandwatchhertwitch.Shewasalive.Shecamefromme.Shesmelledlikeme.Shedidn’tlatchformycolostrum,notevenwhentheysquishedmybreastlikeahamburgerandpriedatherchin.Theysaidtogiveittime.ThenurseofferedtotakeherwhileIsleptbutIneededtostareather.Ididn’tnoticemytearsuntiltheydroppedontoherface.Iwipedeachonefromherskinwithmypinkyandthentastedit.Iwantedtotasteher.Herfingers.Thetopsofherears.Iwantedtofeeltheminmymouth.IwasphysicallynumbfromthepainkillersbutinsideIfeltlitonfirebyoxytocin.Somemothersmighthavecalleditlove,butitfeltmoretomelikeastonishment.Likewonder.Ididn’tthinkaboutwhattodonext,aboutwhatwewoulddowhenwegothome.Ididn’tthinkaboutraisingherandcaringforherandwhoshewouldbecome.Iwantedtobealonewithher.Inthatsurrealspaceoftime,Iwantedtofeeleverypulse.
Apartofmeknewwewouldneverexistlikethatagain.
1962
EttaturnedonthebathfaucettowashCecilia’slong,tangledhair.Shewasfiveyearsoldanditwasn’toftenanyonemadeherbrushit.Herelbowsdugintotheavocadogreenceramic.
“Leanback,”Ettasaidandtuggedherhard.ShepulledherheadafewinchesfartheruntilCeciliawassquareunderthethunderofcoldwater.Shegaspedandchokedandwrestled,untilshepulledfreeofEtta’sfingersclutchingherskin.Whenshecaughtherbreath,shelookeduptoseeEttastaringrightather.Ettadidn’tflinch.Ceciliaknewshewasn’tdone.
Ettagrabbedherearsandforcedherbackunderagain.Hernostrilsstungastheyfilledwithwater.Herheadstartedtofeellikeitwasfloatingaway.
AndthenEttaletgo.Shepulledoutthemoldyplugfromthedrainandleftthebathroom.
Ceciliadidn’tmove.Shehadshitherselfduringthefightandlaythere,shakingandfoulandcold,untilshefellasleep.
Whenshewokeup,EttawasinbedandHenrywashomefromwork,sittinginthelivingroomwatchingtelevision,eatingaplateofreheatedroastbeef,thetinfoilcarefullyfoldedonthetabletobereusedthenextday.
Ceciliawalkedintotheroomwithatoweldrapedoverhershouldersandstartledhim.Heaskedthroughamouthfuloffoodwhyonearthshewasn’tinbedatnearlymidnight.Ceciliatoldhimshe’dwetthebed.
Hisfacefell.Hefoldedherupinhislongarmsandcarriedhertohermother’sbed.Shestillstanklikeshit,butHenrydidn’tsayathingaboutit.HeshookEttaawake.
“Dear.CanyoufixCecilia’ssheets?She’swetherself.”
Ceciliaheldherbreath.
EttaopenedhereyesandtookCecilia’shandinthesamegripthathadnearlykilledherfivehoursago.Shewalkedhertoherroomandputhernightgownoverherheadandsatherfirmlyonthebed.Cecilia’sheartpoundedastheybothlistenedtoHenry’sfootstepsgobackdownthestairs.CeciliawasalwayslisteningforHenry’sfootsteps—hewouldchangeEtta’smoodlikealightswitch.
Ettadidn’tsayawordandshedidn’ttouchher.Shejustlefttheroom.
Ceciliaunderstoodthatherinstincttoliewastherightone.Whathadhappenedbetweensheandhermotherwastostayasecret.
TherewereothertimesoverthenextfewyearswhenEtta’sproblemswith“nerves”wereobvioustoCecilia.Somedaysshewouldlockheroutofthehouseafterschool.Thefrontdoorwasboltedshut,thebackdoorlocked,thedrapesallclosed.ButCeciliacouldheartheradioplayingorthekitchentaprunning.She’dgotoMainStreettokilltimebywanderingtheaislesofstores,lookingatthingshermotherneverseemedinterestedinbuyinganymore,likefruit-scentedsoaps,orthemintchocolatesshehadonceenjoyed.
Afterithadbeendarkforonehour,Ceciliawouldheadhomeagain.Henrywouldbethereanddinnerwouldbeonthetable.ShewouldtellHenryshewasatthelibraryandhe’dpatherontheheadandsayshe’dbecomethesmarteststudentintheclassifshekeptstudyingsohard.Ettawouldignorehercompletely,asthoughshehadn’tspokenatall.
Otherdays,CeciliawouldcomedownforbreakfastinthemorningandEttawouldbesittingatthetable,lookingdownatherlap,herfullcheekswhite.Likeshehadn’tsleptawink.Ceciliadidn’tknowwhatshedidduringthosenights,butonthosemornings,Ettaseemedespeciallydistant.Especiallysad.Mymotherwouldn’tlookupuntilsheheardHenry’sfeethitthestairs.
10.
“You’reanxious.Shecansenseit,”yousaid.She’dcriedforfiveandahalfhours.Icriedforfourofthose.Imadeyoulookupthedefinitionofcolicinoneofthebabybooks.
“Morethanthreehoursforthreedaysaweekforthreeweeksstraight.”
“She’sbeencryinglongerthanthat.”
“She’sonlybeenhereforfivedays,Blythe.”
“Imeanhours.Longerthanthreehours.”
“She’sjustgassyIthink.”
“Ineedyoutocancelyourparents’triphere.”Icouldn’tdealwithyourperfectmother.Shecalledconstantly,andeveryconversationstartedwith,Iknowthingsaredifferentthesedays,buttrustme…GripeWater.Tighterswaddles.Ricecereal.
“They’llbeabighelpforyou,honey.Forallofus.”Youwantedyourperfectmotherthere.
“I’mstillbleedingthroughmypad.Ismelllikerottingflesh.Ican’tputmyshirton,mytitsaretoosore.Lookatme,Fox.”
“I’llcallthemtonight.”
“Canyoutakeher?”
“Giveherhere.Gogetsomesleep.”
“Thebabyhatesme.”
“Shhh.”
I’dbeenwarnedofthosehard,earlydays.I’dbeenwarnedofbreastslikecementboulders.Clusterfeeds.Thesquirtbottle.I’dreadallthebooks.I’ddonetheresearch.Nobodytalkedaboutthefeelingofbeingwokenupafterfortyminutesofsleep,onblood-stainedsheets,withthedreadofknowingwhathadtohappennext.Ifeltliketheonlymotherintheworldwhowouldn’tsurviveit.Theonlymotherwhocouldn’trecoverfromhavingherperineumstitchedfromheranustohervagina.Theonlymotherwhocouldn’tfightthroughthepainofnewborngumscuttinglikerazorbladesonhernipples.Theonlymotherwhocouldn’tpretendtofunctionwithherbrainintheviseofsleeplessness.Theonlymotherwholookeddownatherdaughterandthought,Please.Goaway.
Violetonlycriedwhenshewaswithme;itfeltlikeabetrayal.
Weweresupposedtowanteachother.
11.
ThenightnursehadthesoftesthandsIhadeverfelt.Shebarelyfitinthenurserychair.Shesmelledlikecitrusfruitandhairsprayandshewasunflappable.
Iwastired.
Everynewmomgoesthroughthis,Blythe.Iknowit’shard.Iremember.
Butyourmothermusthavebeenworriedbecauseshehiredherforuswithoutevenasking.Wewerethreeweeksinandthebabywouldn’tsleeplongerthananhourandahalfatatime.Allshewantedtodowasfeedandcry.Mynippleslookedlikerawgroundbeef.
Youbarelysawthenightnurse—youwereasleepmostnightsbeforeshecame.Shebroughtmethebabyeverythreehours,notaminutesoonerorlater.Iwouldhearherheavyfeetcomingtowardsthedoorandstartlefromthegloriousdepthsofsleepandfishmybreastoutofmynightshirtwithmyeyesbarelyopen.IwouldhandherbackwhenIwasdone.Shewouldtakehertothenurseryandburpher,changeher,rockher,andputhertosleepinthebassinette.WerarelyexchangedawordbutIlovedher.Ineededher.Shecameforfourweeksuntilyourmothersaidtomeonthephoneinherfirmbutdelicatevoice,“Honey.It’sbeenamonth.Youneedtodoitonyourownnow.”
Onthelastshiftshewaswithus,thenightnursebroughtthebabyintoourroomfortheearlymorningfeedbeforeshewenthome.Butshedidn’tstepoutoftheroomlikeshenormallydid.Youweresnoringbesideme.
“She’sasweetbaby,isn’tshe,”Ihadwhisperedtothewoman.Ishiftedtorelievemystubbornhemorrhoidsandthenfiddledwithmynippleinhermouth.Ireallydidn’tknowifshewas,butitfeltlikesomethinganewmotherwouldsayofthewarm,pinkfleshshe’dpushedintotheworld.
ShestoodoverusandlookeddownatVioletandmyhugebrownnippleasshetriedtolatchagain.Westillhadn’tgotthehangofityetandmilksprayedthebaby’sface.Shedidn’tanswerme.
“Doyouthinkshe’sagoodbaby?”Maybeshehadn’theardme.Iwinced.Thebabywason.Thenursesteppedbackandwatchedusasthoughsheweretryingtofiguresomethingout.
“Sometimessheopenshereyessowideandlooksrightatme,like…”Sheletherwordstrailoffandthensheshookherheadandsuckedthroughherteeth.
“She’scurious.She’salert,”IclarifiedwithwordsI’dheardothermothersuse.Iwasn’tsurewhatshewasimplying
ShestoodstillandsilentwhileIfed.Shenoddedsometimelater.Toomuchtimelater.Iwonderediftherewassomethingelseshewantedtosay.Whenthebabywasdone,sheliftedVioletquietlyandpattedmeontheshoulder.ShelefttoputherdownandIneversawheragain.
Youwereirritatedwhenittookweeksforthesmellofthewoman’shairspraytoleavethenursery,butsometimesIwentintherejustforthescentofher.
12.
Themonthwiththenightnursehelped.VioletandIemergedfromthefogandfoundourselvesaroutine.Ifocusedalotonthatroutine.Ourdaywasbookendedbyyouleavingforworkandyouarrivinghomeagain.AllIhadtodowaskeepheraliveinbetween.Onethingaday—thatwasalwaysmygoal.Afewgroceries.Herdoctor’sappointment.ExchangingaonesieI’dboughtthatsheneverworeandhadalreadygrownoutof.Coffeeandamuffin.I’dsitontheparkbenchandpickawayatthedrybitsofbranwhileIstaredather,waitingforthenextnaptime.
I’dmetasmallgroupofwomenintheprenatalexerciseclasswhowereallduearoundthesametimeasme.Ididn’tknowthemwell,butwasaddedtotheiremailchainatsomepoint.Theyofteninvitedmetomeetforawalk,orlunchsomewherethatwouldaccommodateourbrigadeofstrollers.YoulovedwhenIhadplanswiththem—youwereexcitedformetobelikeothermoms.Imostlywentforyou.ToshowyouIwasnormal.
Likeallofourdays,theconversationshadamundaneroutine.Howthebabiessleptandwhenandwhere,whentheyateandhowmuch,theplanforsolidfoods,daycareornanny,whatcontraptionsthey’dboughtthattheycouldn’tlivewithoutthatweallneededtobuy,too.Eventuallyitwouldbenaptimeforoneofthebabies,whichwasonlyallowedathomeinthecribsoasnottodisturbthehard-earnedschedule.Andsowe’dpackitupandgo.Sometimes,aswepaidthebill,I’dfindthecouragetosaywhatreallywasonmymind.Ithrewitoutlikebait:
“Thisisprettyhardsomedays,isn’tit?Thiswholemotherhoodthing.”
“Sometimes.Yeah.Butit’sthemostrewardingthingwe’lleverdo,youknow?It’sallsoworthitwhenyouseetheirlittlefacesinthemorning.”Istudiedthesewomenclosely,tryingtofindtheirlies.Theynevercracked.Theyneverslipped.
“Totally.”Ialwaysgavesomeindicationofagreement.ButthenIwouldstareatViolet’sfaceinthestrollerallthewayhome,wonderingwhyshedidn’tfeellikethebestthingthathadeverhappenedtome.
Once,weeksafterI’dstoppedjoiningthosegirls,Ipassedthewindowofacoffeeshopwhereatthecounterinside,overlookingthestreet,amothersatstaringatherbaby.Maybethreeorfourmonthsold,justabityoungerthanViolet.Thebabywasslumpedinthegraspofitsmother’sfingers,staringstraightbackather.Thewoman’smouthdidnotmove.Therewasnoassurancefrombetweenherlips:You’reMama’sbaby,you’remysweetbaby.You’resuchagoodbaby,aren’tyou?Instead,sheturnedthebabyeversoslightlytooneside,andthentotheother,asthoughshewereexaminingaclayartifactformarksofimperfection.
IlingeredoutsideofthewindowandIwatchedthem,lookingforlove,lookingforregret.Ipicturedthelifeshemighthavehadbeforethebabyhadconfinedhertochoosebetweentheoptionofastuffy,messyapartmentthatsmelledlikeherownsouredmilk,orthelonelywindowofacoffeeshop.
IwentinsideandorderedalattethatIdidn’twant,andsatonthestoolnexttoher.VioletwasasleepinthestrollerandIpusheditbackandforthgentlysoshewouldn’twakeup.Thediaperbagslippedfromthehandleandherbottlefelloutandrolledacrossthefloor.IcollecteditanddecidedIwouldnotwipeoffthenipple.IfeltarushofpowerwhenImadeclandestinedecisionslikethis,decisionsothermotherswouldnotmakebecausetheyweren’tsupposedto,likeleavingawetdiaperontoolongorskippingheroverduebathagainbecauseIcouldn’tbebothered.Thewomanturnedtomeandwesharedalook.Notasmile,butanacknowledgmentthatwehadbothmorphedintoaversionofourselvesthatdidn’tfeelasgoodashadbeenadvertised.Curdsofmilkcameoutofherbaby’smouthandshewipeditwitharoughpapernapkin.
“Toughdays,aren’tthey?”Ihadsaid,liftingmychintowardsherbabywhowasstill,expressionless,staringather.
“There’sthatsaying,thedaysarelongbuttheyearsgofast.”Inoddedandlookedatmyownbaby,whowasstartingtostir,herchincrinkling.“ButIguesswe’llsee,”shesaid,flatly,likeshetoodidnotbelieveherexperienceoftimewouldeverchangeagain.
“Somewomensaybeingamomistheirgreatestaccomplishment.ButIdunno,Idon’tfeellikeI’veaccomplishedmuchyet.”Ilaughedalittlebit,becauseitwasfeelingtoopersonalallofthesudden.ButIneededthiswoman.Shewaseverythingthelunchtimefriendswerenot.
“Agirl?”
Itoldherthebaby’sname.
“Harry,”shesaidofhers.“He’sbeenherefifteenweeks.”
Wesatinsilenceforafewmoreminutes.Andthenshesaid,“It’slikehejusthappenedtome,allofasudden.Slammedintomyworldandknockedoverthefurniture.”
“Yeah,”Isaidslowly,lookingatherbabyasthoughhewereaweapon.“Youwantthemandgrowthemandpushthemout,buttheyhappentoyou.”
ShetookHarryoffthecounterandputhiminthestroller.Shetuckedtheblanketunderhimsloppily,likeapoorlymadebed.Shestillhadn’tspokentohersoninasing-songvoice,likeallofthoseothermothers,andIwonderedifsheeverdid.
“Seeyouaround,”shesaid,andmyheartsank.Iwasworriedwe’dneverfindeachotheragain.Istammered,tryingtofindsomethingelsetosaytokeepherthere.
“Doyoulivearoundhere?”
“No,Idon’tactually.Weliveabitnorthofthecity.I’mjustdownhereforanappointment.”
“I’llgiveyoumynumber,”Isaid,myfaceflushed.Ihadneverbeencomfortablemakingfriends.ButIsuddenlyflashed-forwardtolate-nighttextingwherewewouldexchangebrutallyhonestgrievancesandlamentourexistence.
“Oh.Sure.Here,I’llputitinmyphone.”ShelookeduncomfortableandIwishIhadn’taskedasItoldhermycellnumber.ShewasneverintouchandIneverranintoheragain.
Istillthinkofthatwomansometimes.Iwonderifsheeventuallyfeltshe’dachievedsomething;ifshelooksatHarrytodayandknowsshedidwellasamother,thatsheraisedagoodperson.Iwonderhowthatfeels.
13.
Shesmiledatyoufirst.Afterbathtime.Youwerewearingyourreadingglassesandsaidshemusthaveseenherownreflectioninthelens.Butwebothknewshewantedyouthemostfromthebeginning.Icouldnevercomfortherlikeyoucouldwhenshecried—shemeltedintoyourskinandseemedtowanttostaythere,apartofyou.Mywarmthandmysmellseemedtomeannothingtoher.Theytalkaboutthemother’sheartbeatandthefamiliarsoundofherwomb,butit’sasthoughIwasaforeigncountry.
Ilistenedtoyouplacateherwithsoftwhispersthatsoothedhertosleep.Istudiedyou.Iimitatedyou.Youtoldmeitwasallinmyhead—thatIwasmakingabigdealoutofnothing.Thatshewasjustababyandbabiesdidn’tknowhownottolikeaperson.Butitfeltliketwoagainstone.
Weweretogetheraroundtheclockandsoyes,therewereinevitablytimesshegavein,fallingasleeponmychestoratmybreast.You’dpointthisoutlikeitwasproofIwaswrong—See,honey?Justrelaxmorearoundherandshe’llbefine.Ibelievedyou.Ihadto.Iwouldrunmynoseoverthefinehaironherheadandbreatheherin.Hersmellwasgoodforme.Hersmellwasareminderthatshehadcomefromwithinme.Thatwewereonceattachedbyaliving,throbbingcordofblood.Iwouldclosemyeyesandreplaythenightshecameout.Looking,feeling,forourconnection.Thosefirsthours.Iknewithadbeenthere.Beforethechapped,bleedingnipplesandtheutterexhaustionandthecripplingdoubtandtheunspeakablenumbness.
You’redoinggreat.I’mproudofyou.YouwouldsometimeswhisperthistomeinthedarkwhileIfedher.Youwouldtouchbothofourheads.Yourgirls.Yourworld.Iwouldcrywhenyoulefttheroom.Ididn’twanttobetheaxisaroundwhichyoubothspun.Ihadnothinglefttogiveeitherofyou,butourliveshadjustbeguntogether.WhathadIdone?WhyhadIwantedher?WhydidIthinkIwouldbeanydifferentthanthemotherIcamefrom?
Ithoughtaboutwaystogetout.There,inthedark,mymilkflowing,thechairrocking.Ithoughtaboutputtingherdowninthecribandleavinginthemiddleofthenight.Ithoughtaboutwheremypassportwas.Aboutthehundredsofflightslistedonthedeparturesboardattheairport.AbouthowmuchcashIcouldtakeoutatoncefromtheATM.Aboutleavingmyphonethereonthebedsidetable.Howlongmymilkwouldtaketogodry,formybreaststogiveuptheproofshewasborn.
Myarmsshookwiththepossibility.
ThesearethoughtsIneverletleavemylips.Thesearethoughtsmostmothersdon’thave.
14.
Iwaseightyearsoldanditwasfarpastmybedtime.I’dbeenstandinginthehallwayinmynightgownlisteningtomymotherandfatherfightinthelivingroom.
Therehadbeenthesoundofbreakingglass.Iknewitwasthefigurineofthewomaninthefullsoutherndressholdingthesunumbrella.I’mnotsurewhereithadcomefrom—aweddinggiftperhaps.They’dbeenarguingaboutsomethinghefoundinhercoatpocket,andthenmymother’stripstothecity,andthensomeonenamedLenny,andthenme.MyfatherfeltIwasbecomingtooquiet,toowithdrawn.ThatIcouldbenefitfromsomemoreattentionfromheronceinawhile.
“Shedoesn’tneedme,Seb.”
“You’rehermother,Cecilia.”
“She’dbebetteroffifIwasn’t.”
Whenmymotherstartingsobbing,reallycrying,somethingIhadn’theardfromherbeforedespitethevitrioltheyflungateachotheronanearnightlybasis,Iturnedtogobacktomyroom—myfacewashotandthestrainedshrillofhervoicemademystomachclench.ButthenI’dheardmyfathersaymygrandmother’sname.Hesaid,“You’llendupjustlikeEtta.”
Myfather’sfootstepsheadedforthekitchen.Iheardtheheavybottomoftwoglasstumblershitthecounterandthenthesplashofwhisky.Thedrinkcalmedherdown.Theyweredone.Iknewthispartoftheroutine—thepointwhereshetiredherselfoutandmyfatherdrankhimselftosleep.
Butthatnightshewantedtotalk.
Islidmybackdownthewallandcrouchedonthefloor.Isatthereforthenexthourandlistenedtoherspeaktohim,thosefragmentsofherpastburningmymindforthefirsttime.
Thatnight,myfathersleptinthebedroomwithher,whichherarelydid.WhenIwokeupinthemorningtheirdoorwasclosed.Imademyselfbreakfastandwenttoschool,andthatnighttheydidn’tfight.Theywerecalm,civil.Ididmyhomework.Isawmymothertouchhisbackassheputtheplateofovercookedchickeninfrontofhim.Hethankedherandcalledher“dear.”Shewastrying.Hewasforgiving.
ThiswouldbecomesomethingIdidoftenovertheyearsafterthatnight.MyheartwouldracefrommybedupstairswhenIheardEtta’snameandknewsomethinghadsetmymotheroffagain.IbarelybreathedasshespokesothatIcouldheareverywordshetoldmyfather.Thoserarenightswerelikegiftstome,althoughshewouldneverknowit.Iwasdesperatetoknowwhoshewasbeforeshebecamemymother.
Istartedtounderstand,duringthosesleeplessnightsreplayingthethingsI’doverheard,thatweareallgrownfromsomething.Thatwecarryontheseed,andIwasapartofhergarden.
1964
Ceciliacouldn’tsleepwithoutherdoll,Beth-Anne,evenattheageofeight.Shelovedthedollmorethananything—thesmell,thefeelingofthesilkhairbetweenherfingersasshefellasleep.Shesearchedforitfranticallyonenight,tryingtorememberwhereshe’dseenit.EttashoutedangrilyfromthebottomofthebasementstairsandCeciliaknewshewasirritatedbyherstompingalloverthehousewhensheshouldhavebeeninbed.
“She’sdownhere,Cecilia!”
Therewasasmallpicklecellarinthebasement,aboutthesizeofadogkennel.Ettahadstoppedcanningpicklesyearsbefore,andthey’dalmosteatenwhatwasleft.Shecrouchedatthecellardoor,herbumstickingouttowardsherdaughter.
“Wayattheback.Youmusthaveputitinthere.”
“Ididnot!Ihatethatcellar!”
“Well,Ican’tfitin.Goinandgether.”
Ceciliawhinedthathernightshirtwouldgetdirty.Thatshedidn’tlikeitinthere.ButshecouldseeBeth-Annelayinginthecorner.
“Don’tbesuchascaredy-cat,Cecilia.Ifyouwanther,gogether.”
CeciliagotdownonallfoursandEttapushedherforward.Shefellontoherforearmsandstartedtowhimper,butshewantedBeth-Annebadly,sosheslowlyinchedtowardsthebackofthesmall,darkcave.Thepicklejarsthatlinedthewallslookedlikeswampwaterandshestartedhavingtroublebreathing.
Somethingcreakedbehindher,butthewallsofthecellarweretoonarrowforhertoturnaround.Sherealizedthenthatthelastsliveroflightshe’dseenontheglassjarsaroundherwasgone.Shecouldn’tgetenoughairandcalledlouderforEtta.Therubbleunderherkneesdugintoherskineverytimeshetwitched.Sheinchedbackandtriedkickingopenthecementdoorwithherheel,butitwasjammed.
Sheheardthephoneringfromthelivingroom.Etta’sheavyfootstepspoundedthestairs.“Hello?”sheheardhersay,andthenitwasquietforamoment,untilthetelevisionsetcameon,andthenthefamiliarvoiceoftheeveningnews.CeciliaheardEtta’smuffledvoiceagainspeakingintothephone.ItwasSeptemberof1964andthefindingsoftheWarrenCommissionwerebeingreleased.Etta,likeeveryoneelse,wasobsessedwithJ.F.K.’sassassination.
Ettanevercameback.Henryleveredthedooropenwhenhegothomefromhisnightshift.HehauledCeciliaoutbytheankles.Herfistswerescraped.Therewasanargumentabouttakinghertothehospitaltobecheckedout.Hethoughtherbreathingwasshallowandhereyesdidn’tlookright.ButEttawon—theystayedhome.
HenrysatnearCecilia’sbedwhilesheslept.Heputcoldclothsonherheadanddidn’tgotoworkinthemorning.Noneofthemspoketoeachotherfordays.Hetookthedooroffthecellarandmovedthefewremainingpicklejarstothepantryinthekitchen.
“Thatdoorneverworkedproperly,”hesaidandshookhishead.
AweeklaterEttawhisperedsomethingtoCeciliawhensheclearedherdinnerplate.Henrywasatwork.Theywerelisteningtothenewsonthekitchenradio.Ceciliacouldn’tquitehearher,butwhatshethoughtshesaidwas,“Imeanttogobackforyou,Cecilia.”SheputherlipsonCecilia’scheekandlingeredthereforamoment.Ceciliadidn’taskEttatorepeatherself.
15.
Timegoesbysoquickly.Enjoyeverymoment.
Mothersspeakoftimelikeit’stheonlycurrencyweknow.
Canyoubelieveit?Canyoubelieveshe’salreadysixmonthsold?Otherwomenwouldsaythistome,nearlychipper,idlingtheirstrollersbackandforthonthesidewalkastheirbabiessleptunderexpensive,gauzywhiteblankets,theirpacifiersbobbing.IwouldlookdownatViolet,staringupatmefromwhereshelay,herfistswaving,herlegsstiff,wanting,wanting,wanting.AndIwouldwonderhowwe’dmadeitsofar.Sixwholemonths.Itfeltlikesixyears.
It’sthebestjobintheworld,isn’tit?Motherhood?ThiswaswhatthedoctorsaidatoneofViolet’sappointmentsforhershots.Shewasamotherofthree.Itoldheraboutmyreoccurringhemorrhoidsthesizeofgrapes,abouthowlongithadbeensincewe’dhadsex,sinceI’deventhoughtofyourpenisinpassing.Hereyebrowsliftedwithhersmile—yup.Igetit.Ireallydo.SAsthoughIwasapartoftheclubnow,privytoitsunspokentruths.WhatIcouldn’ttellherwasthatIfeltI’dagedacenturysinceI’dgivenbirthtoViolet.Thatsheseemedtostretcheveryhourwespenttogether.ThatthemonthshadcrawledbysoslowlyI’doftensplashcoldwateronmyfaceduringthedaytoseeifIwasjustdreaming—ifthat’swhytimenevermadeanysensetome.
It’slikeyoublink,andthey’resuddenlysuchbiggirls.Theybecomethesesweetlittlepeoplerightbeforeyoureyes.Violetseemedtogrowsoslowly.Inevernoticedachangeinheruntilyoushookitinfrontofmyface.Youwouldtellmeherclothesweretoosmall,thatherbellywashangingbelowhershirts,thatherleggingscameupalmosttoherknees.Youwouldpackawayherbabytoysandbuyherthingsonyourwayhomefromworkthatblinkedandbeeped,thingsfortinyhumanswhoaredeveloping,learning,thinking.Iwasjusttryingtokeepheralive.IwasfocusedonhereatingandhersleepingandtheprobioticdropsthatIcouldneverseemtoremember.Iwasfocusedongettingthroughthedaysastheyrolledlikebouldersintooneanother.
16.
Us.Nocouplecanimaginewhattheirrelationshipwillbelikeafterhavingchildren.Butthere’sanexpectationthatyou’llbeinittogether.Thatyou’llbeateamwheretheteamworkispossible.Ouroperationfunctioned.Ourchildwasfedandbathedandwalkedandrockedandclothedandchangedandyoudideverythingyoucould.Ihadherallday,butwhenyoucamethroughthedoor,shewasyours.Patience.Love.Affection.Iwasgratefulforeverythingyougaveherthatshedidn’twantfromme.IwatchedyoutwoandIwasenvious.Iwantedwhatyouhad.
Butthisimbalancecameatacost.Wehadshiftedawayfromoureasy,treasureddecadeofcomfort.Instead,mypresencemadeyouwithdraw.Yourjudgementmademeanxious.ThemoreVioletgotfromyou,thelessyougavetome.
Westillkissedhelloandconversedoverdinnersatrestaurantsontheoddnightwegotouttogether.Youalwaysputyourhandonthesmallofmybackaswewalkedclosertoourapartment,closertothenestwe’dbuilttogether.Wehadestablishedcertainmotionsandwestillwentthroughthem.Butthereweresubtleabsences.Westoppeddoingcrosswordstogether.Youdidn’tleavethebathroomdooropenwhenyoushowered.Therewasspacewheretherehadn’tbeenbefore,andinthatspacewasresentment.
Itriedtodobetter.Becomingafatherhadmadeyousobeautiful.Yourfacehadchanged.Warm.Soft.Yourbrowsliftedmoreandyourmouthwasalwaysagapewhenshewasnearyou.Goofy.YouhadbecomeabrighterversionofthemanIknew.Iyearnedforthosethingstohappentome,too.ButIhadbecomehardened.Myfacelookedangryandtiredwherelifeoncefilledmycheekbonesandglowedthroughmyblueeyes.Ilookedlikemymotherhad,rightbeforesheleftme.
17.
Somewhereinourseventhmonthtogether,Violetfinallystartednappingformorethantwentyminutesatatime.Iwentbacktomywriting.Ididn’tmentionittoyou—youalwaysinsistedthatIsleepwhileshenappedduringthedays,andaskedmewhenyougothomeifIhad.Thatwastheonlythingyoucaredabout.Youwantedmealertandpatient.YouwantedmerestedsoIcouldperformmyduties.Youusedtocareaboutmeasaperson—myhappiness,thethingsthatmademethrive.NowIwasaserviceprovider.Youdidn’tseemeasawoman.Iwasjustthemotherofyourchild.
AndsoIliedtoyoumostdaysbecauseitwaseasierthatway—yes,Inapped.Yes,Igotsomerest.Butactually,Ihadbeenworkingonashortstory.Thesentencespouredfromme.Icouldn’trememberwordsflowingthiseasilybefore.I’dbeenpreparedfortheoppositetohappen—otherwomenwriterswithbabieswarnedofdrainedenergyandbrainsthatcouldn’tfunctiononthepageliketheyusedto,atleastforthefirstyear.ButIseemedtocomealivewhenmyscreenwenton.
Violetwouldwakelikeclockworkaftertwohours,andIwasdeepinthezoneeverytime—Ifeltphysicallyandemotionallyelsewhere.IgotintoahabitwhereI’dlethercry,promisingmyselfjustonemorepage.SometimesIslippedonmyheadphones.Sometimesonepageturnedintotwo.Ormore.SometimesIwroteforanotherhour.Whenherpitchbecamefranticenough,I’dflipdownmylaptopscreenandrushtoherasthoughI’djustheardherforthefirsttime.Oh,hellothere!You’reawakenow!ComeseeMommy.Idon’tknowwhoIwasdoingthisperformancefor.IfeltdeeplyembarrassedasshepushedmeawaywhenItriedtosootheher.HowcouldIhaveblamedherforrejectingme?
Thedayyoucamehomeearly.
Ididn’thearyouwalkinoverherscreamsandthemusicinmyears.Myheartstoppedwhenyouwhippedmychairaround.Younearlytippedmeover.Yourantothebedroomasthoughthebabywasonfire.IheldmybreathasIlistenedtoyoucalmherdown.Shewashysterical.
“I’msosorry,I’msosorry,”youtoldher.
YouweresosorryIwashermother.That’swhatyouhadmeant.
Youdidn’tbringheroutofthenursery.Isatonthefloorinthehallwayknowingnothingwouldbethesamebetweenusagain.Ihadbrokenyourtrust.Ihadconfirmedeverydoubtyouquietlyheldaboutme.
WhenIfinallywentinyouwererockingherinthechairandyoureyeswereclosedandyourheadwasback.Shehiccuppedonthepacifier.
Iwalkedtowardsthechairtotakeherfromyou,butyourarmliftedtoholdmeback.
“Whatthefuckwereyoudoing?”
Iknewbetterthantomakeexcusesformyself.Ihadneverseenyourhandsshakewithangerbefore.
IwentintotheshowerandIcrieduntilthewaterwascold.
WhenIcameoutyouwerescramblingeggswhileshesatonyourhip.
“Shewakesupfromhernapeverydayatthree.Itwas4:45whenIwalkedin.”
Iwatchedthespatulascrapethefryingpan.
“Youletherscreamforoveranhourandahalf.”
Icouldn’tlookateitherofyou.
“Doesthishappeneveryday?”
“No,”Isaidfirmly.Asthoughthatwouldsavemydignity.
Westillhadn’tlookedeachotherintheeye.Violetbeganfussing.
“She’shungry.Feedher.”YoupassedhertomeandIdid.
Inbedthatnightyourolledawayfrommeandspoketowardstheopenwindow.
“What’swrongwithyou?”
“Idon’tknow,”Ianswered.“I’msorry.”
“Youneedtotalktosomeone.Adoctor.”
“Iwill.”
“I’mworriedabouther.”
“Fox.Please.Don’tbe.”
Iwouldneverhavehurther.Iwouldneverhaveputherindanger.
Foryearsafterwards,longaftershebegansleepingthroughthenight,Iwouldwaketothesoundofhercrying.IwouldclutchmychestandrememberwhatI’ddone.Iwouldrememberthecrampofguiltandtheoverrulingsatisfactionofignoringher.Irememberedthethrillofwritingoverthefusionofmusicandtears.Howquicklythepagefilled.Howfastmyheartraced.Howshamefulitfelttobeexposed.
18.
Mymothercouldn’tbeinsmallspaces.Thepantryclosetinmychildhoodhomewasunused,theshelvesdustyandscatteredwithturdsfrommicethathadcomeforthestalepeanutsandanoldopenbagofsugar.Thebackyardshedwaslocked.Thebasement,withitslowceiling,wasboardedupwiththreetwo-by-foursandrustynailsfromthegaragethatCeciliahadhammeredinherself.
WhenIwasnine,onadeathlyhotdayinAugust,Isatoutsideourstiflinghomeandwatchedmymothersmokeattheplastictableontheroughyellowgrassthatcoveredouryardfromonerottingchain-linkedfencetotheother.Therewassilenceintheair,asthougheventhesoundsfromtheneighborhoodcouldn’ttravelthroughthethickairIcouldbarelyforceintomylungs.EarlierthatdayI’dbeenattheEllingtons’houseandMrs.Ellingtonhadsentusintothecold,dankbasementforreprieve.We’dpretendedwewerehavingapicnicdownthere.Shebroughtusablanketandboiledeggsandapplejuiceinpapercupswithballoonsonthem,leftoverfromDaniel’sbirthdayparty.Iaskedmymotherifwecouldgodowntoourbasement,too.Couldn’twetaketheboardsoff?Couldn’tweusethebacksideofthehammertopullthenailsout,likeDaddidtofixthefrontporchlastweekend?
“No,”shesnapped.“Stopasking.”
“ButMom,please,Ifeelsick.It’stoohoteverywhereelsebutthebasement.”
“Stopasking,Blythe.I’mwarningyou.”
“I’lldieoutherethankstoyou!”
Sheslappedmeacrossthefacebutherhandslippedonthesweatofmycheek,soshewoundupandhitmeagain.Onlythistimeitwaswithaclosedfistandrightonthemouth.Squareandfirm.MytoothhitthebackofmythroatandIcoughedspecklesofbloodonmyt-shirt.
“It’sababytooth,”shesaidasIstaredatitinmypalm.“Theyallcomeouteventuallyanyway.”Sheputhercigaretteoutonapatchofdirtinthebrittlegrass.ButIcouldseeherdisgustwithherselfinhertwistedredlips.Shehadneverhitmebefore.AndsoIhadneverfeltthatparticularcollisionofshameandself-pityandheartache.Iwenttomyroomandmadeanaccordionfanwithagroceryflierfromthemailandlaidonthefloorinmyunderwear.Whenshecameinanhourlatershetookthefanfrommyhandandsmoothedthecreasesandsaidsheneededthecoupontobuychickenthighs.
Shesatonmybed,somethingsherarelydid.Shecouldn’tstandtobeinmyroomforlong.Herhuskythroatcleared.
“WhenIwasyourage,mymothertriedtokillme.Inthebasement.SoIcan’tgodownthere.”
Ididn’tmovefromthefloor.IthoughtofthethingsI’doverheardlateatnightasshecriedtomyfather.Myfaceflushedwithhersecrets.Iwatchedherbarefeetrubagainsteachother,hertoesfreshlypolishedinbright,cherryred
“Whydidshetrytokillyou?”Shecouldhaveseenmyheartjumpingunderthebloodstainsofmyshirt.
“Somethingwasn’trightwithher.”Hertonesuggestedtheanswershouldhavebeenobvioustomeeventhen.Shetorethechickenthighcouponoffthebottomoftheflyerandfoldedtherestbackintoanaccordion.Ireachedouttotouchhertoe,tofeelthesmoothpolish,tofeelher.Inevertouchedher.Sheflinched,butshedidn’tpullherfootaway.Webothstaredatmyfingeronhernail.
“I’msorryaboutyourtooth,”shesaidandthenstoodup.Islowlytookmyhandaway.
“Itwasstartingtogetlooseanyway.”
ItwasthefirsttimeshetoldmeherselfaboutEtta.Ithinkshemighthaveregretteditafterwards,becauseshewasespeciallycoldintheweeksthatfollowed.ButIrememberwantingtotouchhermore,wantingtobenearher.Irememberstandingatthesideofherbedinthemorningstorunmyfingersoftlyalonghercheekbone,andthentiptoeingoutwhenshestartedtostir.
19.
ForthenextfewmonthsIdecidednottowrite.IdecidedtofocusonViolet.
Mydoctordidn’tthinkIwassufferingfrompost-partumdepression,andsoneitherdidI.Ididaquizontheclipboardinherwaitingroom:
Haveyoubeenstressedorworriedfornogoodreason?No
Haveyoubeendreadingthingsyouusedtolookforwardto?No
Haveyoubeensounhappythatyoucan’tsleep?No
Doyouhavethoughtsofharmingyourself?No
Doyouhavethoughtsofharmingyourbaby?No
SherecommendedImakemoretimeformyselfandgetbacktothethingsIusedtoenjoybeforeIhadthebaby.Likewriting.This,Iknew,wouldn’tgooverwellwithyou.InsteadItoldyoushesuggestedsomeexerciseandmoretimeoutsideandafollow-upinsixweeks.IbeganwalkingwithVioletinthemorningassoonasyouleftthehouse.We’dgoforhours.I’dtakeherallthewaydowntowntoyouroffice,andyou’dmeetusforacoffee.YoulovedthewayVioletsquealedwhenshesawyoustepofftheelevator,andyoulovedtoseemewitharosy-freshface,lookinglikeIwasenjoyingmyself.Shewasalmostayearbythenandseemedlitupbytheworldaroundher,andsoIsignedusupforMommy-and-memusicclassesandaswimprogram.Youwarmedtomeagain—youlikedthisversionofmeanditfeltgood.AndbythenIhadalottoprove.WekeptbusyandIkeptquiet
Weretheregoodmoments?Ofcoursetherewere.OnenightIputmusiconwhileIcleanedthekitchen.Foodwaseverywhere—allovermyclothesandherfaceandthefloor.ShelaughedinherchairasIdancedwiththewhiskinmyhand.Herarmsreachedoutforme.Iswoopedherupandtwirledacrossthekitchenandshethrewherheadbackandsquealed.Irealizedwehadneverhadtheseexperiencestogether—wehadneverfoundthecomfort,thesilly,thefun.Mrs.Ellingtonandherpuppet.Maybewecouldhavethat,too.InsteadIwasalwayslookingforwhatwaswrongwithus.Ismotheredherinkissesandshepulledawaytostareatme—shewasonlyusedtothiskindofaffectionfromyou.Sheleanedintomyfacewithherwetopenlipsandmadeanahhhhsound.
“Yeah.We’retrying,aren’twe?”Iwhispered.
Youclearedyourthroat.Youhadbeenwatchingusthereinthedoorway.Yousmiled.Icouldseethereliefasyourshouldersrelaxed.Wewerepictureperfectinthatkitchen.Whenyoucamebackfromchanging,youpouredtwoglassesofwineandkissedmeontheheadandthenyousaid:
“Iwasthinking.Youshouldgetbacktowritingagain.”
I’dpassedwhatevertestyouwereputtingmethrough.Wedesperatelywantedlifetofeelgood—webothhadhopethatitcould.IputmynoseinViolet’sstickyneckandtooktheglassofwinefromyou.
20.
“Shesaidit.IsweartoGod.Sayitagain.”Hecroucheddownandjiggledherhips.“Comeon.Mama.”
“Honey,she’selevenmonthsold.It’stooearly,isn’tit?”Ihadmetyoubackatthepark,coffeesforusinmyhands.Weweresurroundedbyotheryoungfamiliesdotingontheirkids,lookingvariousstagesoftired.Ismiledatamomwhowasstandingnearbyclutchingasnottytissue.“ImeanIspendeverydaywithher,she’sneversaiditbefore.”
“Mama,”yousaidagain.“Mama.Comeon.”
Violetpoutedandambledtowardstheswings.“Neeeahhh.”
“Ican’tbelieveyoumissedit.Rightwhenyouleftforthecoffees.ShepointedinyourdirectionandsaidMama.Mama.ThreetimesIthink,actually.”
“Oh.Okaywell—that’samazing.Wow.”Itdidn’tseemlikesomethingyou’dlieabout,butitwashardtobelieve.Youliftedherintothebabyswing.
“IwishI’dcaughtitonvideo.Iwishyouheardit.”Youshookyourheadandwatchedherinawe,yourbabygenius,rockinginherseatsoyou’dpushherhigher.IgaveyouyourcoffeeandslippedmyhandinthebackpocketofyourjeanslikeIusedtodo.Wefeltsonormalamongtheotheryoungfamilieslikeours,killingtimeonSundaymorning,savoringthecaffeine.
“Mama!”
“Didyouhearthat?”Youjumpedbackfromtheswing.
“OhmyGod.Iheardit!”
“Sayitagain!”
“Mama!”
Ispilledmycoffeelumberingtowardsherintheplaygroundsand.Igrabbedthefrontoftheswingandpulledherclosetokisshersquareonherwetlips.“Yes!Mama!”Isaidtoher.“That’sme!”
“Mama!”
“Itoldyou!”
YousqueezedmyshouldersfrombehindandwestaredatherasIpretendedtotickleherfeetwhensheswungtowardsus.Shewaslaughingthen,sayingmynameoverandovertowatchourreaction.Iwasmesmerizedbyher.Weswayedeversoslightlytogether,andIreacheduptofeeltheweekend’sscruffonyourchin.Youturnedmyfacetowardsyouandkissedme,brief,happy,carefree.Violetwatchedusandsaiditagain.Westoodlikethatforwhatfeltlikehours.
Shefellasleepinthestrolleronthewayhome.IthadbeensolongsinceI’dfeltthisconnectedtoeitherofyou,andIclungtotheblissofit—thelightnessofmylegsaswewalked,thesatisfyingdepthofmylong,fullbreath.Youcarriedhertohercrib,carefulnottowakeher,andIslippedhertinyrunningshoesoffwhilesheslept.Iturnedinthehallwaytowardsthekitchen,tocleanthemessofbreakfastwe’dleftforlater.Butyoutuggedatmyarm.Youpulledmeintothebathroomandrantheshower.Ileanedonthecounterandwatchedyouundress.
“Comeon.Comeinwithme.”
“Now?”Ithoughtofthehalf-avocadostillsittingonthecounter,therubbereggsleftinthepan.Ithadbeensolongsincewe’dtouchedeachother.
“Comeon,Mama.”
I’djuststeppedinwhenweheardherlittlevoicestarttocrackfromdownthehall.Shewaswakingup.Ireachedforthetap,thinkingyou’dwanttorunforherbeforeshecried.
“Stay,we’llbequick,”youwhispered,alreadyhard,andsoIdid.Hernoisesbecamemoreurgent,aremindershewasthere,butyoudidn’tstop.You’dwantedmemorethanher.Iwasrepulsedwithmyselfforthesatisfactionthisgavemeaswefucked,forlettingthisturnmeonasmuchasitdid.Ilistenedforherthroughtheechoofthewater.Iwantedtohearherwail,toimagineyouignoringherlikeIsometimesdid.Wecamefasttogetherundertheweakflowoftheshowerhead.
Youshutoffthewaterabruptlyassoonaswefinished.Shewasquiet.Shehadn’tstartedscreaminglikeI’dbeenwaitingfor,likeshedidwhenitwasjustme.Youtossedmeatowellikemyteammateinalockerroom—youusedtodrymybodyoffslowly,ithadoncebeenpartofwhatwedidtogether.Violet’svoicewassoftinthedistance,ameaninglessscaleofsounds,andIpicturedheronherback,legsintheair,pullingathersweatytoes.Itwasasthoughsheknewyou’dbetheretogethersoon.Youwrappedanothertowelaroundyourwaist,kissedmybareshoulder,andyouwenttoher.
BackinthekitchenyoumadeusgrilledcheesesandwicheswhileItidiedupthebrowningscrapsfrombreakfast.YouhummedandtouchedmewheneverIwasinreach.Shesaiditoverandoveragainasshewatchedforyourreaction,kickingherlegsinherhighchair:Mama.Mama.
1968
Ettawasn’talwaysunpredictable.Therewerestretchesoftimewhenshefiguredouthowtolookandactlikethekindofpersonamotherwasexpectedtobe.Ceciliasensedthiswasn’teasyforher—shesawitsometimesinthewayEtta’shandsshooknervouslywhenanothermotherknockedontheirdoortosayhello,orwhenCeciliaaskedforabraidinherhair.ButnobodywasscrutinizingEttabythen.Thetruthwasthey’dallgivenup.AndyetsomethinginsidehermadeEttawanttotryanyway.Sometimesitworked,andsometimesitdidn’t.ButCeciliarootedforhereachandeverytime.
WhenCeciliawasinthesixthgrade,therewasaschooldanceaftertheholidaybreak,andshehadnothingtowear—theydidn’tgotochurchanddidn’tcelebratemuch.Thiswasn’tsomethingCeciliacaredorcomplainedabout,butEttasaidshewouldmakehersomethingspecialtowear.Ceciliawasspeechless—she’dneverseenhermothermakeathing.Thenextday,Ettacamehomefromthefabricstoreandcalledupthestairs.
“Cecilia,comesee!”
She’dlaidoutatissue-paperpatternforashiftdress,andyardsofdarkyellowcotton.CeciliastoodstillwhileEttameasuredherlong,skinnybody,onesounlikeherown.Ceciliafeltlikeshewasbeingtouchedbyastrangerashermother’shandsranalongtheinsideofherleg,acrossherthinwaist,anduptohershoulders.Ettawrotedownthemeasurementsonanapkinanddeclaredthatthedresswouldbebeautiful.
Therewasanoldsewingmachineleftinthebasementfromtheownersbeforethem,andEttabroughtituptothekitchentable.SheworkedonthedressintheeveningsforfivestraightnightsandtheoldmotorkeptCeciliaawakeuntiltheearlyhours.Inthemorningthere’dbestraightpinsandbitsofthreadspreadacrossthekitchentable.Ettawouldcomedown,hereyesbleary,andstareatthefabricassheheldituptoher.TheprojectgaveherapurposethatCeciliahadn’tseenhermotherhavebefore.Andlessroom,sheknew,fortheangerandsadness.
Themorningofthedance,EttawasupearlyandwenttoCecilia’sroomwiththedress.Itwasfinished—pressedanddrapedoverherarm.SheheldituptoCecilia’sshouldersandranherhandsoverthedrop-waistandpleatedbottom.She’dtrimmedthenecklineandsleeveswithabeautifulknottedsilk.
“Whatdoyouthink?”
“Iloveit.”ItwaswhatEttawantedtohear,yes,butCeciliadidinfactloveit.Itwasthemostbeautifulthingshehad,andtheonlythinganyonehadevermadeforher.Sheimaginedwalkingintoclassthatdayandwatchingtheheadsoftheothergirlsturntostareinjealousdisbelief.
Ceciliaturnedherbackandtookoffhernightgown.Thezipperofthedresswasstiff,butshemanagedtogetitdownandthenslippedherlegsin.Shepulledthedressupandfelttheseamsroughagainstherskin.Thewaistwastightandflattenedhersmallbum,anditwouldn’tgoanyhigher.Shewiggledthedressaroundherselfandtriedtoyankharder.Butthedresswouldn’tmove.
“Putyourarmsin.Goon.”
Shetriedtocrouchintothedressandslitherherarmsintothesleeves,butitwastootight.Theyheardthesoundoffabrictearing.
“Comehere.”Ettayankedhercloserandpulledandtuggedaroundherlikeshewasdressingadoll.ShewhippedthedressdownCecilia’slegsandthentriedpullingitoverherhead.Ettadidn’tsayaword.Cecilialetherwranglethedressandjostleherhowevershewantedto.Etta’sforeheadwasslickwithsweatandherfacehadturnedadeeperredthanusual.Ceciliaclosedhereyesastightasshecould.
EventuallyEttalethergoandstoodup.
“You’rewearingthedress,Cecilia.”
Herheartsank.Shecouldn’tpossiblywearit.Shecouldn’tevengetiton.
Fifteenminuteslater,Ceciliacamedowntothekitchenwearingherusualbeigeslacksandblueturtleneck.Shedidn’tlookatEtta.Shesatatthetableandpickedupherspoon.
“Gobackandputthedresson.”
“Yousaw.Itdoesn’tfit.”Cecilia’sheartpounded.
“Makeitfit.Goupstairs.Now.”
ShewonderedifHenrymighthearher.Sheputherspoondownandtriedtodecidewhattodo.
“NOW.”
CeciliacouldhearEtta’sthickbreathingbehindher.ShecouldfeelEtta’srageticklingherspine.ShelistenedforHenry’sfootsteps,hopinghe’dhurryupandgetdownthere.
“NOW!”
Forthefirsttimethen,CeciliarealizedshehadakindofpoweroverEtta.Shecouldmakeherangry.Shecouldmakeherlosecontrol.Shecouldhavegoneupstairsandpretendedtotryagain,butshewantedtoseehowfarEttawouldgoifsheignoredher.Theyweretradinggunfire.
“NOW,CECILIA.”
Ettawasshakingandshescreamedagain.Now!Now!Everytimeshescreamed,theragepumpedthroughherlikeadrugandCeciliacouldseetheshameinherfaceasthehighworeoff.
Ceciliawouldcometoknowthatfeelingherselfmanyyearslater.
HenrycameintothekitchenjustasEtta’smouthopenedagain.Somehow,shefoundawaytocalmdownandshepouredhimacoffee.Ceciliaranoutthedoorwithoutthedress.
Shewaiteduntildarktogohomethatnight,whensheknewHenrywouldbethere.Ettadidn’tlookather.ShewentupstairsandsawthatEttahadtakenthedressfromherroom.AfewminuteslaterEttawalkedtoCecilia’sdoor,theyellowfabricfoldedinherhands.ShesatonCecilia’sbedandheldupthedress.She’dtakenitapartandsewnextrapanelsinthesides.Itlookedboxyandcrooked,butshehadtried.
“Youcansaveitforthenextdance.”
Ceciliatookitfromherandranherfingersovertheknottedtrimandthenshehuggedher.Ettastiffenedinherarms.
Afewmonthslatersheworethedresstotheschool’send-of-yeardance.Shesatawkwardlyontheedgeofthegymstage,tryingtohidejusthowbadlyitfit.Ceciliadidn’tchangewhenshegothome—sheworethedresstodinner.Hermotherdidn’tmentionit,andneitherdidHenry,andCeciliadidn’twearthedressagain.
21.
Thepartywasmoreforusthanitwasforher.Awholeyearofparenthood.Iorderedahugebouquetofballoonsinpastelcolorswithagiantfoil“1”inthemiddleandboughtfancypaperplatesthatwerescallopedaroundtheedges.Thestrawswerepolkadotted.YourmothergaveVioletabeautifulbutter-yellowcottonpinaforeandribbedtightswithrufflesonthebum.Shelookedlikeababyduckling,waddlingaroundthelivingroom,herpinkwetlipsblowingspitbubblesasshebabbledtoherguests.Yourfatherfollowedher,crouchedonhisbadknees,recordinghereverymove.
IboughtthecakefromthebakerywhereIoftentookherforatreatonourwalks.Vanillacreamicingwithrainbowsprinklesontop.ShesquealedandclappedwhenIplaceditonherhighchairtray,hereyeslockedonthesingletinyflame.
“Happy!”shesaid.Asclearasday.
“Igotitonfilm!”saidyourdotingdad,holdinguphisdigitalcamera.Yourmothersmotheredherinkissesandyoursister,whomwerarelysawbuthadflownfivehourstobethere,scruncheduptissuepapertomakeherlaugh.Grace,whobroughtabottleoftequilawithher,cutandservedthecake.Wewatchedthemalltogetherfromthecomfylivingroomchair,meonyourlap,yourarmsfoldedacrossmychest.
“Wedidit,”youwhispered,andbreathedmeinslowly,yournoseticklingthenapeofmyneck.Inoddedandtookasipofyourbeer.Shelookedangelicinherhighchair,herraptaudience,theicingsmearedacrossherface.Ifeltyournoseonmyneckagain.Itookanotherdrinkandpulledyouup.
“Let’sgetafamilypicture.”
WestoodinthenaturallightfromourapartmentwindowsandIheldVioletonmyhipbetweenus.Shefeltunusuallydocile,andIpulledherinforakissonhersugarycheek.Wesmiledastheyclickedaway.Youmadehergigglewithyourducknoises.Iheldheraboveourheadsaswesquealedateachotherwithwideopenmouths.Thethreeofus,exactlyasweweresupposedtobe.
22.
Verysoonafterherfirstbirthday,Violetstoppedsleepingthroughthenightagain.
Youneverheardherrightaway,andsometimesnotatall,butitfeltlikemyeyesopenedafewsecondsbeforeshemadeherfirstnoisefromthecribdownthehall.Thisunnervedmeeverytime,thereminderthatshewasstillsomuchaphysicalpartofme.Everytwohoursshecriedforherbottle.Afterafewweeks,Ilinedupsixofthem,fullofmilk,againsttherailingofhercrib,hopingshe’dfindonewhenshewantedit.Sheneverdid.
Ican’tdothis,I’dthinkeverytimeshewokemeup.Iwon’tsurvivethisagain.
Iwouldopenthedoorofhernursery,putabottleinherhand,andleave.
“Isn’tthatbadforbacteria,havingallthatmilksittingout?Isn’tthatdangerous?”YouaskedwhenyourealizedwhatIwasdoing.
“Idon’tknow.”Itprobablywas,butIdidn’tcare.Ijustneededhertogobacktosleep.
Thiswentonformonthsandleftmeravaged.Iwokeinthemorningwithaheadachethatsatbehindmyeyesandmademythoughtscomeslower.IavoidedhavingtospeakwithotheradultsforfearI’dmakenosense.Myresentmentofyoubothfestered.IhatedhearingyoubreathedeeplyandevenlywhenIcamebacktobed,andIsometimestuggedatthesheetsinthehopesitwouldrouseyoufromtheplaceIsobadlywantedtobe.
IbroughtuptheideaofsendingViolettodaycareafewdaysaweek.You’dsaidearlyon,beforeVioletwasevenborn,thatyoudidn’tliketheideaofdaycare.Yourmotherhadraisedherchildrenathomeuntiltheywerefiveandwenttoschool.Youwantedthesameforyourown.Ihadagreed,blindly,heartily.Iwoulddothethingsyouthoughtperfectmothersdid.
Butthatwasbefore.
Ifoundaplacethreeblocksawaythathadaspotopenupforthefall.I’doverheardpeopleraveaboutit,andtheyhadacameraintheroomthatletparentswatchremotely.ThetruthwasIoftenfeltsadforthosedaycarebabieswhenIsawthemlineduplikeeggsinacartoninthoselongstrollers,tiredunderpaidstaffpushingthemaroundthecityforsomethingtodo.Buttherewasresearchaboutbabiesindaycareenvironments—bettersocialized,morestimulated,accelerateddevelopment,etcetera,etcetera.Isentyouthearticleseverysooften.AtdinnerI’dfollow-updelicatelytoemphasizetheinternalconflictyouwantedmetohave:MaybeVioletneededmorestimulationnow?Maybeit’stime?Althoughperhapsshe’sbetteroffathome.Fornapsandsuch.Whatdoyouthink?I’dasktofeignconcern,butwebothknewtheanswerIneeded.
“Waittodecideonceshe’ssleepingbetter,”you’dreasoned.“You’rejustsotiredrightnow.Iknowit’shard,butthiswillpass.”Youhadthenervetosaythisasyoudressedforwork,yourfacebright,yourhairfreshlycut.Ihadlistenedtoyousingintheshowerthatmorning.
Fuckyou.Iwasmiserable.SheandIbothwere,itseemed.Shewasgravelyunhappywhenshewasaroundonlyme.Shewouldn’tletmeholdheranymore.Shedidn’twantmenearher.Mostdaysshewasirritableandtroublesomewhenwewerealoneandnothingcouldsootheher.ShescreamedsoloudlywhenIpickedherupthatIcouldimaginetheneighborsnextdoorstoppingdeadintheirtracks.Whenwewereinpublic,atthegrocerystoreorthepark,othermotherswouldsometimesaskinasympatheticvoiceiftherewasanythingtheycoulddotohelp.Iwashumiliated—theyeitherpitiedmeforhavinggivenbirthtoachildlikeViolet,orforbeingthekindofmotherwholookedtooweaktosurviveher.
Webeganstayinghome,mostly,althoughIliedwhenyoureturnedfromworkaskingforadailyreportassheeagerlyclimbedontoyourlap.Confinedtoourapartmentshewouldscamperaroundlikeascorpion,lookingforthingstoshovelinhermouth—fistfulsofplantdirt,thekeysfrommypurse,evenstuffingshe’dsomehowpullfromourpillows.Shenearlychokedherselfbluesometimes.WhenIscoopedhermouthclean,shewouldflaillikeafishoutofwaterandthengolimp.Likeshewasdead.Myheartwouldstop.Hereyeswouldgowide,andthenwouldcomeascreamfromdeepwithinher,sorepellentthatitmademyeyesstingwithtears.
Iwassodisappointedshewasmine.
Iknewsomeofherbehaviorcouldbeclassifiedastypical.Youwroteitoffasbeingjustaphase,toddlercrankiness,thesymptomsofadevelopmentalleap.Fairenough,Itriedtoconvincemyself.Butshewasmissingthesweetnessandaffectionofotherchildrenherage.Shesorarelyshowedaffection.Shedidn’tseemhappy—notanymore.Isawasharpnessinsideofherthatsometimeslookedphysicallypainful.Icouldseeitinherface.
Wejokedabouttoddler-lifewithotherpeoplewhohadkids,asparentsdo,lookingforreassurance.Wewouldcommiseratewiththetablesbesideusasweallracedthroughearly-birddinnersatrestaurantswithstickyhigh-chairs.Iwoulddownplayhowbadshecouldbe,knowingyouwantedmeto.Iwouldagree,asIwassupposedto,thatthemomentsinbetweenthechaosmadeupforalltherest.Butshewascyclonic.AndIwasincreasinglyscaredofher.
Idesperatelywantedmoretimetomyself.Iwantedabreakfromher.Theseseemedlikereasonablerequeststome,butyoumademefeellikeIstillhadtoprovemyselftoyou.Yourlingeringdoubt,althoughitwassilent,wassoheavythatsometimesitwashardtobreathearoundyou.
Icouldonlywritewhenshewasasleep,butshenevernappedlong,andsowe’dfallenbackintooursecretroutine,asmuchasIpromisedmyselfIwouldn’tdothattoheragain.Iletithappenonlyafewdaysaweek.AndIalwaysmadeituptoher—acookieonourafternoonwalk,anicelongbathtime.
Iknewthesedayswerenumbered—shewouldsoonbeabletotalk,totellyouwhathappenedinherday,andthenIwouldlosethispowerIsoshamefullyheld.Perhapsthiswaspartofmyjustification.Mybehaviorwaspathological.ButIcouldn’tstoppunishingherforbeingthere.Howeasyitwastosliponmyheadphonesandpretendshedidnotexist.
Onedaywasparticularlytough.ShebecameangryeverytimeIwentnearher,kickingandslapping.SheslammedherheadagainstthewallandthenlookedatmetoseewhatIwoulddo.Andthenshediditagain.Shehadn’teatenallday.Iknewshewasstarvingbutshewouldn’tletfoodcrossherlipsbecauseitwasmewhowasoffering.Ihadspenttheentiretyofhernapcrying,lookingupearlysignsofbehavioraldisordersontheinternetandthendeletingthehistoryfromthebrowser.Ididn’twantyoutoseeit,andIdidn’twanttobeamotherwiththatkindofchild.
Shegaveupthefightmereminutesbeforeyoucamehome,asthoughshecouldhearyourfeetstepofftheelevator.IplacedheronmyhipwhileIcleanedthelivingroom.Shewasstiff.Quiet.Shesmelledalittlestale.Hersleeperwasroughagainstmyarm,thecottonpilledfromtoomanywashes.
Ihandedhertoyou,stillinyourniceofficesweater.Iexplainedhowshegottheredweltonherhead.Ididn’tcareifyoubelievedmeornot.
“Honey.”Youtriedtolaughtoquellyourjudgementasyoutickledheronthecarpet.“Isshereallythatbad?Ithoughtthingsweregettingbetter.”
Islumpedonthecouch.“Idon’tknow.I’mjustsotired.”
Icouldn’ttellyouthetruth:thatIbelievedtherewassomethingwrongwithourdaughter.Youthoughttheproblemwasme.
“Here.”Youheldherouttome.Shewassuckingonapieceofcheeseyougaveher.“She’scalm.She’sfine.Justcuddlewithher.Showhersomelove.”
“Fox,thisisn’taboutlove.Oraffection.Itrythatallthetime.”
“Justholdher.”
Iputheronmylapandwaitedforhertoshovemeaway,butshesatthere,content,suckingonhersoggycheddar.Wewatchedyouunpackyourbriefcase.“Dada,”shesaid.“Baba.”
Youpassedherthebottlefromthecoffeetableandshesankbackintome.
“Idon’tthinkyouunderstand,”Isaidquietly,carefulnottodisrupther.HerweightonmybodywascomfortingandIbegantocalmdown.Ifeltlikesomeonelostatseawhohadn’thadanyhumancontactinyears.Iranmyfingeralongherforehead,brushingbackherwispyfringe.Sheletmekissher.Shepulledthebottleawayfromhermouthandsighed—wewerebothsotiredoffightingeachother.
“Areyounappingwhenshenaps?”Youspokequietlytoo,studyingus.
“Ican’tnap.”Isnapped,thecalmdrainingfrommychest.Shewiggledawayfromme.“There’stoomuchtodo.Laundry.I’mtryingtowrite.Mymindwon’tstopspinning.”
ItossedthebottleontothecoffeetableandasquirtofmilksprayedonthepagesI’dprinted.Iwasthinkingofshowingthemtoyouthatnight—ithadbeensolongsinceyouaskedaboutwhatIwasworkingon.Iwatchedthebeadsofmilkdripfromtherubbernippleontomysentences,blottingtheink.
Youchangedyourclothesandcamebackandfellontothecouchbesideme.Yourhandpattedmythigh.TherewasatimeIwouldhaveaskedaboutyourday.Thesadnessofthedistancethathadgrownbetweenusagainoverthepastfewmonthswassomethingwedidn’tdiscuss.Iwaswillingtoletitfesterinthebackground,anditseemedyouwere,too.
“What’sthat?”Yougesturedtothewetpages.
“Nothing.”
“Confirmherdaycarespot,ifyouwantto.Butonlythreedaysaweek,okay?Wedidn’tbudgetforthis.”Yourubbedyourforehead.
Itriedmybestfortherestofthatweek.Butwefellbackintoourdailycombat.ShestarteddaycarethefollowingMondayandIcanstillfeeltheenormoussenseofreliefthatwashedovermewhenIplacedherdownonthewelcomemat.Shestaredatheryellowrainbootsuntiltheteachercametotakeherhand.Shedidn’tlookatmewhenIsaidgoodbyeandIneverturnedaroundasIwalkedawaythroughthewetlawnandoutofthegate.
23.
YourmothergaveVioletherfirstdoll.
“Maternalinstinctstartsyoung,”shesaidassheunwrappedfreshfishfromthemarketandgesturedtoVioletonthefloor.Violethadtheplastic-headedbabytuckedunderherarmandhadn’tputitdownsinceshe’dgotit.Baaaybee,Violetsangoverandover,andpokedthewideflutteringeyesthathadlashesthickerthanmine.Thedollhadanartificialscentlikebabypowderandwasdressedinapinksleeper.
Idrankmywineandwatchedyourmothermakedinner—she’dinsistedoncookingcedar-plankedsalmonwithmaplesauceeventhoughI’dofferedtoorderin.Violetbroughtthebabydolltomeandputheronmylap.“Mama.Baby.”
“Yes,sweetie.She’scute.”Irockedandkissedthedollasshewatched.“Yourturn.”
Shereacheduptoputherwide-openmouthonthebaby’sbaldhead.Ihadn’tseenheractthisaffectionatelybefore,exceptwithyou,althoughIdidn’twanttogiveyourmotherthesatisfactionofsayingso.
“Goodgirl.Kisses.”
Thesmelloffishfilledtheapartment.Yourfatherhadtakenyoutothehockeygame.Theywerestayinginthecityforthreenights.Ahotel.Amatterofspace,Ihadsaid,althoughwehadboughtapull-outsofajustforthemwhenwefirstmovedin.IwasstillsotiredeventhoughVioletwassleepingbetter—Iwastooonedgetohaveyourmotherinourhomeforallthattime.Myfeelingsforherwerecomplicated.Ifeltdesperateforherhelp,anyone’shelp,butIhadcometoresenthercapability,howeasyshehadmadeeverythingseemforyourentirelife.
“How’sdaycaregoingforoursweetgirl?”
“Good,Ithink.Sheseemstoreallyliketheteachers.She’slearnedsomuchinjustafewweeks.”
ShetoppedupmyglassandbenttokissViolet.
“Andyou?”
“Me?”
“You’vebeenenjoyingyourfreetime?”
Shehadspentnearlytwodecadestakingcareofyouandyoursisterathome.Bakedpies.RanthePTA.Shehadsewneverypillow,drape,napkin,placematandshowercurtainherself.Iwatchedherblondebobswingasshecooked,thesamelengthandflipsheworeineverygold-framedfamilyphotographinthehallwayofyourchildhoodhome.
“I’vebeenwritingmoreandcatchinguponthingsaroundhere.”
“Youmustcountdownthehoursuntilpick-up.Ialwaysdid,oncetheywereinschool.Youwantabitofpeaceandquietandthenyouspendalldaythinkingaboutthem.”Shesmiledtoherself,choppingdill.“Foxseemstobeenjoyingher.Ialwaysknewhe’dmakeawonderfuldad.Evenwhenhewaslittle.”
Violetclangedthestovewithawhisk,thebaby’sfootinherotherhand.
“He’sincredible.He’s…theperfectdad.”Itwaswhatshewantedtohear,andinsomeways,itwastrue.
ShesmiledtoherselfandpickedupalemonandthenwatchedVioletplayforamomentbeforeshegratedtherind.IbentdowntoliftVioletandtakehertothebath.SheflinchedwhenshefeltmytouchandIknewIhadsetheroff—theknotinmystomachtwisted.Shewailed,thrashingherbodyagainstthefloortiles.
“Comeonhoney,bathtime.”Ididn’twanttobattleinfrontofyourmother.Ipickedherupasshekickedandscreamedandtookhertothebathroom.Ishutthedoorandranthewater.Yourmotherknockedafewminuteslaterandspokeloudlyoverthecrying.
“CanIhelp?”
“She’sjustcranky,Helen.She’stired.”Butshecameinanyway.BythenIwassoakedandVioletwasnearlypurplewithrage.Irinsedthesoapfromherhairwithatightgripunderherarm.WhenIliftedheroutshecouldbarelybreathefromthescreaming.Yourmotherwatchedusandpassedthetowel.
“CanItakeher?”
“She’llbeokay,”IsaidandheldViolettighttorestrainher.ButherteethcutintothefatofmycheekbeforeIcouldmovemyfaceaway—shehadbittenme.Iyelledfrombetweenmyclenchedteethandtriedtopullherheadaway,butshewasclampedtootightly.Yourmothergaspedandpulledhergranddaughter’sjawapartwithherfingers.ShegrabbedVioletfrommeandsaidonly,“MyGod.”
Ilookedatthemarkinthemirrorandranthecoldwater.Ipressedawetclothontomyskin.
Iwashumiliated.Icouldseeyourmother’sfacebehindme,aghast.
Violethadstoppedscreamingnow.Shecaughtherbreathbetweenherwhimpersinyourmother’sarmsandlookedatherforreprieve,asthoughshe’dbeendefendingherselfinthearmsofatorturer.
“I’msorry,”Isaid.Tonoone.
“Howaboutyoutakethefishout,andI’llgetherpajamason?”
“No,it’sokay.”Itookherfromyourmother,embarrassed,determined,butVioletscreamedagain,whippingherheadback.Yourmother’sfacewasonfire.IpassedVioletbacktoherandturnedtothesink.Shewalkeddownthehalltothenursery,hushinginViolet’searlikeyoualwaysdid,whileIcriedbehindthesoundoftherunningfaucet.
“Thankyoufordinner,Helen.Itwasdelicious.”
“TheleastIcando.”
“I’msorryaboutearlier.Thatwasquiteascene.”
“Honey,don’tworry.”Sheliftedherwinebutdidn’tdrink.“I’msureshe’sjusttired.Doyouthinkshe’snappingenough?”
“Maybenot.”Shewas.Wewerebothpretendingthatthingsweren’tasbadastheywere.ThatViolet’sbehaviorcouldbeeasilyexplained.Itwaswhatpeopleinyourfamilypreferredtodo.Ipushedaroundthelastbitoffood.“She’sinaDaddyphaserightnow,Iguess.”
“Well,wecan’tblameher.”Shewinkedandclearedourplates.“You’rebothveryluckytohavehim.”
Andwhatabouthim?Isn’theluckytohaveme,too?Inthekitchenshepouredmeanotherglass.Iwasquiet.
“Thingswillgeteasier,”shewhispered.
Inodded.ThetearscamebackandIfeltmyfaceredden.Shedidn’tspeakforamoment,butwhenshedid,shehadsoftened,likeshesuddenlyacceptedthingswereworsethanshewantedtobelieve.Shecoveredmyhandwithhersandwebothwatchedhergripmetightly.
“Look.Nobodysaidmotherhoodwaseasy.Especiallyifit’snotwhatyouthoughtitwouldbe,orit’snotwhat—”Herthin,pinklipspressedtogetherbetweenthoughts.Shewouldn’tdaredhavementionedmymother.“Butyoufigureoutawaytogetthrough.Foreveryone.That’swhatyouhavetodo.”
Whenyouwalkedinthedoor,thefirstthingyouaskedwashowViolethadbeen.Howwasmygirltonight?Youwerebeaming.Youlovedwhenyourmotherspenttimewithourdaughter.
“Shewasverygood,forthemostpart.”Yourmotherkissedbothofyourcheeksandturnedtogetherpurse.Yougavemealonghugandfelttipsyinmyarms.Yousmelledofbeerandspicyprocessedmeatandthecold.WhenIpulledaway,youaskedwhatwaswrongwithmyface—youtouchedtheredmarkfromViolet’steethandIflinched.
“Nothing.JustamarkfromViolet.”Iliftedmyeyestowardsyourmother.
“Yes,sheputupachallengebeforebed,”shesaid,speakingtoyou.“Shedoeshaveabitofatemper,thatone.”
Youfrownedandthenmovedon.Hungupyourcoat.Yourmothersmiledatyoutightlywithraisedbrows,asthoughsheexpectedyoutosaymore.Ilookedawayfromher,gratefulforhersolidarity,andashamedthatIneededitsodesperately.
“Hanginthere,honey.”Shesaidthistomequietlyandthenlefttomeetyourfatherinthecab.
24.
ThevividmemoriesofmychildhoodstartwhenIwasabouteightornineyearsold.IwishIdidn’thavetorelyonthesememoriesalone,butIdo.Somepeopleframetheirperspectivesofthepastwithwornphotographsorthesamestoriestoldathousandtimesbysomeonewholovesthem.Ididn’thavethesethings.Mymotherdidn’teither,andmaybethatwaspartoftheproblem.Weonlyhadoneversionofthetruth.
Thereisonethingthatcomestome:thewhiteliningofmystroller,thedarkbluefloretsandaneyeletribbontrim,andthemiddleofthechromehandlewrappedwithcane.Mymother’scanary-glovedknucklesloomoverme.Ican’tseeherfacelookingdown,justhershadowfloatingovermeeveryonceinawhile,whensheturnsacornertoputthesunbehindher.Ican’tpossiblyrememberanythingthisearly,Iknow.ButIcansmellsourformulaandtalcumpowderandcigarettesmoke,andIcanhearthesoundoftheslowcitybusesbringingpeoplehomefordinner.
IplaythisgameinmyheadsometimesaboutSam.
Whatmightheremember?Thesharpnessofthegrassonthehillattheparkortheorangequiltwelaidhimon,threefacesbobbingabovehimlikeumbrellas?MaybethesmellofthepumpkinmuffinsVioletlikedtobake.Thebigspoonwiththeredhandlethatshealwaysgavetohim,sloppingwithbatter.Thebathtoywiththespinninglightyouwantedtothrowout.Maybethepaintinginthenursery—thecherubbabyalwaysseemedtocatchhiseyeinthemorning.
Buthere’swhatIthinkitwouldbe:thetilesonthewallinthechangeroomatthecommunityswimmingpool.Idon’tknowwhy,butIthinkthesewouldhavebecomeapartofhim.EveryweekIputhimonthewoodenbenchinthecornerstallandheldhimstillwithonehandwhileIreachedovertolocktheswingingdoorwiththeother.Healwayslookedupatthewallwithsearchingeyesandtouchedthemliketheywerealive—smallcoloredsquaresplacedinarandompatternagainstthewhiteofthewall.Mustard,emeraldgreen,andabeautifuldarkblue.Asailor’sblue.Thetilescalmedhim.HemadesoftnoisesandwidenedhiseyesasIputonhisswimdiaperandwrappedatowelaroundmystill-puffywaist.IlookedforwardtoSamseeingthosetileseverytimewewent.Theywerethethinginhislittleworldthatsangtohim.
Igobacktothatchangeroomoften.Lookingforhiminthosetiles.
25.
Herhaircameinthickandbeautifulandpeopleoftenstoppedtotelluswhatagorgeouslittlegirlshewas.Shewouldsmilecoylyandsaythankyou,andforasplitsecond,Icouldseethistiny,remarkable,civilizedpersonwhocouldn’tpossiblyhavethecapacitytodragmebytheearstotheedgeofinsanity.Thosedarkmomentshadbecomefewerandotherpartsofherpersonalitywereemerging.Shewasobsessedwithherbabydollandbroughtiteverywhereshewent.Sheknewhercolorsbytheageofsixteenmonths.SheinsistedonwearingtightswithChristmastreesunderherpantsformostmonthsoftheyear.Sheatescrambledeggsfornearlyeverymealandcalledthemyellowclouds.Dogsscaredherandsquirrelsthrilledher.ShelovedthewomanfromtheflowershoponthecornerwherewewentforastemeverySaturdaymorning.Shekepttheflowerbesideherpottytoholdwhileshepeed.Shemadenosenseatall,andyetallthesenseintheworld.
Shegavemejustenoughspacetohangfrom,toconvincemyselfIcouldwrestlebackontotheledge.Forawhile,anyway,untilIwasremindedonceagainofwhereIbelongedinhersmallbutorderlyworld.
Whenshewasthree,afterwecamehomefromaweekendawayatyourfriend’swedding,Ihadsnuckintoherroomwithouttakingoffmycoat.
Itwasaftermidnight.Ihadwantedtosmellher.Ihadfeltanunfamiliarpanicontheplanethatsomethingwaswrong,thatshewouldchokeinhersleepandyourmotherwouldn’thearherlikeIwould,thatthecarbonmonoxidedetectorsweren’tworking,thattheplanewouldhittherunwayinthewrongkindofwayandblowusbothup.Ineededher.Irarelyfeltthisyearningforher,especiallywhenIshouldhave,butwhenIdid,Icouldn’trememberwhatitwaslikenottowanther.Whowasthatothermother?Theonewhobroughtmesomuchshame?
Thefaceofasleepingchild.Sheflutteredhereyesandsawmehoveredabove.Herlidsfelldown,disappointed.Hersadnesswasgenuine.Sherolledoverandpulledtheperiwinkleduvettoherchinandlookedoutthedarkwindow.Ileanedtokissherandfelthermusclestightenbeneathmyhand.
Ilefttheroomandsawyouinthehallway.Itoldyoushewasasleep.YouwalkedinanywayandIheardsmackingnoisesonyourcheek.Shetoldyourmotherhadletherwatchamoviewithamermaid.Sheaskedyoutolaydownwithher.Shehadbeenwaitingforyou.
IfeltlikeIwouldneverhavewithherwhatyouhad.
“It’sallinyourhead,”yousaidtomewheneverIbroughtitup.“You’vecreatedthisstoryaboutthetwoofyou,andyoucan’tletitgo.”
“Sheshouldwantme.I’mhermother.Sheshouldneedme.”
“There’snothingwrongwithher.”
Her.Therewasnothingwrongwithher,yousaid.
Inthemorning,overbreakfast,yourmotherrecountedthelovelyweekendthey’dhad.Youbeamedbeingbackwithyourdaughter,bouncingheronyourknee.
“Soeverythingwas…fine?”Iaskedyourmotherquietlyafterwards,aswefilledthedishwashertogether.
“Shewasanangel.Shereallywas.”Sherubbedthesmallofmybackforamoment,asiftosootheanachesheknewIcarried.“Ithinkshemissedyouboth.”
26.
Inthirdgrade,ourclassspentaweekmakingflowerbouquetsforourmothers,buttonsgluedtotheinsideofpinkandyellowmuffincups,stemsmadeofchenillepipecleaners.Westuckthemonthickconstructionpaperandusedourbestcursivewritingtocopythepoemfromtheblackboard:Rosesarered,Violetsareblue,You’rethebestmomthereis,andIloveyou!Iwasthelastonetofinish.Icouldn’tremembermakingacraftforherbefore,notoneasniceasthis.Theteachertookitfrommyhandsandwhisperedtome,“It’sbeautiful,Blythe.She’sgoingtoloveit.”
Theteachersentuseachhomewithaninvitationtoateaparty.IthrewmineinthegarbagewhenIleftschoolthatday—Ididn’twanttoinvitemymother.Ormorespecifically,Ididn’twanttoinviteherincaseshedidn’twanttocome.Iwasnine,butIhadalreadylearnedhowtomanagemyowndisappointment.Onthemorningoftheparty,asIatebreakfastaloneinthekitchenwhilemymothersleptinasusual,IrehearsedwhatI’dsaytoeveryonewhenIgottoschool:mymotherwasill,shehadfoodpoisoning.Shecouldn’tcometothetea.
Thatafternoonwedecoratedtheclassroomwithtissue-paperflowersbeforethemothersarrived.IwasstandingonachairwithatackinmyhandreachingforthebulletinboardwhenIheard:
“AmIearly?”
Inearlyfelloffthechair.Mymother.Theteachergreetedherkindlyandsaidnottoworry,shewasjustthefirsttoarrive.Thatshewasgladtoseeherfeelingbetter.Mymotherseemednottopickuponmylie—shelookedtoonervous.Shewavedquicklyfromthedoorway.ShewaswearingsomethingIhadneverseenherinbefore,aprettypeachsuitandpearlearringsthatcouldn’thavebeenreal.Iwasn’tusedtoseeingherlooksosoft,sofeminine.Myheartpoundedinmychest.Shecame.Somehowshefoundoutandshecame.
Sheaskedmetoshowheraroundtheclassroomwhilewewaitedfortheteatobegin.Ipointedouttheweatherstationandthecounterbeadsandthemultiplicationtimestables.ShelaughedasIexplainedhowtodoitinthesimplestwayIcould,asthoughshe’dneverseennumbersbefore.Astheothermotherscamethroughthedoor,theirchildrenrunningtothem,mymotherlookedupateachwomanandstudiedher—heroutfit,herhair,thejewelryshewore.Isensedeventhenthatmymotherfeltself-consciousandthisshockedme—sheneverseemedtocarewhattheothermothersthought.Sheneverseemedtocarewhatanyonethought.
Mrs.EllingtoncameinthedoornextandThomascalledtoher.Hewascarefullysettinguptheteacupsandsaucerstheteacherhadbroughtfromhome.Mrs.Ellingtonwavedtohim,butfirstwalkedovertowhereIstoodwithmymotherontheothersideoftheroom.Sheheldherhandouttomymother.
“Cecilia,it’ssonicetoseeyouagain.Thatcolorislovelyonyou.”MymothertookherhandandthenMrs.Ellingtonleanedin,asortoftouchonthecheekthatI’dseenotherwomendowitheachother,butnevermyownmother.IwonderedwhatshesmelledliketoMrs.Ellington.
“Youtoo.”Mymothersmiled.“Andthankyou.Forthis.”Sheliftedherchintowardstheroom,fullofminiaturetableswithdoiliesandplatesofcrumpets.Mrs.Ellingtonbrushedherhandthroughtheairasthoughitwerenothing.Asthoughtheylikedeachother.Ihadneverheardthemspeakthatmanywordstoeachotherbefore.
“Yourmomissopretty,Blythe,”oneofthegirlswhisperedtome.
“Shelookslikeanactress,”saidanother.Ilookedatheragainandimaginedwhattheycouldsee,withouttheburdenofeverythingIknewabouther.Icouldtellbythewayshetappedherfootthatshewantedacigarette.Iwonderedwhereheroutfithadcomefrom—wasitinhercloset?Didshebuyitjustfortoday?Iwatchedmyfriendswatchingherastheysatnexttotheirordinary-lookingmothers.ForthefirsttimeinmylifeIwasproudofher.Shelookedspecial.Shewastrying.Forme.
Theteacherhandedouttheflowerswe’dmadeandthemothersfawnedoverourhardwork.Iheldmineouttomymotherandshereadthepoem.I’dneversaidanythinglikethosewordstoherbefore.Webothknewshewasn’tthebestmother.Webothknewshewasn’tevenclose.
“Doyoulikeit?”
“Ido.Thankyou.”Shelookedawayandplaceditonthetable.“I’llhavesomewater.Blythe,canyoupourmesome?”
ButIwantedhertofeellikeabettermotherthanshewas.Ineededhertobeabettermotherthanshewas.Ipickedupthepoemagainandreadittoheraloud,myvoiceshakingagainstthenoiseintheroom.
“Rosesarered,violetsareblue,you’rethebestmomthereis…”Ipausedandswallowed.“AndIloveyou.”
Shedidn’tlifthereyesfromthepoem.Shetookitbackfrommyhands.
“Fivemoreminutes,class!”
“I’llseeyouathome,okay?”Shetouchedthetopofmyhead,pickedupherpurseandleft.IsawMrs.Ellington’seyesfollowheroutoftheroom.
MymothermadechickenpotpiefordinnerandstillhadonthepeachsuitwhenIgothome.Myfatherpulledhischairoutanddeclaredhewasstarving.
“So?TellmeallabouttheMother’sDaytea.”
Mashedpotatoesthumpedontohisplateandmymotherdidn’tsayaword.Heturnedtomeandliftedhiseyebrows.“Howwasit,Blythe?”
“Good.”Isippedmywater.Sheslidthehotcasseroledishontothetable,straightfromtheoven,anddroppedaspoonbesideit.
“Jesus,thewood.”Myfatherjumpeduptograbateatowelandburnedhisfingersliftinguptheedgeofthecasseroledishtoslipitunderneath.Heglaredatmymother,butshedidn’tseemtonotice.
“ImadeMomsomeflowersoutofpaper.”
“That’snice.Wherearethey,Cecilia?”Hefilledhismouthwithpotatoesandturnedtoher.“Letmesee.”
Mymotherlookedupfromthesink.“Getwhat?”
“Thethingshemadeyou.ForMother’sDay.”
Mymothershookherhead,confused,asthoughI’dnevergivenheranything.“Idon’tknow,Idon’tknowwhereIputit.”
“Itmustbesomewhere.Checkyourpurse.”
“No,Idon’tknowwhereitis.”Shelookedatmeandshookherheadagain.“Idon’tknowwhathappenedtoit.”Shelitacigaretteandturnedonthetaptofillthesinkfordishes.Sheneveratewithus.Ineversawhereatatall.
Myheartsank.Ithadbeentoomuch—I’dsaidtoomuch.
“Nevermind,Dad.”
“No.No,ifyoumadeyourmothersomethingnice,we’llfindit.We’llputitonthefridge.”
“Seb.”
“Gofindit,Cecilia.”
Shethrewthedishclothathisface.ThesmackmademejumpandIdroppedmyforkonthefloor.Myfathersattherewiththewetclothhangingfromhim,hiseyesclosed.Heputdownhisknifeandforkandsqueezedhisfistssohisknuckleswerethecolorofthepotatoes.Iwantedhimtoyellwiththesameragethatbrewedinsideofherconstantly.HewassostillthatIwonderedifhewasstillbreathing.
“Iwent,didn’tI?Tothefuckingtea?Iwasthere.Isatatthelittletableandplayedalong.“Whatmoredoyouwantfromme?”Shegrabbedhercigarettesandleftfortheporch.Myfathertooktheclothoffhisheadandfoldeditonthetable.Hepickeduphisforkandlookedatme.
“Eat.”
27.
TheOctoberthatVioletturnedfour,herpre-schoolteacheraskedusforameetingafterschoolonaFriday.
“Nothingofmajorconcern,”she’dsaidonthephone,emphasizingthemajor.“Butweshouldtalk.”
Youwereskepticalfromthestart,althoughIknewapartofyouwasnervousaboutwhatshewouldsay.What,shewon’tsharethegluestick?
Wesatontinychairsandyourkneesnearlyhityourchin.Sheoffereduswaterinpinkplasticcupsthattastedlikedishsoap.
Everyoneknowsyouopenwiththegoodnews.
“Violetisanexceptionallybrightchild.She’smatureforherageinmanyways.It’sclearshehaswonderfulparentsandalovingenvironmentathome.”
Buttherewereincidencesthathadcausedherclassmatestobeuncomfortablewithher.Shegaveustheexampleofaboywhowasscaredtositnearherbecauseshesometimestwistedhisfingersuntilhecried.AgirlwhosaidVioletstabbedherthighwithapencil.Andtheafternoonbefore,duringrecess,someonesaidVioletpulleddowntheirpantsandthrewhandfulsofrocksintheirunderwear.MyfacegrewhotandIcoveredmyneck,sureitwasblotching.Iwasembarrassedthatwe’dcreatedahumanbeingwhowouldactthisway.Iglancedoutthewindowtotheplaygroundcoveredwithsmall,dustypebbles.Ithoughtoftheaggressionshe’dshownwhenshewasyounger.OfwhatlittleempathyIsawinhernow.Icouldeasilyseeherdoingitall.
“She’sapologeticwhentoldtobe,yes,”theteachersaidhesitantlywhenyouaskedher.“She’ssmart.Sheknowsherbehaviorishurtful,butthishasn’tseemedtodeterherlikewe’dexpect.Atthispoint,Ithinkweneedtointroduceconsequences.”
Weagreedonthestrategyandthankedherforthemeeting.
“Look,it’snotgood,buteverykidgoesthroughthiskindofthing.Testingtheboundaries.She’sprobablyboredinthere.Didyouseeallthatplasticshitlayingaround?Itlookedlikearoomforbabies.Remindmehowmuchwe’repayingthem?”
Iwatchedthebubblesdanceupthesideofyourglass.We’dgoneforadrink,mysuggestion.Ithoughtitmighteasethetensionbetweenus.
“We’lltalktoher,”yourationalizedtoyourself.“Something’sobviouslyprovokinghertoactthisway.”
Inodded.Yourreactionmadenosensetome.Youweresuchasensiblepersonineveryrespectoflife.Andyetwhenitcametoourdaughter,youlostallyourlevel-headedness.Youdefendedherblindly.
“You’renotgoingtosayanything?”Youwereangry.
“I’m—I’mupset.I’mdisappointed.Andyes,we’lltalktoher…”
“But?”
“ButIcan’tsayI’msurprised.”
Youshookyourhead—hereshegoes.
“Otherkidsheragewouldactoutbybitingorhittingorsaying,‘you’renotcomingtomybirthdaypartyanymore.’Whatshe’sdoingsounds…kindofcruel.Kindofcalculated.”Iputmyheadintomyhands.
“She’sfour,Blythe.Shecan’teventiehershoes.”
“Look,Iloveher,I’mjustsaying—”
“Doyou?”
Howgoodthatmusthavefelt.Itwasthefirsttimeyou’dsaiditaloud,butIknewyou’dbeenthinkingitforyears.Youstaredatthering-stainedbar-top.
“Iloveher,Fox.I’mnottheproblem.”Ithoughtofhowcarefullytheteacherhadchosenherwords.
Iwalkedhomealoneandgavethebabysittermoneyforhertaxi.Violetwasfastasleep.Islippedintohertwinbedandpulledtheduvetovermylegsandheldmybreathwhenshestirred.Shewouldn’thavewantedmeintherebutit’swhereIsooftenfoundmyself.Iwastryingtofindsomethinginherstillness.Idon’tknowwhat.Maybetheraw,sweetsmellofherwhenshesleptremindedmeofwhereshecamefrom.Shewasnotperfect,shewasnoteasy,butshewasmydaughterandmaybeIowedhermore.
Andyet.AsIlaidthereinthedark,Ifeltatwingeofvindicationthinkingaboutthemeeting.I’dbeenlivingwiththisterrifying,unrelentingsuspicionaboutmydaughter,andIsensedthatsomeoneelsecouldfinallyseeittoo.
28.
Sometimeintheweeksthatfollowed,IwenttoagallerydowntownafterIdroppedVioletoffatschool.Therewasacontroversialexhibitthathadbeenreviewedthedaybeforeinthenewspaper,andIwatchedyoureaditoveryourmorningcoffee.Eversoslightlyyouhadshakenyourheadbeforeyouturnedthepage.
Itookonestepinsidethegalleryandstaredatthewalls.Onthemattewhitepainthungportraitsusedinmediacoverageofchildrenwhohadbeenaccusedofgunviolence.Unthinkable,sometimesdeadlyviolence.Children,somebarelyoldenoughforacne,barelylargeenoughtoridearollercoaster.
Ithoughtofhowtinythoseboys’genitalswouldhavebeen,howjuveniletheywere,hairless,sexless.Twoofthemweregirls.Eachsmiledwidely,intensely,lipsnearlycurledunder.Onehadbraces.Shewouldhavegonewithhermothertotheorthodontisteverymonthforanadjustment,pickedoutwhichcolorbandsshewantedforherwires.Askedforstrawberryicecreamafter,becauseanythingelseinhermouthhurttoomuch.
Forhoursthechildrenwatchedme.Couldtheyrecognizemeasthekindofpersontheycamefrom?Someoneliketheirownmother?Anemployeewithshort,side-swepthairbarelylookedupfromreadingartcataloguesatthelumberingoakdeskinthecorner.Itouchedtheglasscoveringoneyounggirl’sschoolportrait.Aperfectbraidhungovereachshoulder.Wheredoesitbegin?Whendoweknow?Whatmakesthemturn?Whoistoblame?
Onthewalkhome,ItalkedmyselfthroughhowirrationalitwastothinkI’dfindsomethingfamiliarinthoseportraits.Goingtherewasanabsolutelymadthingtodo.
Ipickedherupearlyfromschoolthatdayandwewentforhotchocolateandcookies.Sheofferedmehalfofhercookiewhenwesatdown.
“Ithinkyou’reaverykindgirl,”Isaid.Shelickedthechocolatechipsofherhalfwhileshethoughtaboutthis.
“NoahsaidI’mmean.ButIdon’tlikeNoahanyway.”
“Noahdoesn’tknowyouverywell,then.”
Shenoddedandstirredthemarshmallowgoowithherfinger.
Weskippeddinner—thecookieshadruinedbothofourappetites.Inthebathsheclosedhereyesandfloatedoveralayerofbubbleslikeanangelinthesnow.
“I’mgoingtohurtNoahtomorrow.”
Herwordsstoppedmyheart.Iwrungthefaceclothandhungitonthetap,carefultomeasuremyreaction.Shewantedareaction.
“Thatwouldn’tbenice,Violet,”Isaidcalmly.“Wedon’thurtpeople.Insteadwhydon’tyoutellhimonethingyoureallylikeabouthim?Doeshesharenicely?Ishefuntoplaywithatrecess?”
“No,”shesaidandputherheadunderthewater.
ThenextdayItoldyouIhadanappointmentandaskedyoutopickherupatschool.InsteadIcircledthegrocerystoreandboughtnothing.MyheartracedasIgotclosertohome.I’dbeenlookingatmyphoneallday,suretheteacherwouldhavecalled.
“Howwasshe?”Iwasnearlyoutofbreath.
“Theteachersaidshehadareallygoodday.”YouruffledViolet’shairwhileshetwirledherspaghetti.Shelookedupatmeandsuckedanoodlethroughthegapinherfrontteeth.
LaterbeforeIwenttobed,asIcollectedherclothesforthewashingmachine,Ifoundahugefistfulofcurlyblondehairinthepocketofthedressshehadworntoschoolthatday.Istaredatitinmyhand.Thefeelingofholdinganotherhuman’shairinmypalmwasunsettling.AndthenIrealizedwhosehairthiswas.Small,shy,palelittleNoahwithhisheadofmessycurls.Iwalkeddownthehallunsureofwhattodowithit.
“Fox?”
“Ihavesomethingforyou,”you’dcalledfromthelivingroom.Yourvoicewashigherthanitusuallywas.Iclosedmyfistaroundthehair.Youweresittingonthecouchandhandedmeasmallsquarebox.AndthenIrememberedyou’dhadyourannualreviewthatday.You’dbeenpromoted.You’dbeengivenahugeraise.
“Youdosomuchforus,”yousaid,yournosetomyforehead.Iopenedthebox.InsidewasathingoldchainwithaletterVdanglingfromit.Ilifteditupandhelditagainstmyneck.“Thingsaren’tsoeasyrightnow,butIloveyou.Youknowthat,right?”
Youslippedoffmyshirt.Youtoldmeyouwantedme.
Thehairsatinthepocketofmyjeansonthefloor,andwhenweweredone,Iflushedthenestofblondedownthetoilet.
InthemorningonthewaytoschoolIaskedVioletwhathadhappenedtoNoahthedaybefore.
“Hecutoffallhisownhair.”
“Hecutithimself?”
“Yes.Inthebathroom.”
“Whatdidtheteachersay?”
“Idunno.”
“Youhadnothingtodowithit?”
“No.”
“Areyoulyingtome?”
“No.Ipromise.”
Shewasquietwhilewewalkedanotherblockandthenshesaid:
“Ihelpedhimcleanup,sothat’swhyhishairwasinmypocket.”
Whenwewalkedintheplaygroundthatmorning,NoahlookedatVioletandranbacktohismotherandburiedhisfaceinherlegs.Hisheadhadbeenbuzzedclean.Violetwalkedrightpasthimandthroughthefrontdoors.Hismotherbentdowntoaskhimwhatwaswrong.Nothing,Iheardhimwhine.Sheheldatissueathisnoseandtoldhimtoblow.Igaveheralookofsympathyandsmiled.Shelookedtired.Shedidherbesttosmilebackandwaved,thedirtytissueinherhand.Ishouldhavewalkedovertosay,Iknowthefeeling.Somedaysarehard.Butmykneeswereweak,andIneededtogetoutofthere.
Onthewayhome,Ithoughtofthephotographshanginginthegalleryfromthedaybefore.Thewomenbehindthosechildren.Buthermotherwassonormal.Shewasjustlikeoneofus.
Afterschoolthatsameday,Icameupfromdoingthelaundryandfoundherstandingontheedgeofachairatthekitchencounter,herlittlefingersdancingleisurelythroughthepicklejuice.
“Whatareyoudoing?”Ihadasked.
“Fishingforwhales,”shehadsaid.Ilookedoverhershoulderandwatchedhertrytocatchthelastfewwartedpicklesastheygracefullybreachedanddoveinajarofsoggydillweed,andyouknowwhat,theydidlookjustlikewhales.Shehadabrilliant,beautifulmindandsometimesIlongedtobeinsideofit.EventhoughIfearedwhatImightfind.
29.
YoumightnotrememberthathisnamewasElijah.HisfuneralwasonaSaturdayinearlyNovember,andithadbeenrainingfortwofulldays,andtherewasaheavinesstousallthatsometimescamewhentheapartmentfeltdamp,whenourbonesfeltcold.WeleftVioletathomewiththebabysitter.Shedrewapicturewhileweweregoneofagirlwithaknifeinherhand.Therewasbloodontheblade.Ihelditoutforyoutosee.Kidswillbekids,yousaid.TheyseestuffonTV.Youputthepictureonthecounterandcalledataxiforthesitter.Violetwasfiveyearsold.
Whenwegotintobedthatnight,Irolledtowardsyouandaskedyouifwecouldtalk.Yourubbedthespotbetweenyoureyes—we’dhadalong,upsettingdaybutIcouldn’thelpmyself.YouknewwhatIwantedtotalkabout.
“Forfuck’ssakes,didyoulearnnothingtodaysittingthereinthatchurch?”Youspitthroughclosedteeth.Andthen,“Itwasjustapicture.”
Butitwassomuchmore.Irolledontomybackandstaredatourceilingandfingeredthechainonmyneck.
“Justacceptherforwhosheis.You’rehermother.That’sallyou’resupposedtodo.”
“Iknow.AndIdo.”Theconvincing.Thelying.“Ido.”
Youwantedaperfectmotherforyourperfectdaughter,andtherewasn’troomforanythingelse.
InthemorningViolet’spicturewasgonefromthecounter.Icouldn’tfinditinthegarbage.Icheckedthebininthekitchen,theoneinthebathroom,theonenearmydesk.Ineveraskedyouwhatyoudidwithit.
AtElijah’sfuneral,thepriestspokeabouthowGodhasaplanforeachofus,thatElijah’ssoulwasnotmeanttogrowold.IcouldnotreconcilethiswithwhatIfearedhadreallyhappenedattheparkafterschooltheweekearlier.
IthinkIsawsomethinghappenrightbeforethatpoorboyfelloffthetopoftheslide.
Iwassotired—Violetwashavingtroublesleepingagain,wantingmorewater,wantingthelighton.IthadbeenweekssinceI’dsleptthroughthenight.Imightnothavebeenthinkingstraight.
Tenseconds,Iwouldestimate.That’showlongshewatchedElijahrunfromtheothersideoftheplaygroundtowardsthetopoftheslidewhereshestood.Shekeptherhandsbehindherback,hereyesontheboy.Heboundedtowardsher,open-mouthed,squealing,thefreshfallairblowingbackhislonghair.
Thethudhadasharpnesstoitwhenhehittheground.Thuck.Morelikethat.
Shehadlookeddownatmewithoutanyremorseinhereyeswhenshesaw,onthegravelbelow,thathiscrumpledbodydidnotmoveinhisstripedshirtanddrawstringjeans.Shewasexpressionlesswhenweheardhisnannyscreamforsomeonetohelp,thewoman’sshrillpanicenoughtoringmyears.Shewasunflinchingwhentheambulancecametotakehimawayonatinyperson’sstretcher,asacrowdofmothersandnanniesstoodandwatchedinhorror,theirchildren’sscaredlittleheadsburiedsafelyintheirnecks.
Hislittlelegsmovedsofast.Theywerebothwearingjeans.
Theirlegscouldhavelookedthesame.
IguessIdon’tknowwhatIsaw.
Inthemomentsbeforeherantowardsher,Violethadlookedovertheslideplatform,asthoughshewereaprofessionaldiver,visualizinghersplashlessentryintothewater.Becareful,please!I’dshouted.It’stoohighupthere!It’sdangerous!Thepanicofamother.IfI’mhonest,mymindwentthere:Danger.Death.Buthers.Amother’smindisalwaysthere.Shesteppedbackandleanedagainstawoodenpostwitharustyyellowsteeringwheel.Ihadn’tknownwhyshestoodtherewaiting.
Ithinkhisheadhitthegroundfirst.
Intheechoofsirens,Violetaskedinaquietvoiceifwecouldgoforatreat.Hereyebrowsliftedinanticipationofmyreaction.Wasthisatest?WhathadIseen?WhatwouldIdotoher?Thefactthatshemighthavetrippedhimwassoabsurd,sounthinkable,thatitalmostinstantlydisappeared.No,noitdidn’thappen.Ilookedupatthegreyskyandsaidaloud,“Thatdidnothappen.”Blythe,thatwasnotwhatyousaw
“Mom?Canwegoforatreat?”
Ishookmyheadandputmytremblinghandsintomycoatpocketsandtoldhertowalk.
Followme.Now.NOW.
Wewalkedthesevenblockstoourapartmentinsilence.
Ileftherinfrontofthetelevision,andIsatonthetoiletforthenexthour,unabletomove,replayingwhatImighthaveseen.Thiswasn’tafistfulofsomeone’shairortauntingintheschoolyard.Thatplatformmusthavebeentwelvefeethigh.ItookofftheVnecklaceyougaveme.Myneckfeltred.Hot.
Strangethingsfloodedmymind,thingsliketinypinkhandcuffs,andchildserviceworkers,andreportersintrenchcoatsknockingatourdoor,andthepaperworkinvolvedintransferringschools,andtheoutrageouscostofdivorce,andthatpoorchild’selectronicwheelchair.IstaredatthemoldinthegroutofourshowertilesandIreplayedherreactionoverandover.AndthenIdecided:No.Shedidn’ttripthatchild.Shewasn’tcloseenoughtohim.No,Iwasnotthemotherofsomeonewhocoulddosomethinglikethat.
Iwassoverytired.
Imadeherapeanutbuttersandwich.ShetouchedmyarmwhenIputtheplateonthecoffeetableandherfingersonmyskinmademejump.Istaredatherhandsandtheylookedsosmall,soinnocent,theknucklesstilldimpledwithbabyfat.
No.No,shehadnotdoneanythingwrong.
ItoldyouthatnightaboutthehorribleaccidentthathadhappenedtoElijah.
TheAccident,Icalledit.
Violetdidapuzzleattheotherendofthekitchen.Shelookedupatmewhenmyphonebuzzedonthecounter.IstaredatherwhileIanswered.ItwasoneoftheothermothersfromtheplaygroundtellingmeElijahhaddiedatthehospital.
“Dead.MyGod.He’sdead.”Ifeltwinded.Youglaredatmeforsuchcandor,suchpoormaternaljudgementforhavingsaidthatoutloud,andyouwenttoViolet’ssidetocomforther.Butshewasfine.Sheshrugged.Sheaskedifyoucouldfindthecornerpieceshewaslookingfor.
Shejustneedssometimetoprocess.
Ofcourse.
Maybeyoushouldhavethoughtthatthrough,Blythe.Didsheneedtohearhewasdead?Badenoughshewastherewhenhefell.
Andthennotuntilmuchlaterthatnightwhenwegotintobed,Youdoingokay?Comehere.Thatmusthavebeenterribletosee.I’msosorry,Blythe.Youpulledmecloseandfellasleepwithyourlegwrappedaroundmine.Istaredattheceilinginthedark,waitingforViolettowakeupagain.
ThenextdayIleftafrozenquicheandexpensiveproteinsmoothiesinacooleroutsideofthefamily’sapartmentdoor,withanotethatsaidwewerethinkingofthem.Isentflowerstothefuneralhome,bigwhitelilies.
Allourlove,TheConnors.
Thepolicelookedintotheincidentbriefly,amatterofroutine.Theyquestionedme.ItoldthemwhatItoldyou:wedidnotseeanything.ViolethadalreadycomedowntheslidewhenIheardthesoundofhisbodyhittingtheground.AfterhefellThatthewoodplanksaretoowornandslippery.ThatI’dalwaysthoughtitwasadangerousplayground.ThatIwasthinkingofhispoormother.
30.
Thepediatricintensivecareunitwasontheeleventhfloor.Ileftmycoatandpurseinthecar,andstillhadmypajamabottomson.This,andtheMcDonald’sHappyMealI’dboughtbeforegettingontheelevator,wereenoughforthenurseatthestationtoassumeIbelongedthere.Parentswhohavechildrenonthebrinkofdeatharen’toftenaskedfortheiridentification.
Isatonametalbenchattheendofthehallwayunderawindowthatoverlookedtheemployeeparkinglot.Theairventabovemadethenoiseofahungrystomach.IputtheHappyMealdownbesideme.
Iwasdisgustedwithmyselfforbeingthere.TheplacewhereElijahdied.
ForweeksIthoughtoftheaccidenteveryminuteofeveryday.EverytimeIclosedmyeyes,Iwasthereatthatplayground,yellingupatherontheplatformtobecarefulinthemomentsbeforeithappened.Isawtheirjeans.Theirlittlelegs,hisrunning,hersstandingstillagainstthatpole.Andthenherlegliftingjustashepassed.
ButIdon’tknow—Icouldn’tbesure.
Ilistened.Tothelistlesssoundsofatoddlerhavingvialsofblooddrawn,andtothegentlevoiceofhismothertellinghimhewasbrave.Acrossthehallfromthatchild,atiredlookingmancarriedalittlegirloutoftheroom.Sheheldateddybear,andwavedgoodbyeatwhoeversheleftasherrattywinterbootsdangledattheman’ship.Anursefollowedandshutthedoorquietly.InsidetheroomIheardawomancry,hersobsbellowing.Icouldhearinhercrieshowangryshewas.
Andtwodoorsdownfromthatwoman,afamilysangasongthatViolethadlearnedinpreschool.Themusicwasmuffled,puncturedwithbeautiful,childishsquealsandthedingofabellfromaboardgame.Likethewhitenoiseofacarnival.IwishedforamomentIcouldjointhem.
Nursescameandwent,bangingtheheelsoftheirhandsagainstsanitizerboxesoutsideofeachdoor.Peopleleftforcoffee.Motherspagedfortowels.Aclowninatutuwithacartoftoysknockedgentlydoorbydoor,askingifitwasagoodtime.Whispers.Giggles.Clapping.Goodgirl.Whatabigboy.Longstretchesofsilence.Anotificationthroughthespeakersystemthattheelevatorsinthewesthallwouldbeshutdownforthenexttwentyminutes.Istaredatathicklayerofgrimealongthebaseboardofthepeachandgreypebbledfloor.Heavydoubledoorsattheendofthehallclankedshutandthenswungopen,overandoverandover.
“Doyouneedanything?”Ihadn’tnoticedthewomaninapalegreenuniformapproachme.ItriedtoswallowbeforeIspokeandthenwinced;mythroatfeltstuffedwithmedicalgauze.Theairwasstale.Ishookmyheadandthankedher.Isatthereforfourhours.
Onmywayout,theboxofcoldfriesinmyhand,IstoppedoutsidethecloseddoorwhereI’dheardthewomanweepearlierthatafternoon.Ilookedthroughthegriddedglassandsawherlyinginbed,atinylumpcradledbesideher,ahighwayoftubesrunningintotheblanketsfrombagsoffluidthathunglikestormcloudsabovethem.Raindropscamedown,dripbydrip.Therewasawhiteboardonthewallbesidethebedthatsaid,“Mynameis____andmyfavoritethingtodois____”.Someonehadfilledintheblanks:Oliver.Playsoccerwithmyfriends.
Mothersaren’tsupposedtohavechildrenwhosuffer.Wearen’tsupposedtohavechildrenwhodie.
Andwearenotsupposedtomakebadpeople.
TherewasamomentoutsideofthatdoorwhenIwantedViolettobetheonewhowaspushedoffthetopoftheslide.
Isatinmycarinthehospitalparkinglotandreplayeditalloveragain.Ihadtostoplettingmymindgothere—Ihadtobelievemydaughterhadnottrippedthatboy.
Thatevening,youslippedyourhandacrossmyshoulderstorubmyneckwhileIfriedshrimpinapan.WhenIpulledawayyouaskedwhatwaswrong.IwantedtotellyouwhereI’dgonethatday.Iwantedtosay,I’mamonsterforthinkingthethingsIdo.InsteadIsaidsomethingaboutaheadacheandstaredatthespittingoil.Youshookyourheadasyouwalkedoutoftheroom.
31.
“Today’snotagoodday,I’mafraid.”Mr.Ellingtonstoodinthedoorwaywithawetclothinhishand.I’dknockedonandoffforfiveminutesuntilheanswered.ThomasandDanielweregonetotheiraunt’shouse,he’dsaid.Mrs.Ellingtonwasn’tfeelingwell.HemusthaveseenthedisappointmentinmyfacebecauseasIturnedtowalkhome,hereachedformyshoulder.
“Justaminute,Blythe.Letmeseeifshe’supforsomecompanyafterall.”Iwaitedwithmyshoesoninthefronthallwayuntilhecameback.“Goonup.She’sinbedresting.”
I’dneverbeenintheirbedroombefore,butIknewitwastheroomattheendofthehall.Iwasnervous,itwassuchaprivatespace—butIalsofeltspecial.Thedoorwasajar,soIslippedthroughquietlyandMrs.Ellingtonsatherselfupinbed.
“Comein,honey.Whatanicesurprisetoseeyoutoday.”Shehadonnomake-upandherhairwaswrappedinasilkscarf.Hereyeslookedsmallerandhereyebrowswerethinner,butshelookedjustasbeautifulasever.ShepattedthebedbesideherandIwonderedifIshouldn’tgetsoclose,ifthatwouldbotherher.ButshepattedagainsoIsatdownandputmyhandspolitelyonmylap.
“Idon’tlooksogoodtoday,doI?”
Ididn’tknowhowtoanswer.Ilookedaroundherbedroominstead.Thegoldcurtainswerepulledtothesidewithrope,andthetextured,leaf-patternedwallpaperlookedexactlylikemymother’s,onlyitwasadeepyellowinsteadofthehospital-greeninourhousethatIhadneverliked.Iranmyhandoverherbedspread,whichmatchedthecurtains.Everythinglookedsoluxuriousandwarm.Ithoughtofmyownmother’sbed,nevermade,thesheetsrarelywashed.
“Areyougoingtobeokay?”
“Oh,yes,I’llbeokay.I’mnotsick,notexactly.”
“What’swrongthen?”Iknewitwasboldofmetoask,butIneededtoknow.Icouldsmellsomethingstrange,pungentandsweet,liketheyogurtotherkidshadintheirlunchesatschool.Therewasasmallcontainerofpillsonthetablebesideher,andIwonderediftheywerethesameonesIhadseeninmymother’sroom.
“I’mnotsureit’smyplacetotalktoyouaboutthebirdsandthebees,butyou’reamatureten-year-old.”Imusthaveturnedred.MymotherandIhadnevertalkedaboutsexorhowbabiesweremade,butIhadanideaofhowitallworkedfromkidsatschool.Mrs.Ellingtonliftedthecomforterfromhermiddleandpulledherwhitenightshirtdowntautoverherswollenstomach.Ihadn’tnoticedherbeingfattherebefore,butshewasalwaysdressedsonicelyinthingsthatweren’ttightandill-fitting,likemymother’s.
“You’rehavingababy?”
“Iwas.Iwaspregnant.Butthebabydidn’tmakeit.”
Thisdidn’tmakesensetome.Ihadnoconceptofwhatnotmakingitmeant,ofwhatwouldhavehappenedtothebabyinsideher.Wherehaditgone?Whathadhappened?Shemusthavesensedmyconfusion.Sheslowlypulledthecomforterbackoverhermiddle,asthoughithurttocoveritup,butshesmiledthroughwhateverpainwasinher.Isawshehadahospitalbraceletonherarm,thesamekindI’dseenmymothercomehomewithonceyearsagoaftershe’dhadabadboutoftheflu.Ididn’tknowwhattosay.Ipointedtothepillsonhernightstand.
“Doyouwantmoreofthose?”
Shelaughed.“Wellyes,butIcanonlyhaveoneeverysixhours.”
“WillThomasandDanielbesad?”
“Ihadn’ttoldthemthey’dbebigbrothersyet.Iwasgoingtotellthemsoon.”
“Areyousad?”
“Yes,I’mverysad.Butyouknowwhat?Godhasawayoftakingcareofthings.”InoddedasthoughIunderstood,asthoughGodwassomeoneItrustedtoo.
“Shewasalittlegirl.Iwouldhavehadadaughter.”Sheputherfingertomynoseandhereyeswelledwithtears.“Justlikeyou.”
32.
Therewassomethingspecialaboutthestreetofoldrowhouses,thewaytheairsmelledlikewinter-floweringhoneysucklewhenwesteppedoutofthecar.Iwouldlearnthebackyardwasfullofthem.Offerswerebeingacceptedthefollowingweek,butweagreedonanumberrightthenandthere.Ourrealtorgotthedealdonebydinnertime.Shecalledwiththenewswhileweanxiouslyatepizzaatarestaurantwherewe’dsoonbecomeregulars.OnlyfifteenminutesfromViolet’sschool.Wecoulddomostoftheworkourselves.Neighborhoodbasketballnetslinedthedead-endroad,andtheelementaryschooldownthestreetwasratedthebestinthearea.
Threebedrooms.Aquickclosing.Iwasstartingtobelievethatlifewouldfinallymovealong.Iwasdesperateforit.
Wehadneededachangealthoughwedidn’tspeakofthenewhousethatway.Wedidn’tspeakofneedingachangeatall.IthadbeenmorethansevenmonthssincetheaccidentandInolongerdreamedoftheplayground.InolongerheardthesoundofhisbodyhittingthepavementwhenIpouredcerealorclosedthecardoor.Timehadgivenmethat.Time,andmywilltoforget.Inolongerwenttothepark.Inolongerwalkedanywherenearthere.Theboy’snamewasnevermentioned.Violethadstartedsleepingthroughthenightagain,andthefogthatmuddledmybrainseemedtohavelifted.
Youhadcomehomeonedayandopenedyourlaptoptothehouselistingonawebsite.Ididn’tevenknowyouhadbeenlooking.
Forthenextfewmonthsthethreeofusspenteveryweekendthere,breakingthingsupwithtoolsweborrowedandmeetingwithtradesmenwhodidwhatwecouldn’t.Weagreedwecouldn’tmanageafullrenovationrightnow,buttherewerethingsthatcouldn’twait:newflooring,newbathrooms.Thelistgrewwithyourkeenarchitect’seye.Theweekofthemove,yourparentscametotowntohelpwithVioletwhilewepackedandunpacked.Theybroughtherovertosaygoodbyetotheapartmentbeforewehandedbackthekeys.Ceremonywasyourmother’sthing,notmine.SomewherealongthewayI’dlostthesentimentalattachmenttotheplaceourfamilybegan.Evenyouhad.Icouldtellbythereliefinyourfacewhenweleftthatbuildingforthelasttime.Thewayyoudroppedthekeysintothemanilaenvelopeandtosseditonthedoorman’sdesk.
Violetstayedwithyourparentsattheirhoteldowntownwhileweworkeduntiltwointhemorning.Imovedheroldbabystuff,packedinrubberbins,tothesecondsmallbedroomupstairs.
“Shouldn’tthosegointhebasement?”Youasked.
“We’llneedthemsoonerorlater.”
Youdrewalongbreath.“Let’scallitanight.”
Wesleptonourmattressinthemiddleofthefloorofournewbedroom.Wehadn’trememberedtoturnontheheatandsowebundledupinhoodiesandsweatpantsunderneaththeblanket.
“We’llbehappyhere,”Iwhisperedandrubbedmysockedfeetoveryours.
“Ithoughtwealwayswere.”
33.
Shemusthaveseenmynakedsilhouetteinthemoonlight.Mythinnightshirtdrapedtheintersectionofourbodies,mycat-likearch,breastliketinysacksofsandswingingoveryourface.
Imoanedlowandlong,myhandsontheheadboard,andIblockedouttheroomaroundus.Theclosetdidn’thavedoorstohidethemessoflaundryIhadn’tyetdone,andtherowofdry-cleaningIhadn’tyetunbagged,andtheboxofclothingdonationsIhadn’tyetdroppedoff.Iwasburiedin“yets.”Themovewasdisorganizedandtheendoftherenovationswereslow.
Lookingback,wewereinthemidstofthekindofmundanechaosIsometimesyearnfornow.
Ididn’thearthecreakofthedoororthesmackofherflatfeetalongthenewhardwoodthathadbeenlaidtheweekbefore.Ididn’tknowshewasthere,notuntilyoushovedmeoffandsworeandpulledthesheetoveryourself.Ilaidattheendofthebedinafetalposition,whereIhadlandedatthehandofyourpanic.Gobacktobed.Nothingiswrong,Ihadtoldhercalmly.Sheaskedwhatwehadbeendoing.Nothing,Ianswered.JesusChrist,Blythe,yousaid,asthougheverythingaboutthemomentwasmyfault.
Anditwas,inaway.Iwasovulating.Youweretired.Ihadcriedintomypillow.Andsoyourubbedmybackandbegankissingmyneck,thekindofkissesthatsaidyoulovedmebutdidn’twanttofuckme.Therewouldalwaysbeanothertimetotry,yousaid.
Youdon’twantanotherbaby,I’daccused.Why?Welaidtogetherquietlyandlater,youranyourfingersthroughmyhair.Idowantanotherbaby,youwhispered.
YouwerelyingbutIdidn’tcare.
IrolledoverandstrokedyouuntilIfeltyougivein.Islippedyouinsideofmeandpretendedeverythingwasdifferent—you,theroom,themotherhoodIknew—andbeggedyounottostop.
ThreeweeksearlierIhadbroughtuptheideaagainwhilewebrushedourteeth.Youspitinthesinkandrippeduseachathreadoffloss.Let’ssee.Later.We’llsee.
Therewasanuncharacteristicbluntnessinyourvoicethatwouldhavetriggeredmysuspiciononadifferentday.Butnotthen.Thiswasn’taboutyou.Thiswasaboutme.TheonlywayforwardIcouldseeforourfamilywastohaveasecondchild.Redemption,maybe,foreverythingthathadgonewrong.Ithoughtbacktowhywe’dhadVioletinthefirstplace—youwantedafamilyandIwantedtomakeyouhappy.ButIalsowantedtoproveallofmydoubtswrong.Iwantedtoprovemymotherwrong,too.
Blythe,thewomeninthisfamily,we’redifferent.You’llsee
Iwantedanotherchanceatmotherhood.
IcouldnotconcedethatIwastheproblem.
IoftenpointedtobabieswhileIwalkedViolettoschool.Wouldn’tthatbenice?Alittlebrotherorsister?Sherarelyrepliedtome.Shewasincreasinglyinherownworld,butbythenthedistancethatgrewbetweenusmadelifetogethereasier,inaway.Wesawthesamemotheratdrop-offeverymorningwithhernewborntuckedintoherchestwhileshecarefullybentovertokissherolderchildgoodbye.
“Twolookslikealotofwork,”Ioncesaidtoher,smiling.
“Exhausting,butworthit.”Worthit.Thereitwasagain.Shebouncedandpattedhishead.“He’ssuchadifferentbaby.It’sawholedifferentexperiencewiththesecond.”
Different.
Violetinourbedroomdoorway,handsbyherside.SherefusedtoleaveuntilIansweredheraboutwhatwehadbeendoing.AndsoIexplained.Whentwopeopleloveeachother,theyliketocuddleinaspecialway.Weweresilent,allofus,thereinthedark.Andthenshewalkedbacktoherroom.Weshouldcomforther,Isaidtoyou.Weshouldgomakesureshe’sokay.
“Thengo,”yousaid.ButIdidn’t.Werolledawayfromeachotherinastandoffthatmadenosensetome.
Wedidn’tspeakinthemorning.Ishoweredwithoutputtingonthecoffeeforyou.OnmywaytothekitchenIstoppedhalfwaydownthestairstolistentoyourbreakfastconversationwithViolet.Shetoldyoushehatedme.ThatshewishedIwoulddiesothatsheonlylivedwithyou.Thatshedidnotloveme.Thesewordswouldhavespearedtheheartofanyothermother.
Youhadsaidtoher,“Violet,she’syourmom.”
Thereweresomanyotherthingsyoucouldhavesaid,butthosewerethewordsyouchose.
ThatnightIshamelesslybeggedyoutotryagain.Justoncemore.Andyouagreed
34.
Themotherwasdressedinthesameyogaclothesshealwaysworeatdrop-off,hershirtslightlywrinkledfromthehamper.Herhairwasleft-overfromthepreviousday’seffort.Hersonstoodnexttoherandpulledhisbaseballcapoff.Theschoolyardwaselectricwithmorningenergy,tummiesfilledwithCheerios,facesplumpfromsleep.Shecrouched.Hefoundhisspotinherneck.IcouldseefromwhereIstoodthattherewaspainintheboy’sface;herhandsclosedaroundhisheadlikethepetalsofaflower.Hermouthmovedslowlyinhisear.Hecoiledintoher.Heneededher.Behindhimnoisegrew,shouts,thewhipofbasketballleatheroncement.
Sheslippedherhandsdownhisslightshouldersandhepushedaway,hissmallchestrising,butshepulledhimbackagain.Itwasshewhoneededhimthistime.Now,herfaceinhisneck,threeseconds,maybefour.Shespokeagain.Hesqueezedhiseyes.Henodded,puthishaton,pulledthebrimlow,andwalkedaway.Notslowly,notwithhesitation,butwithanticipation,withhaste,onlegsthatturnedinslightlyattheknees.Shecouldnotwatch,notthismorning.Sheturnedawayandleft,lookeddownatherphone,andgotlostinsomethingthatdidn’tmakeheracheinthewayhersondid.
Mybellyflutteredlikeanetofbutterfliesforthefirsttimethatmorning.Thebabywaswakinginsideofme.Violethadleftherbagoforangesliceswithmeatdrop-offandIsuckedthewarmjuicefromthem,tossingtherindsinacitygarbagebinasIfollowedthemotherdownthestreetandthroughtwointersections.ShestoppedforsaltfromacornermarketandIwatchedherfrombehindthepyramidoftomatoes.Iwantedtoseeherface.Toseeifshecarriedhimwithher.Iwonderedhowitlooked—howitfelt—tohavethatkindofconnectiontoanotherperson.Ihadn’tyetfoundtheanswer,whenIlostheroneblocklaterinacrowdedsectionofsidewalkconstruction.
Thesekindsofthingshappenedaroundus,Violetandme,inalanguagewedidnotspeak.SoIwasdesperatetolearn.Tobebetterwiththeonewhocamenext.
Onthewayhome,Iwalkedbyawomansettingupasmallfleamarketonthesideofthestreet.Sheleanedastackofoldpaintingsagainstthelamppostassheputcoloreddotsonthebacktomarktheprices.Shepulledoutoneinanelegantgoldframeandlookedatitthoughtfully,decidinghowtopriceit.IstoodbehindherandfoundmyselfclutchingmychestasItookthepaintingin.Itwasofamothersittingwithhersmallchildonherlap,therosybabydressedinwhiteandcuppinghismother’schingentlyassheglanceddown.Onearmwasaroundthechild’smiddle,andthehandoftheotherheldhissmallthigh.Theirheadstouched.Therewasapeacefulnesstothem,awarmthandcomfort.Thewoman’slong,drapingdresswasabeautifulpeachwithburgundyflorets.Icouldbarelyspeaktoaskhertheprice.Butitdidn’tmatter—Ihadtohaveit.
“I’lltakethatone,”Isaidassheputitbackinthepile.
“Theoil?”Shetookherglassesoffandlookedupatme.
“Yes,thatone.Themotherandthechild.”
“It’sareplicaofaMaryCassatt.Notanoriginal,ofcourse.”ShelaughedasthoughIshouldknowhowabsurditwouldbetohaveanoriginalMaryCassatt.
“Isthatherinthepainting?Theartist?”
Sheshookherhead.“Shewasneveramotherherself.Maybethat’swhyshelikedtopaintthemsomuch.”
Icarriedthepaintinghomeundermyarmandhungitinthebaby’snursery.Whenyoucamehomethatnighttofindmestraighteningtheframeonthewall,youstoppedinthedoorwayandmadeanoise.Ahumf.
“What?Youdon’tlikeit?”
“Notyourtypicalnurseryart.YouhungpicturesofbabyanimalsinViolet’sroom.”
“Well,Iloveit.”
Iwantedthatbaby.Thatcuppedface.Thatchubbyhandonmine.Thatpalpablelove.
35.
Violetquietlywatchedmyshapestretchandmorph.Hemovedalldaylong,dragginghisimpossiblysmallheelsacrossmybellyandbackagain.Ilovedtolayonthecouchwithmyshirtpulledup,remindingusallthathewashere.Thatwewouldbeafamilyoffour.
“Ishedoingitagain?”youwouldcallfromthekitchen,finishingupthedishes.
“He’satitagain,”she’dyellback,andwe’dlaugh.
Thebabyhadcausedashiftinourrelationshipsomewherealongtheway,althoughIcouldn’tputmyfingeronexactlywhatthatshiftwas.Wewerekindertoeachother,althoughtherewasalsoanewdistancebetweenus,oneyouseemedtofillwithmorework.Itookthatspacetoturninward.Tohim.Wewerehappilyeachother’sworlds,evenasearlyasthat.Motherandson.
Whenthetechnicianrolledherwandoverthemassofwhitestaticandsaid,you’vegotyourselfaboyinthere,IclosedmyeyesandIthankedGodforthefirsttimeinmylife.Ikeptthenewstomyselffortwodays—ittookyouthatlongtoaskwhateverhadhappenedatmyultrasoundappointment.Thiswasuncharacteristic—youhadcaredenoughmyfirstpregnancytocometoeveryoneofthem.Wewere,atthatpoint,passingeachotherinthenight.Youhadseveralbigprojectsonthego,newclientswithbigmoney.Ineededsolittleofyouthen.Ihadhim.
Violetwantedtohelpmegothroughheroldbabyclothes.Wesattogetherinthelaundryroomandfoldedthetinysleepersastheycameoutofthedryer.Shewouldlifteachonetohernoseasthoughshewererememberingatimeandplacewhensheworethem.Iletherdressherdollinaknittedsweaterandshepretendedtonursehim.Imarveledattheunusualcarefulnesswithwhichshetouchedeverything,thesoftnessofhervoice.
“Thisishowyoudidit,”shesaid,gentlybouncingthedolltwicetotherightandthentwicetotheleft,andthenbacktotherightagain.
AtfirstIdidn’tknowwhatshemeant—Ididn’trememberdoingthatwithher.ButItookthedollfromherandstoodupandmimickedhowshe’djustrockedthebaby.Thefamiliarityofthemotioncamebacktomeinstantly.Shewasright.IlaughedasIkeptbouncingthedollbackandforth,andshegiggled,noddingherhead.
“Itoldyou!”
“You’reabsolutelyright.”
Itseemedimpossibleshewouldrememberthis,thatitwouldstaywithheralltheseyears.Sheputherhandsoneithersideofmyhugebellyandmimickedthatsamemotionforthebabyinsideofme,rockingwithmybellyinherlittlehands.Soonweweredancing,thethreeofus,totherhythmofthespinningwashingmachine.
36.
Ifeltdownwithmyhandashisheadcamethroughthehotringofmycervix.Thereleasewaseuphoric.Youwatchedmeguidehimfrommybody’sopeningandthenlifthimquietly,carefully,ontotheplacehe’dfilledfortwohundredandeighty-threedays.You’rehere.Helookedupformeandarchedhisbackandthenhebegantoslinkupmystomach,likeaninchwormcoveredinvernixandblood.Hismouthwasopenandhisglassyeyeswerestillblack.Histwitching,wrinkledhandslookedcoveredinfartoomuchskin.Theyfoundmybreastandhislittlechinshook.Hewasmymiracle.Ipulledhimtomynippleandtappeditsnubonhisbottomlipwitharmsthatstillshookfromtheoxytocin.Thereyougo,sweetboy.HewasthemostbeautifulcreatureIhadeverseen.
“HelooksjustlikeViolet,”yousaid,peeringovermyshoulder.
Buthedidn’tlookathinglikehertome.Hewassevenpoundsofsomethingsopure,soblissful,thatitfeltasthoughhemightfloatawayaboveme,adream,somethingIwouldneverdeserveforaslongasIlived.Iheldhimforhours,myskinstucktohis,untiltheymademegetupforthebathroom.ThebloodpouredfrommeintothetoiletandwhenIlookeddownatthemess,forsomereasonIthoughtofourdaughteragain.AndthenIsteppedslowlybacktomysonintheglassbassinetteoutsideofthebathroomdoor.
Iremembersolittleelseabouthowhecameintothisworld.
Iremembereverythingabouthowheleftit.
1969
Ceciliagotherperiodwhenshewastwelveyearsold.Bythenshehadbreastslargerthananyothergirlinherclass.Shewalkedwithhershouldersrolledforward,tryingtohidethenewsignsofherwomanhood.Ettawasn’tspeakingtohermuchatthatpoint,letalonebroachingthesubjectofpubertywithher.Ceciliahadheardfromothergirlsaboutthebleeding,butstillherheartstoppedwhenshesawherwetredunderwear.Shewentthroughhermother’scupboardslookingforsanitarypads,buttherewerenone.Shedoubledoverinpainonthebathroomfloor,sawthebloodcomethroughherpants,anddecidedsheshouldtellhermother.
Ettadidn’tanswerwhenCeciliaknockedonhermother’sdoor,buttherewasnothingunusualaboutthat—itwasthreeo’clockandshesleptmostafternoons.ShewenttoEtta’sbedsideandwhisperedhernameuntilshesnortedawake.EttasighedwhenCeciliatoldherwhathadhappened—inpityordisgust,Ceciliawasn’tsure.
“Whatdoyouwantfromme?”
Shedidn’tanswerbecauseshedidn’tknow.Herthroattightened.Ettaopenedherbedsidedrawerandtookouttwopillsfromasmallredmake-upbagthatshehidfromHenry.SheheldthemouttoCeciliaandslippedherotherhandunderthepillowandclosedhereyes.
Ceciliastaredatthelittlewhitepillsandleftthebedroom.Shefoundherpurseinthehallwayandtookwhateverchangeshehadtothepharmacy.Herfaceburnedasshepaidforthepads,lookingawayfromtheyoungmanatthecashregister.AthomesheranahotbathandEttacameintousethetoiletjustasshesankintothetub.Ettapeedwithhereyesclosed.
Laterthatafternoon,CeciliastoodoutsideofEtta’sbedroomdoor.Anunfamiliarragecreptupherchest.Shechargedinsideandflippedonthelight.Standingatthefootofhermother’sbedwithtightfists,sherealizedthatshewantedEttatohurther.BeingsmackedbyheratleastmeantthatsheexistedinEtta’ssmall,sadworld.BythenCeciliahadfeltformonthslikeshewasdeadtohermother.Ettastirredawakeandlookedather.
“Hitme,Etta,”shesaid,shaking.“Goon.Hitme!”
She’dnevercalledhermotherbyherfirstnamebefore.
Etta’sexpressionwasempty.ShelookedfromCecilia’stremblingfacetothelightswitchonthewallandshesighedagain.Sheputherheadbackdownandclosedhereyes.Henry’sfootstepstravelledthroughthefrontfoyerdownstairsandintothekitchen.He’dbeenlookingfordinnerbuttherewasn’tany.Nottoday.ThetwopillsEttahadgivenherwereonthebedsidetable.Ceciliawasn’tsurewhyshedidn’twantHenrytoseethem.Shetookthemandflushedthemdownthetoilet.
“Isshenotfeelingwellagain?”HenrywasfillingthekettlewhenCeciliacameintothekitchen.
“Headache,”shesaid.Theywereallsogoodatlyingforeachother,atpretendingthingsweren’tasbadastheywere.Henoddedandlookedagainforleftoversinthefridge.Ceciliaturnedontheradiotofilltheroomsothattheydidn’thavetosayanythingmore.
37.
IwonderifyouevernoticedthethingsabouthimthatIlivedfor?
Thewayheflunghisarmsabovehisheadlikeateenagerwhileheslept.Thesmellofhisfeetattheendoftheday,justbeforehisbath.Howhe’dpopuponhisarmswhenheheardthecreakofthedoorinthemorning,desperatelyseekingmethroughthebarsofthecrib.AndsoIneveraskedyoutooilthehinges.
He’sbeenheavyinmetoday.Sometimesthisjusthappens.Distinct,dense,achingdaysthatmakeeverythingaroundmetastesour.Ionlywanthim,buttherealworldthreatenstoquiethisnoises,hissmells.
Iwanttobreathehimindeeplyandneverbreatheouteveragain.
Doyoufeelthissometimes,too?
Thosefirstdays.Sourmilkandbodyodor.Nipplecreamstainingthesheets.Aconstantringofteaonthebedsidetable.Icriedwithoutthinking,withoutknowingwhy,butthetearswereareleaseoflove.Mymilkcameinandmybreastswereboulders,andIbarelymovedfromthatspot.Ijiggledhimtosleeponmynakedchest.Hestartledeverysooften,throwinghisskinnylittlearmsrightup,andthencurlingbackintome.Andthenwe’dstartagain.Therewasnodayornight.Mynipplesstungatthethoughtoffeedinghimnext.
Andyet.Ididn’twantthattimewithhimtoend.HewaseverythingIhadeverwanted.TheconnectionwesharedwastheonlythingIcouldfeel.Icravedthephysicalweightofhimontopofme.Sothisisit,Iwouldthink.Thisiswhatit’ssupposedtobelike.Idrankhiminlikewater.
Hewouldlifthisheadfrombetweenmybreastsandwobbleitaroundlikehewassearching,tryingtofindhismama,lookingforthepersonheloved.Iwouldputmycheekdowntotouchhisandthenhewouldrestagain,safeandhappyandfull.Ofmilk,ofme.
EventuallyIleftmybedandturnedmyattentionbacktoLife.IcleanedupViolet’sbreakfast,Imademake-believecastles,Ithrewpileafterpileofclothesinthedryer.Butwhenhewasn’twithme,mymindwaswithhim,upinthatnursery.
Violetdidn’tcaremuchforSamatfirst,althoughshewatchedcarefullyeverytimeIlatchedhimforafeeding.Shewouldoftenfeelherownflatchestashedrankfromme,asthoughshewasbewilderedbythefunctionofawoman’sbreasts.Whenhewasdone,shewouldleavetheroom,wantingtobealonemostofthetime.
Samfellmadlyinlovewithherinthemonthsthatfollowed.Soon,hewouldlightupwhenheheardhervoicecomethroughthepreschooldooratpick-up.
“There’syoursister!”I’dsay,andhe’dkickhislegs,desperatetogetnearher,achingtobreakfreefromthestroller.Shewouldjigglehisfootandoffwe’dgo,backtoourhome,tothepartofthedayIfearedthemost.Thethreeofus,alone,theminefieldofthelateafternoon,waitingforyoutowalkinthedoor.Youwerethegreatneutralizer.
Youandme.Wewerepartners,companions,creatorsofthesetwohumans.Butwelivedincreasinglydifferentlives,likemostparentsdo.Youwerecerebralandcreative,inventingspacesandsight-linesandperspectives,yourdaysconcernedwithlighting,elevation,finishes.Youhadthreemealsaday.Youreadsentenceswrittenforadultsandyouworeaverynicescarf.Youhadareasontoshower.
Iwasasoldier,executingaseriesofphysicalactionsonaloop.Changethediaper.Maketheformula.Warmthebottle.PourtheCheerios.Wipeupthemess.Negotiate.Beg.Changehissleeper.Getherdressed.Where’sherlunchbox?Bundlethemup.Walk.Faster.We’relate.Hughergoodbye.Pushtheswing.Findthelostmitten.Rubthepinchedfinger.Getasnack.Getanotherbottle.Kiss,kiss,kiss.Puthiminthecrib.Clean.Tidy.Find.Make.Defrostthechicken.Gethimupfromthecrib.Kiss,kiss,kiss.Changehisdiaper.Puthiminthehighchair.Cleanuphisface.Washthedishes.Tickle.Changethediaper.Tickle.Putasnackinabaggie.Startthewashingmachine.Bundlehimup.Buydiapers.Anddishsoap.Raceforpick-up.Hello,hello!Hurry,hurry.Unbundle.Laundryinthedryer.Turnonhershow.Time-out.Please.Listentomywords.No!Stainremover.Diaper.Dinner.Dishes.Runthebath.Takeofftheirclothes.Wipeupthefloor.Brushteeth.FindBennytheBunny.Putonpajamas.Quiet!Book.Nurse.Anotherbook.Keepgoing,keepgoing,keepgoing.
Irememberonedayrealizinghowimportantmybodywastoourfamily.Notmyintellect,notmyambitionsofawritingcareer.Notthepersonshapedbythirty-sixyears.Justmybody.IstoodnakedinfrontofthemirroraftertakingoffmysweaterthatwascoveredinricecerealSamhadthrown-up.MybreastswiltedliketheplantinourkitchenthatIcouldneverremembertowater.Mystomachspilledovertheindentfrommyunderwearlikethefoamontheedgeofmylukewarmlatte.Mythighsweremarshmallowspuncturedwitharoastingstick.Iwasmush.ButtheonlythingthatmatteredwasthatIcouldphysicallycouldkeepusallgoing.Mybodywasourmotor.Iforgaveeverythingabouttheunrecognizablewomaninthemirror.Itneveroccurredtomethenthatmybodywouldnotbeusefullikethateveragain:necessary,dependable,cherished.
Aroundthattime,sexseemedtohavechangedevenmoreforbothofus.Wewereefficient.Rote.YouwereelsewherewhileIstraddledyou.I,too,letmymindgo.Tothewet-wipesIneededtobuy.Tothedoctor’sappointmentI’dforgottentomake.WherehadI’dseenthatrecipeforthecurrycarrots?Summerdresses.Librarybooks.ThesesheetsI’dneedtowash.
38.
“Wecan’tdoitthismorning,Fox,he’sgothisswimclassandthenaplaydateafter,andI’vealreadycancelledonthismomtwice.ItoldyouthislastweekwhenIbookedViolet’sappointment.”
“Idon’trememberViolethavingquitesuchabusysociallife,”yousaid.
Iwaspackingthediaperbag.Shelookedupatmefromthefloorwhereshewastyinghershoes.Ishotyoualookthatsaid,notnow.Butyourremarkswereconstant.Youwereconsumedwithjealousyonbehalfofourdaughterwhocouldnothavecaredlessabouthowclosehermotherwaswithhernewbabybrother.Shehadadjusted,tothesurpriseofusall,almostseamlessly.Thebabyhaddiffusedthetensionbetweenussomehow,asthoughwewerebothnowfreetobreathealittle.Inthisnewspace,sheofferedmesmall,measuredgesturesofaffection—shesatclosertomeduringbedtimestories,sheliftedherhandforabriefgoodbyeattheschooldoors.
Weweremakingprogress.
ItwasyouIstruggledwith.YouweresupposedtohavebeenhappyforthemotherIhadfinallyfoundwithinmyselfwhenSamarrivedinourlives.
Yourmomhadvisitedforafewdaystheweekbefore.Youtwowereinthekitchenhavingacupofteaafterdinneronherlastnight,whileIcleanedupthetoysinthelivingroom.YoubothmusthavethoughtIwasupstairs.Youhadthankedherforcoming.Anytime,shesaid.IstoodstillwhenIheardhermentionmyname—thatIseemedtobeinmuch“betterspirits”thanIwasbeforeSamwasborn
“Shelovesthatboy.IjustwishshefeltthatsamewayaboutViolet.”
“Fox,”shehadchastised,althoughgently.Andthenafewmomentslater,“Thesecondtimearoundiseasierforsomewomen.Aneasieradjustment.”
“Iknow,Mom.ButIworryforViolet.Sheneeds—”
Ihadmarchedintothekitchenwiththebinfullofplasticanimalsanddroppeditontheflooratyourfeet.Youjumpedandstaredatthetoys.
“Goodnight,Helen.”Icouldn’tlookatyou.
Thenextmorning,beforesheleftfortheairport,sheapologizedforwhatIoverheardyousay,asthoughshestillhadsomekindofresponsibilityforyou.
“Everythingokaywithyoutwo?”
Ihadn’twantedhertoworry.
“Justnotgettingenoughsleep,that’sall.”
“Soyou’llhavetotakeherthismorning,I’msorry.Okay?”IbentdowntotightenViolet’sshoelaces.
“I’vegotaclientcominginat10.Ican’tmakeitfromoneendofthecitytotheotherandbackagainbythen.”
“Well,youcanmakeittoyourofficeintimeifyoudon’tdropheroff—justgivehersomepaperandpencilstokeepherbusyduringyourmeeting,andtakehertoschoolafterwards.Thatwouldbefun,rightViolet?”
“Jesus,Blythe.”Yourubbedyoureyes.Samhadkeptusbothupmostofthenight.Hewasteething.YouhadalwaysbeenabletosleepthroughVioletwakingupatnight,butyouhadseemedtohaveahardtimesleepingsinceSamcame.“Allright.Comeon,kiddo,let’sroll.”
Atdinnerthatnightshetoldmeallaboutherday.Thetreasurechestatthedentist’soffice,theholepunchsheplayedwithatyourdesk.
“AndthenIwentforlunchwithDaddyandhisfriend.”
“Oh,hownice.Andwhowasthat?”
“Jenny.”
“Gemma,”youcorrectedher.
“Gemma,”sherepeated.
“Someonefromtheoffice?”Ihadneverheardthenamebefore.
“Mynewassistant.ShetookalikingtoVioletwhileIwasinthemeeting,soIinvitedheralong.”
“That’snice.Ididn’tknowyouhadanewassistant.Andwheredidyouguysgo?
“Aplacewithchickenfingers!Sheboughtmeanicecreamafter!Andaunicorneraser.”
“Luckygirl.”
“Shelovedmyhair.”
“Idotoo.Youhavebeautifulhair.”
“Herhairwaslongandcurly,andshehadpinkpaintonhernails.”
Sambegantofussinhishighchair,fistinhismouth.Violetbangedherhandsonthetabletodistracthim.“Sammy,that’senough!Look,it’sadrum!Drum,drum,drum.Drum,drum,DRUM!”
“You’llcleanup?”Iasked.ItookSamforhisbathwithoutwaitingforyouranswer.
Ireadherastoryinourbed,Samwigglingbetweenuswithhisbunny,Benny.
“Onemore,”shesaidwhenIfinishedthebook.Alwaysonemore.Isighedandgavein.Sambangedhishandonhisnearlyemptybottle.More,more.Youwerechangingintoyourjeansattheendofthebed.
“Mom,Sammywantsmoremilk.”
“Goingsomewhere?”
“Backtotheoffice,”yousaid.“Ihavetofinishaproposaltonight.”
“Daddy,youhavetotuckmeintonight!”
Youleaneddowntokissallthreeofus.Onebyone.Withpurpose.Samhelduphisemptybottle.
“Momwilltuckyouin,sweetheart.Ihavetorun.Beagoodgirlforher,okay?”
“Sammystillneedsmoremilk!”saidVioletagain.
“Loveyou,”yousaid,toallofus.
Isatontheedgeofherbedtosaygoodnight.ShehadbeensogoodlatelyandyetInevertoldherthis.Ihadstartedtotakethisnew,peacefulnormalbetweenusforgranted.IcouldbarelyrememberatimebeforeSam.IcouldbarelyrememberthemotherIhadbeen.Motherhoodislikethat—thereisonlythenow.Thepainofnow,thereliefofnow.Thedespairofnow,thehope.
Herfacewasmaturing,apreviewofwhatshewouldlooklikeasateenager.Herlipswereroundandplump,andIimaginedherkissingsomeone.Lovingsomeone.ShehadchangedinthosemonthssinceSamwasborn.Ormaybeitwasmewhohadchanged.MaybeIcouldfinallyseewhoshewas.
“Violet?Iwantyoutoknowwhataverygoodgirlyou’vebeenlately.You’vebeenkindandgentlewithSam.You’vebeenhelpful.Andyou’vebeenagoodfriendatschool.I’mproudofyou.”
Shewasquiet,thinking.Iturnedouthernightlightandleaneddowntokissher,andsheletme.
“Goodnight.Sleeptight.”
“DoyoulovebabySammorethanme?”Herwordsparalyzedme.Ithoughtofyou.Ofwhatshemighthaveoverheardyousay.
“Honey.Ofcoursenot.Iloveyouboththesame.”
Sheclosedhereyes,pretendingtosleep,andIwatchedherlidsflutter.
39.
Ididn’tknowshewasinhisroomuntilshespoke.
Thenightshadbeenoursformonthsonend,moremonthsthanthebabybookssaidwasnormal.IwokeurgentlyattheslightestnoisefromSam’scrib,asthougharockethadlaunchedinmyear.InthedarkIstood,shiftingmyhipsfromsidetoside,therhythm,likethescentofmyskinandthetasteofmymilk,thewayheknewitwasme.Gotosleep,sweetboy.Iwouldbrushmylipsontothefuzzofhishead,carefulnottorousehim.OntheparticularnightI’mremembering,hebarelynursed,wantingonlythefeelingofmynipplefillinghismouth.Thecomfort.Thesoundmachinehissed,afusionofnoisesthatweremeanttobetheocean.
“Puthimdown,”shetoldme.Igaspedandstartledthebabyinmyarms.
“Violet!Whyareyouinhere?”
“Puthimdown.”
Shespokecalmly,directly.Asthoughitwereathreat.Isensedshewassomewherenearthecloset;Icouldn’tseeherinthefaintspreadoflightfromunderthecloseddoor.Iturnedslowly,tryingtocatchadifferentperspectiveoftheroom,andwaited,lettingmyeyesfindthenursery’sobjectsinthedark.Hervoicecamefromtheotherendthistime.
“Puthimdown.”
“Gobacktobed,honey.It’sthreeinthemorning.I’llcomeinandrubyourback.”
“Iwon’t,”shesaidslowly,hervoicelow,“untilyouputhimdown.”
Mychestbegantotighten—thatfeelingagain,thecreepofanxiety.Itwasbackinaninstant,likeshe’dsnappedherfingerstowakemeupfromherspell.Thattoneusedtohauntme.e.Ican’tgothereagainwithyou,Ithought,mymouthdry.Whyhadshebeeninhere?Whatwasshedoing?
I’dhuffedtoshowherhowsillyshewasbeing,butIlistenedtoher.
IlaySaminhiscribandfeltaroundthemattressforBenny.Healwayshelditnearhisface.Icouldn’tfindit.
“Violet,doyouknowwhereBennyis?”
Shetosseditatmeandlefttheroom.She’dtakenthebunnyfromhiscrib.She’dbeenwatchinghimwhileheslept.
She’dbeensoclosetohim.
Iclosedthedoorbehindmeandfollowedtoherroom.Isatsoftlyontheedgeofherbed.Islippedmyhandupthebackofherstrawberrypatternedpajamatopontoherperfect,silkyskin.Shelovedtohaveherbackrubbed.Byyou.
“Don’ttouchme.Getawayfromme.”
“Violet.”Ipulledmyhandoutofhershirt.“HaveyoubeenintherebeforetowatchSamsleepatnight?Doyoudothatsometimes?”
Shedidn’tanswer.
MyheartracedasIwentbacktoourbed,slowingatSam’scloseddoortomakesurehewasquiet.Iwasashamedofmyselfforthethoughtsthatcametomymind.Andthen,Icouldbringhimtomybed.Icouldmakesurehe’ssafe.Justfortonight.Justthisonce.
Wewerepastthis.Weweresupposedtobepastthis.
ItookmyphoneoutofthebedsidetabledrawerandIlookedatphotosofheruntilyoustirredgentlybesideme,botheredbythebluelight.Iwaslookingtofindsomethinginherface,butIdidn’tknowwhat.IwenttoSam’sroomandbroughthimbackintobedwithme.
40.
“She’sjustbeensogoodlately,youknow?Itcamefromnowhere.”
Wewereinbedthenextmorning,early,Samonthefloorwithhisboardbooks.IliedandsaidSamwouldn’tsettleafterViolethadbeeninhisroomandthat’swhyI’dbroughthimintoourbed.Irolledintoyou,missingyourwarmth.YoureachedforyourphoneandIstudiedyou.Yourchest,thenewgreyhairs,thewayyoutwirledthembetweenyourfingerswhileyoureadyouremails.
“You’reprobablymakingsomethingoutofnothing.Again.”
Buthere’swhatyoudidn’tunderstand:thereweren’tmanyplacesmymindwouldn’tgo.Myimaginationcouldtip-toeslowlyintotheunthinkablebeforeIrealizedwhereIwasheaded.Whilepushingaswingorpeelingsweetpotatoes.ThethoughtsIhadwereawful,theywereharrowing,buttherewassomethingsatisfyingaboutlettingmyselfgothere.Theextentofhowfarshemightgo.Whatcouldhappen.Howmyworstfearsmightfeeliftheycametrue.WhatIwoulddo.WhatwouldIdo?
Enough.I’dsnapbackandcleansemymind:Thechildren.Thesqueals.Thelifeintheireyes.Everythingisjustfine.
IleftthekidswiththebabysitterafterschoolandjoinedGraceforapedicure.Thesitterwascomingonceaweekthen,asmallbreakIcherished.IpickedacolorcalledCharcoalDreamsthatfeltsuitableforthenewchillintheair,andtriednottobreathetoodeeplyasthewomanpickedatmyunlovedcuticles.Sheputmyfootonherthighandseemedtobebracingherselffortheworkofatradesman—theskinonmyheelscouldhavebeenshavedwithacheesegrater.Petroleumjellyatnight,shesuggested,underathickpairofsocks.Ididn’tcareenoughaboutmyheelstodosomethinglikethatandalmosttoldher,butthiswasherlifeafterall—feet—soIsimplythankedherforthetip.
Gracetalkedaboutthevacationshe’djustreturnedfrom.Cabowithhermotherforherseventiethbirthday.Thebartenderhadmadethempricklypearmargaritasattheswim-upbar.Somethingaboutanewself-tanner.Itunedherout.Ithoughtofthekidsathome,ofhowthebabysittersaidshewouldtidythekids’bedrooms.OfhowVioletwouldwanttoplayinthebasementinstead,andSamwouldwhineuntilhewasploppeddownthere,too.Hewantednothingmorethantobenearherlately,alwaysreachingforherwhenshewalkedby,andcallingoutforherfromthecrib—“Bye-ette!Bye-ette!”—whenhewokeupinthemorning.Thatmademesmile,thinkingofhisbrokenbabytalk.Gracemovedontosomebrothersshehadmet,somethingaboutarancherfromIowa.WerethereranchesinIowa?Ithoughtofthatspacedownthereinthebasementwherethey’dbe.Itwasunfinished,slightlydamp,butcleanenoughforSamtocruisearoundnowthathewasonthemove.Ithoughtofhowweneedednewcarpet.Somethingwithalow-pile,easytoclean.Andsomestoragefortoys.Ithoughtofhowyoustoredyoursportsstuffdowntheretoo,howyourgolfbagbarelyfitdownthenarrowstaircase.Ofhowyou’dputyourclubsdowntherethedaybefore.OfhowVioletlikedtopullthemoutandpretendshewasatthedrivingrange.Ithoughtofthesitteralwayswantingtoclean,eventhoughItoldhershedidn’thaveto.OfSamobsessedwithViolet’severymove.Oftheweightofthedriverinherhand.OfthewayI’dseenherswingit.Likeaweapon.Ofhissmall,featheryhead.Ofhoweasilyshecoulddoit.Ofhowitwouldonlytakeasecond.Ofthecrack.Ofwhetherornottherewouldbeblood.Braindamage,orjustblood?
NowGracetalkedaboutanopeninvitationtotheranch.ShewasthinkingofMarch.TheacetonestartedtohurtmylungsandIpulledmyfeetawayfromthewoman’sbighands,thepolishonlyfinishedononefoot.Ileanedawaytofindairthatdidn’tstingbuttheentireroomfelttoxicandmychestwasclosingin.Ihadtogo.IgrabbedmypurseandIleftthewomanstunned,polishbrushinhand.Gracecalledoutaboutmyshoes,aboutwhereIwasgoing,andIstartedtorun.Theclubs.Shecoulddoit.Shewoulddoit.Thesitterwouldn’twatchthemcloselyenough.Irananddidn’tstopforthetworedlights,holdingmyhandoutforthecarstoslowdownasmynumbfeetcarriedmehome.
“You’llkillyourself!”shoutedamanonabike.
No!Iwantedtoyell.Shewillkillhim.Shehatesmethatmuch.Youdon’tunderstand.
“Violet!”Ithrewopenthedoor.Irantothebasementstairsandscreamedhernameagain.Nobodyanswered.“Sam!WhereisSam?”
Thebabysittercamerushingdownthehallwithafingeronherlips.
Samwasasleep.Violetwasrestinginherroomwithabook.
Ifelltothefloor.Nothinghadhappened.
Nothinghadhappened.
41.
“Anxietyattacksareverycommon.Especiallyfornewmoms.Thisisnormal.”
IwonderedifIshouldhavesaidmore.Thedoctorblewontheendofherpenasthoughitwerehot.ShewrotemeaprescriptionandexplainedwhenIshouldtakethem.Ileftthebuildingthinkingofthetranslucentorangecontaineronmymother’snightstandfilledwithtinywhitetablets,dwindlingoverthecourseofeachmonth.Islippedthescriptinmybag.
Iknewsomethingwasn’tright.Atfirstitwastheemptinessshe’dhadinhereyeseversinceIfoundherinSam’sroom,thewaysheseemedtolookthroughmewhenIwaswithhimnow.Hercontempthadshiftedfromthewildlyexhaustingtantrumsthathadonceleftmeintears,toamanipulative,meditatedcoldness.Hercalm,steadfastdismissalofmewasfarbeyondhersixandahalfyears.Theicylooks.Thecompletedisdain.ThepassiveresistancetodoingwhatIaskedherto—canyoufinishyourdinnerplease?Canyouputawayyourtoys?Shesimplydisengagedwithzeroreaction,nothingformetoworkwith.Punishmentsorthreatswereuseless;consequenceshadnomeaningtoher.WhateverattentionIhadgainedfromherinthepastyearsinceSamwasbornhadallbutdisappeared.Shewouldn’tletmetouchher.Weresumedouroldstand-off.Andyouresumedyouroldplaceastheonlypersonshewantedinherworld.
*
Eventuallywelearnedtotolerateeachotherenoughtocoexist.Sheneededverylittlefromme,tothepointwhereshebegantofeellikeaboarderIhadtofeedwithplasticdishesonaheart-shapedplacemat.IfocusedinsteadonSam,onourroutine,onthemotionsrequiredofmewhenshewasn’tatschool.Andwhenyoucamehomeintheevening,shecamealiveagain.
SamwasmylightandIdideverythingIcouldtostopVioletfromdimmingit..SomemorningswecamehomeafterdroppingoffVioletandwentbackintoourunmadebedwithoursuiteofnecessities—bottle,tea,books,Benny.Themessinthekitchenandthelaundrycouldwaitforus.Insteadwepassedthetimestaringateachother.Wemusedaboutducksanddinosaursandbellybuttons.Lateronwenappedinthelatewintersun.Hesleptonmychest,evenafterhewasweanedfrommymilkandmysmellhadchanged.ItwasasthoughheknewhowmuchIneededhim.
Theanxietystayedawayforthenextwhile.Ikepttheunfilledprescriptioninmypurse—everytimeIsawthepieceofpaperwhenIreachedinforsomething,Iwouldthinkofmymother.Icouldn’tbringmyselftogotothepharmacy.Ididn’ttrustmyself.
42.
“Cecilia’snothere.”Myfather’swordsweremeanttobesternbutIheardarippleinhisvoice.“Idon’tknowwheresheis.”Heplacedthereceiveronthephonecradlewithashakinghand.I’dbeenwatchingfromthehallway.Hehadliedtothepersonontheotherend.Mymotherwashomeandhadn’tleftherbedinawhile.Ididn’tknowwhy,orwhymyfatherneededtolietowhoeverkeptcallingforher.TheonetimeIhadreachedforthephonebeforehim,heknockeditoutofmyhand,asthoughthevoiceontheotherendwouldburnmyear.
Hebroughthersoupandwaterandcrackers.Iaskedifshehadthestomachflu.
“Yeah.Somethinglikethat.”Iwasintheway.Hepassedmeonthestairs,hisbackhunchedoverthetrayhecarefullycarriedtoher.Ihadn’tseenmymotherfordays,notsinceshe’dbeendressedupforoneofhernightsoutinthecity.Shewasgoingoutmoreoftenbythen,disappearingovernight,sometimestwo.Herdisappearingact.Ilistenedfrommyroombutcouldn’tmakeouttheirwordsthatnight.Shesoundedweakandtearfulandhewaspatientandcalm.Itiptoedclosertotheirdoor.
“Youneedhelp.”
Andthenacrash.Adish.Shehadthrownthebowlofsoup.Ijumpedoutofmyfather’spathasheswungopenthedoorinsearchofacloth.Ilookedintheroomandsawherinbed,upright,eyesclosed.Herarmsfoldedacrossherchest.IsawthesameplasticbraceletI’dseentheyearbeforeonMrs.Ellingtonwhenthebabyinherstomachhadn’tmadeit.Mymotherwasthinthough,herwaistthesizeofmineatelevenyearsold,andtherewasn’tanychanceshewantedanotherchild.Iwenttomyroomandgotreadyforbed,hopingtohearthemcontinuetheargumentsoIcouldpiecetogetherwhatwasgoingon.Ifellasleeptothesoundofmymothercrying.
InthemorningIwenttothebathroomtopee.Thehousewasstillquiet—myfatherhadn’tstirredfromthecouchyet.Iopenedthetoilet.Thebowlwasfilledwithbloodandwhatlookedlikethegutsofthemicetheneighbor’scatsometimesleftonourfrontporch.Mymother’sunderwearwasbesidethetoilet.Ipickedthemupandsawtheheavybrownstainsweredriedblood.
“Dad?What’swrongwithMom?”
Myfatherwasstandingoverthepotofcoffee,stillwearinghisclothesfromthenightbefore.Hedidn’tanswerme.Hefetchedthepaperfromoutsidethefrontdoorandtosseditonthetable.
“Dad?”
“Shehadaprocedure.”
Ipouredmyselfcerealandatequietly.Thephonerangasheflippednewspapersections,drinkinghiscoffee.Istoodtoanswer.
“Leaveit,Blythe.”
“Seb!”
Hesighedandshovedhischairback.Hepouredacupofcoffeeforherandleftthekitchen.Thephonerangagainandwithoutthinking,Ianswered.
“Ineedtotalktoher.”
“Pardon?”I’dheardjustfinebutdidn’tknowwhatelsetosay.
“Sorry.Wrongnumber.”Themanhungup.Iheardmyfather’sfootstepscomedownthestairsandIquicklyturnedbacktomycereal.
“Didyouanswerthat?”
“No.”
Helookedatmeforalongtime.HeknewIwaslying.
BeforeIleftforschoolIwenttomymother’sdoorandknockedsoftly.Iwantedtoseeformyselfifshelookedokay.
“Comein.”Shewasdrinkingthecoffeeandstaringoutherwindow.“You’regoingtobelateforschool.”
IstoodinthedoorframeandthoughtofsittingbesideMrs.Ellington’swhensheshowedmeherswollenstomach.Mymotherhadthesamestrangesmell.Twonewcontainersofpillswereonthenightstand.Shelookedtiredandpuffy.She’dtakenoffthehospitalbraceletI’dseenthedaybefore.Thetopofherhandlookedbadlybruised.
“Areyouokay?”
Shedidn’ttakehereyesoffthewindow.
“Yes,Blythe.”
“Therewasbloodinthebathroom.”
Shelookedsurprised,likeshe’dforgottenthatIlivedinthehouse,too.
“Nevermindthat.”
“Wasitfromababy?”
Hereyesliftedfromthewindowandfoundaspotontheceiling.Isawherswallow.
“Whywouldyousaythat?”
“Mrs.Ellington.Shehadababythatdidn’tmakeit.”
Mymotherfinallylookedatme.Andthenthroughme.Sheblewairthroughherteethandlookedbacktoherwindow,shakingherhead.“No.Itwasn’tfromababy.Youdon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingabout.”
IimmediatelyregrettedtellingmymotheraboutMrs.Ellington.IwishedIcouldshovelthewordsbackintomymouth—Ididn’twantmymotheranywherenearmyrelationshipwithher.ItwastheonlythingIhadinmylifethatwassacred.IlefttheroomandwenttoschoolandwhenIgothomeeverythingseemedtobebacktonormal.Mymotherwasstandinginthekitchen,burningdinneronthestove.Myfatherwaspouringadrink.Thephonerangonthewallandhepickedupthereceivertohitthehook,andthenletitdangle.Welistenedtothefaintdialtonewhileweate.
43.
ThedaybeforeSamdiedwewenttothezoo.
Theweatherwasunseasonablywarmandtherewassunintheforecast.
WelistenedtoRaffiinthecar.Zoo,zoo,zoo,howaboutyou,you,you?Wepackedourlunchesandbroughtthenicecamera,butweforgottotakepictures.
Violettuggedonyourarmallday,wantingtorunahead.Shealwayswantedtobeahead.Thetwoofyouagainsttheworld.Icouldn’ttakemyeyesoffyoufrombehind,thewayyoulookedsomuchalike.Theshapeofyoutogether.Thewayyouleanedalittlelowertothesidewhereshestood,howshealwaysreacheduptofeelthebendinyourelbow.
IfedSamoutsideofthepolarbearexhibitandyougotVioletsomeapplejuicefromthevendingmachinebecauseshesaidourjuiceboxesfromhomehadaweirdtaste.Asquirrelstolealeftovercookiefromthebottomofourstroller.Violetcried.Shewouldn’twearthehatI’dbrought.SamspituphismilkandIcleanedhimwiththebrownpapertowelsfromthebathroombecauseI’dforgottenourwipes.Imadecirclesonhispalmandthenranmyfingersuphisarmandtickledunderhischin.Hislaughterwaslikeascream,spiritedandexpansive,andIlivedforit.Anolderwomannearbywithalittleboy’smittenedhandinherssaidtome,“Whatacutebabyyouhave,suchahappylittleone!”Thankyou,he’smine,Imadehim.Hewassomuchapartofmethatinthesecondsjustbeforehecried,myinsidesgrewphysicallytight,likesomeonewasblowingupaballooninsideofmyribcage.
“Waituntilyouseethis!”yousaidtoViolet,andwewalkeddowntheramptothedarkechoingunderground,andyoubothstoodattheglasswall.Youwereshadowsagainsttheelectricgreenglowofthewaterinthetank,particlesofdirtandfishscalesfloatingaroundyoulikethedustfromdandelions.Istoodback,withSaminmyarms,andfeltlikeIwaswatchingsomeoneelse’sfamily.Thatyouwerebothmineseemedimpossibleinthatmoment.Youweresobeautifultogether.ThepolarbearpressedhispawuptotheglassrightinfrontofViolet’sface.Shecaughtherbreathandthrewherselfaroundyourwaist,inawe,interror,inamazement,thekindofreactionyoumightonlycatchafewtimesinyourchild’slife,areminderthattheyarenewtothisworld,thattheycan’tpossiblyunderstandwhenthey’resafeornot.
Weboughtthemtinylionsatthesouvenirshop,andVioletthrewhersoutthewindowofthecaronourwayhome.Iwasangry,lookingbackatthehighway,wonderingiftheplastictoyhadhitsomeone’swindshield.Youyelledandtoldheritwasdangerous.
“Ididn’twantthemomlion.Ihatemymom.”
Ilookedoveratyouandtookadeepbreathandturnedtheotherway.Letitgo.AndthenSamstartedtocry,soVioletreachedforBennythathe’ddroppedbetweentheircarseatsandtosseditbacktohim.Shehushedhimnicelyandyousaidtoher,“Goodgirl,Violet.”
Hernosewassunburnt—Ihadn’tthoughtofsunscreeninFebruary.Isqueezedaloefromanoldtubeanddabbeditonhernosewithmyfinger.Icountedthefrecklesonherface,wantingtoholdherinthatraremomentwhereIwasallowedtotouchher.Shestaredatmeasthoughshehadneverheardanyonecountbefore.Iwonderedifshemighthugmeandmymusclestightened,bracingforwhatshewouldfeellikeagainstme—ithadbeensolong.Butshelookedaway.
ShewatchedasIbathedSambeforebedandthenshesatwithmeonthefloorandrubbedhistummyandsaid,“He’sagoodbaby,isn’the?”ShehandedhimBennyandhechewedononeoftheearswhileshewatchedhimquietly.Iletherputhispajamason,anexerciseinpatienceforusboth,becauseshesorarelyaskedtodoit.Asshewaspullingupthesecondleg,shesaid,“Idon’tlikeSammyanymore.”Hesmiledatherandkickedhischunkylegs.Shegavehimakissanyway,andthensatonthetoiletwiththeliddownandwatchedusasIrubbedafaceclothonhisgums.
“He’steethingagain,”Itoldher.“Beforeweknowit,he’llhaveasmanyteethasyou.”
Sheshruggedhershouldersandskippedawaytofindyou.Youtickledherinthehallwayuntilshescreamed,“OhGod,Ican’ttakethistortureanymore!”andwelaughedathowprecociousshecouldbe.
Youwerekindthatnight.Youwereaffectionatewithme.Wesnuckintotheirroomstogetherbeforewewenttobedandstaredattheirsoft,gorgeousheads.
44.
WeleftearlierthanI’dplannedforsomereason.Itwasjustoneofthoseraresmoothdayswhennobodymadeamessoftheirclothesatbreakfast,andVioletonlywantedtobrushherteethonce.SoIdidn’thavetoyellthingsyouaren’tsupposedtoyell.Hurryup!You’retooslow!Themorningwasdistinctlypeaceful.
Thethreeofuswererarelyalonetogetheronaweekday,butViolet’sschoolwasclosedfortheday.Westoppedforteaonthewaytothepark.JoetalkedtoVioletlikehealwaysdidwhileIstirredhoneyintomytea.Healwaysopenedthedoorformeonthewayout,becausethestrollerwashardtogetdownthetwobigsteps.Wewalkedoutlikewealwaysdid,thefreshwinterwindonourfaces.
Westoodattheintersectionwewalkedacrossalmosteveryday.Ikneweverycrackinthesidewalk.Icouldclosemyeyesandseethegraffititagsontheredbrickbuildingonthenorth-westside.
Wewaited,Saminhisstrollerwatchingforbuses,VioletandIstandingquietly,forthecrosswalktochange.IreachedforViolet’shand,readyforourusualtugofwar,buttodaythereseemednoreasontoargue.
“Carefulneartheroad,”I’dsaidinstead,onehandrestingonthestroller.Sam’sarmsreachedfromthestrollertowardsViolet.Hewantedout.Ipickedupmyteafromthecupholderandbroughtittomylips.Stilltoohottosip,butthesteamwarmedmyface.Violetlookedupatmewhilewewaited,andIthoughtshemightaskmeaquestion.Whencanwecross?CanIgobackforadonut?Iliftedmycuptoblowonmyteaasshewatchedme.Iputitbackdownintheholder,andthenItouchedSam’sheadinthestroller,alittlereminderIwasthere,behindhim,thatIknewhewantedout.IlookeddownatViolet.AndthenIliftedthecuptomylipsagain.
Herpinkmittensleftherpocketsandtheyreachedforme.Sheyankedmyelbowwithbothofherhands.Soswiftly,soforcibly,thatthehotliquidscaldedmyface.IdroppedthecupandgaspedasIlookeddown.AndthenIscreamed:“Violet!Lookwhatyoudid!”
Asthosewordswerecomingoutofmymouth,asIwasclutchingmyburningskinwithbothhands,Sam’sstrollerrolledontotheroad.
Iwillneverforgetthelookinhereyes—Icouldn’tlookawayfromthem.ButIknewwhathappenedassoonasIheardit.
Thestrollerwastwistedbytheimpact.
Samwasstillstrappedintotheseatwhenhedied.
Therewasnotimeforhimtothinkofme,ortowonderwhereIwas.
IthoughtrightawayofthenavystripedjumperI’ddressedhiminthatmorning.ThatBennywasinthestrollertoo.ThatIwouldhavetotakeBennyhomewithouthim.AndthenIwonderedhowIwouldgetBennyoutofthemess,outofthatstroller,becauseSamwouldneedhimthatnighttofallasleep.
Istaredindisbeliefatthecurbinthemiddleofthechaosaroundme—theslightslopeofcementandthenagroovewherethesidewalkmettheasphalt—howhaditnotstoppedhim?Theicehadmeltedinthewarmthofthedaybefore.Thesidewalkwasdry.Whyhadn’tthewheelsslowedwhentheyhitthegroove?Iusuallyhadtoshoveitoverthecurbwhenwecrossed,didn’tI?Didn’tIusuallyhavetoshoveit?
Icouldn’tbreathe.IstaredatViolet.IhadseenherpinkmittensreachforthestrollerwhenIletgo.Ihadseenhermittensonthehandlebeforethestrollerhittheroad.Iclosedmyeyes.Pinkwool,blackrubberhandle.Ishookmyheadvigorouslyatthethought.
Ihavenomemoryofwhathappenednextorhowwegottothehospital.Idon’trememberseeinghimortouchinghim.IhopeIpulledhimoutofhisstrapsandheldhimonthecoldasphalt.IhopeIkissedhimoverandover.
ButIthinkmaybeIjuststoodthere.Onthatcurb,staringatthegroove.
AmotherwasdrivingtheSUVwithhertwokidsintheback,thesameageasours.Shewentstraightthroughthegreenlight,asshehadeveryrightto,asshe’dprobablydonethreethousandtimesbefore.Thetwocarscomingtheotherwayslammedontheirbrakeswhentheysawthestroller,butshedidn’thavetime.Shedidn’tevenbrake.I’vealwayswonderedwhatthoughtshadbeenoccupyinghermindwhenithappened.Ifshewassingingsongswithherkidsoransweringtheirtrailofquestions.Maybelookingintherear-viewmirror,smilingatherbaby.Maybeshewasdaydreaming,thinkingabouthowmuchshe’dratherbeanywhereelsebutinthatcar,listeningtoherkidsscream.
*
Iwishithurtmore.IwishIcouldstillfeelitlikeithappenedtoday.SometimesIhavemomentswhenthepainisgoneandIthink,myGod,I’mdeadinside.I’vediedwithhim.Iusedtospendeveryminuteofeverydaystaringathisthings,willingthepaintofloodback.Isobbedbecauseitdidn’thurtenough.AndthendayslaterthepainwouldswellagainandtheworldwouldbecomealittlemorealiveagaininwaysIloathed.Iwouldsmellbananabreadfromthehousenextdooranditwouldparalyzeme—thatIcouldsmell,thatmyglandswouldsalivate,thatsomeoneontheothersideofthewallwashavingthesortofmorningthatallowedhertobakebananabreadforherchildren.Ihadbeennumb—thecruellackofpainhadbeennumbness.Lateron,Iwouldprayforthenumbnesstoreturn.EventhoughIfoundsatisfactioninthepain,IknewIwouldn’tsurviveit.
Whenyoumetusatthehospital,youpulledVioletincloseandheldherheadtoyourchest.Andthenyoulookedupatme,andyouopenedyourmouthtospeak,butnothingcameout.Westaredateachotherandthenwecried.Violetwiggledfreeofyourarmsandthenyoucametome.Ifoldeddowntothegroundandleanedintoyourlegs.
Violetwatchedusquietly.Shecameoverandputherhandonmyhead.
“Sammy’sstrollerslippedoutofMom’shandsandgothitbyacar.”
“Iknow,sweetheart.Iknow.”
Icouldn’tlookateitherofyou.
Thepolicecamebackandwantedtotalktoyou,toexplaineverythingthey’dalreadyexplainedtome.Thatthedriverwouldn’tbecharged,thatwe’dneedtomakesomedecisionsaboutourbaby’sbody.Andhisorgans.Theythoughtthreeofthemwouldbeviablefortransplantsinotherbabies,formotherswhohaddoneabetterjobatkeepingtheirchildrenalivethanIhad.Anursegavemeapilltocalmdown.
ItookVioletdownthehalltothewatercooler.Assheoverflowedthecone-cupIthrewupinagarbagepailfullofdiscardedlatexglovesandmedicalpackaging.Ilistenedtoyousobdownthehall,throughtheheavyglassdoorthatseparatedusfromtherestofthewaitingarea.Violetwatchedmeandshiftedherweightbetweenherfeet.Iknewshedesperatelyneededtopee,butIwantedtoletherwetherself.Iwatchedthedenimturnfromlighttodarkasthewetnessspread.Ididn’tsayathingandneitherdidshe.
IspoketothepolicelikeIwasorderingaburgeratadrive-throughwindow:Mydaughteryankedmyarm.Iwasburnedbythehottea.Iletgoofthestroller.Andthenshepusheditontotheroad.
Anythingelsema’am?
No,that’sall.
Ididn’thavethewherewithaltoprotectherwithalie.They’daskedmetorepeatmyselfafewtimes,probablylookingforsignsofshock,inconsistencies.Maybetheyfoundsome.Idon’tknow.Idon’tknowwhattheytoldyouwhenIwasgone.ButwhenIgotback,theofficercroucheddownandputhishandonViolet’slittleshoulder,andsaidtoher,“Accidentshappen,okay,Violet?Accidentshappenandit’snobody’sfault.Momdidnothingwrong.”
“Listentohim,Blythe.Youdidnothingwrong,”yourepeatedthistome,andheldme.
“Ithinkshepushedhim,”Isaidtoyouquietlyasyoudabbedointmentonmyburnedskin.Icouldn’tfeelathing.“Ithinkshepushedhimintotheroad.Itoldthepolice.”
“Shhh.”LikeIwasababy.“Don’tsaythat.Okay?Don’tsaythat.”
“Isawherpinkmittensonthehandleofthestroller.”
“Blythe.Don’tdothis.Itwasanaccident.Aterribleaccident.”
“Itmusthavebeenpushed.Itwouldn’thaverolledoverthatgroove.”
Youlookedatthepoliceofficerandshookyourhead,wipingthetearsfromyourface.Youclearedyourthroat.Theofficer’spale,chappedlipspuckered.Henoddedtowardsyou,anacknowledgementofsomesort.Theirrationalmother.Theincapablewoman.Look—Ihavetoputherointmenton.Ihavetoshushher.
VioletpretendednottohearwhatI’dsaid.ShescribbledonawhiteboardnexttoadiagramoforgansthatsomeonehaddrawnwhenIwasn’tthere,maybeformyhusbandtounderstandwhatpartsofmysontheywanted.ThediagramlookedlikeamapoftheGreatLakes.Thepoliceofficersaidhe’dgiveustimeintheroombyourselves.
Yourepeateditagaintomeslowlyonceheleft,yourvoicecracking:“Blythe,itwasanaccident.Justaterribleaccident.”
Iwasinthisalone.
Onourwaytotheparktheweekendbefore,Violethadaskedmeaquestionatthatverysamecorner.
“Dothecarsonlystopwhenthelightisred?”
“Youknowthat,you’resixnow!Youknowgreenmeansgo,andredmeansstop.That’swhyit’sdangeroustocrosstheroadunlessthecarsarestoppedattheredlight.”Shehadnodded.
Ithoughtabouthowmuchshewaslearning,abouthowmuchshewasfiguringoutabouttheworld.Iwonderedifweshouldstartteachingheraboutmaps.Wecouldwalktheneighborhoodandlookforstreetnamesanddirections.Howfunthatmightbeforustodotogether.
AsIsatinthefamilyroomoftheemergencydepartment,Ithoughtaboutthatquestionoverandover.
YoutookViolethome,butIcouldn’tleave.Myson’sbodywasstillinthatbuilding.
Underasheet?Inthebasement?Ononeofthosetraysthatslideintothewalllikeanovenrack?Wasmybabyonanovenrack,andwashecold?Ididn’tknowwheretheyputhim,butweweren’tallowedtoseehim.Bennywasinaplasticbagonmylap,hiswhitetailstained.
45.
IthrewupeverythingIateforelevendays.Icriedinmydreams,andthenIwokeupandIcriedinthedark.Mybodyshookforhoursatatime.
ThedoctorcameinhisstreetclothesonaSaturdaymorning,someonewhosehouseyouhaddesignedwhohadofferedyouthefavor.HesaidImusthavehadastomachbug,thatitwasn’tjustgrief,thatsometimestheimmunesystemcanbecompromisedwhendealingwithsomethinglikethis.Youagreedandthankedhimwithabottleofwineonhiswayoutthedoor,andIdidn’tcareenoughtotellyoubothtofuckoff.
Yourmothercametostaywithus.Shebroughtmeteaandtissuesandsleepingpillsandcoldclothstopressonmyface.IsaidwhatIneededtosothatshe’dleavetheroom.I’llbefine,Ipromise.Ijustneedsometimetomyself.Shetriedherbest,butherpresencetookupspaceinmybrain,distractedmefromtheonlythingIwantedtobethinkingabout.Him.Angermadeithardtobreathe.Sadnessmadeithardtoopenmyeyes,toletthelightintome.Ibelongedinthedark,Iwasowedthedark.
YourmothertookViolettoahotelforafewdays,thinkingthechangeofscenerywouldhelp.Ihadn’tseenVioletsincethehospital.Themorningyouwenttopickherup,Isatunderthewindowinourbedroomwithabladefromthemodelingkityouleftonyourdesk.IliftedmyshirtandIcutafaintlineinmyskinfrommyribsdowntomywaist.IyelledforSamuntilmyvoicewasraw.Thebloodformedaperforatedline,andtastedrancid,likeI’dbeenrottinginsidesincetheminutehedied.Icouldn’tstopputtingitonmytongue.Ismearedthebloodallovermystomachandmybreastsandwantedmore.IwantedtofeellikeIwasmurdered,likesomeonehadtakenmylifeandleftmetodie.
WhenIheardViolet’svoicedownstairs,Ihadtoholdmyhandstightlytogethertostopthemfromshaking.IlockedthebedroomdoorandthenIshoweredandcleanedupthebloodonthefloorwithashirtthatIhadboughttheweekbefore,oneI’dtakenSamoutintheslushyfrozenraintobuy,becauseitfeltlikeIhadnothingtowearanymore.Whenthatkindofthinghadfeltlikeaproblem.Iforgothissnacks.Ihadhushedhishungerimpatientlyinthelongline-upandhadmadehimlateforhisnap.
“Mommy’supstairs,”Iheardyoutellher.YousorarelycalledmeMommyandneitherdidshe.
Youwerewearingblacksweatpantsandaredflannelshirt.Youdidn’tchangeyourclothesforweeksafterhedied.Thatwastheonlythingaboutyouthatlookedanydifferentthanbefore,althoughIknowyouwerehurtingimmensely.IlistenedtoyouwalkbetweenthedenandourbedroomandViolet’sroomandthekitchen.Youneverwentintohisroom.Alooparoundourhouse,makingthesamecreaksinthefloorsandthesamenoises:thetoiletflushing,thehallwaywindowopening,thefridgedoorshutting.Maybeyouwerewaiting,respectfully,forsomeonetotellyouthatlifecouldgoonagain,thatyoucouldsetyouralarmforthejobyouloved,andgotopick-upbasketballonTuesdays,andlaughwithVioletasloudlyasyouhadbefore.Ormaybeyouneverexpectedtofindthesejoysinlifeagain.
Doyouknowyouspoketomejustfourtimes?Fourtimesinalmosttwoweeks.Therewastoomuchpaintobearinthesightofeachother.
Yousaidyoudidn’twantafuneral.Sowedidn’thaveone.
YouwantedtoknowwhereViolet’sthermoswaskept.
Youtoldmeyoumissedhim,andthenyoulaiddownnexttomeonthebed,nakedandwetfromtheshower,andyoucriedfornearlyanhour.Iliftedtheblanketup,theonlyinvitationI’dgivenyousincehedied,andyourolledinclose.Iheldyourheadtomychestandrealizedthattherewouldnotbespaceforyouinme,notthatday,andmaybenotever.(Thiswasthelasttimeyouwouldeversaythosewordstome—Imisshim—ofyourownvolition.“OfcourseImisshim,”youwouldrecitebackatmeforyearsafterthat,wheneverIworkedupthecouragetoask.)
YouaskedifIwouldmakedinnerforVioletthenightshecameback,becauseyouwouldbegoingout,youwouldbeleavingthehouseatfiveo’clock.Itoldyouno,Icouldn’t,andyoulefttheroom.Ihatedyoufortryingtobenormal.Forleavingmetherewithher,alone,withinthewallsofSam’shome.
Violetnevercameup.Ineverwentdown.
WhenIwokeupthenextdayandsawthatyouhadtakenthepaintingfromhisnurseryandleaneditagainstthewallneartheendofourbed,Ibecameweightlessforamoment.Thepainstoppedthumpinginmybones.Ihadstaredatthatmotherholdingherchildfornearlyayear,whileIrockedandfedandburpedandwhisperedlullabiesinhistinyear.IrealizedwhenIsawthepaintingthatIwouldlive,andIdon’tknowwhy.IknewIwouldcrawloutofthisplacethatcrushedeveryounceofme.AndIhatedyouforit.Ididn’teverwanttofeelnormalagain.
IwalkedtoViolet’sroominmyunderwear,mylegsasheavyasthey’deverbeen.Iopenedherdoorandthereshewas,stirringunderhersheets.Hereyesflutteredandthensquintedatthelightfromthehallway.
“Getup.”
Ipouredhercerealandlookedaroundthekitchen.Someonehadtakenawayhishighchair,hisbottles,hisbluesiliconspoon,thecrackershelikedtosuckon.Violet’sfeetscamperedontheflooraboveintoourbathroomwhereyouwereshaving.
Idon’tknowwhyyouputthepaintingthere.Weneverspokeofit.It’sinourbedroomnow,herewithme,inthisemptyhouse.Ibarelynoticeitsdetailsanymore,likethefinishonthefaucetsorthebackwardswaythelaundrydooropens.Buteveryonceinawhile,thatwoman,thatmother,looksatme.Thesunhitsherinthemorningandbrightensthecolorsonherdressforhours.
46.
SomedayswhenIcouldn’tbeathomeanylonger,Iwouldridethesubwayfromoneendofthelinetotheother.Ilikedthedarknessoutsideofthesubwaycarwindows,andIlikedthatnobodyspoketoeachother.Themotionofthetrainwassoothing.
Isawaposterstapledtoaboardintheplatformandtookapictureofitwithmyphone.
Twodayslater,theaddresstookmetothebasementofachurch.TheroomwascoldandIdidn’ttakemyjacketoff,althougheveryoneelse’scoatswerestuffedonwirehangersontherollingrackinthecorner.Ineededanextralayerbetweenmeandthedampchillthatcamethroughthewhitecementwalls.Anextralayerbetweenmeandthem.Themothers.Therewereelevenofthem.Thereweregingersnapcookiesandapotofcoffee,andcreamersplacedinabasketthatwaslinedwithaChristmasnapkineventhoughitwasMarch.Therewereorangeplasticchairs,thekindtheyusedtosetupforassembliesinmyhighschoolauditorium.SomethingprofanewascarvedintotheseatwhereIsat.Herewewere,assembled,meandthemothers.
Thegroupleader,animpossiblyskinnywomanwithgoldbanglesupherarms,askedustointroduceourselves.Ginawasfiftyandasinglemotherofthree,andheroldestsonhadmurderedsomeoneinanightclubtwomonthsago.Withagun.Hewasawaitingtrial,buthewouldpleadguilty.Shecriedasshespokeandherskinwassodrythatthetearsmadedark,definedriversonherface.Lisa,whosatbesideher,hadpattedthewoman’shandeventhoughtheydidnotknoweachother.Lisawasaveteranofthegroup.Herdaughterwasservingafifteen-yearprisonsentencefortheattemptedmurderofhergirlfriendandwasbarelytwoyearsintohertime.Shehadbeenastay-at-homemotherfromthetimeLisawasborn.Hervoicewassoft,andshepausedbeforethelastwordofhersentences.Shehadplum-coloredhammocksunderhereyes.
Iwasnext.ThefluorescentlightsflickeredjustbeforeIspokeandIwonderedifImightbesavedbyapoweroutage.ItoldthemmynamewasMaureenandthatIhadadaughterwhowasinjailfortheft.Theftwastheleast-badthingIcouldthinkof.Theftseemedlikejustonebadmistake,likeeveryonehaddoneitbutnoteveryonehadbeencaught.LikeIcouldstillbethemotherofapersonwhowasgood,andloveable.
Idon’trememberallofthedetailsnowofwhateveryoneelsesaid,butIremembertherewasarape,andafewpossessioncharges,andsomeone’ssonhadkilledhiswifewithasnowshovel.ShesaiditwastheSterlingHockmurder,likeweallshouldhavereadaboutitinthenewspaper,butIhadneverheardaboutitbefore.Thegroupleaderremindedusthatweshouldn’tuselastnamesordetails.Weweretobeanonymous.
Isearchedeachoftheirfacesforsomethingfamiliartome.
“IfeellikeI’mtheonewhocommittedthecrime,”oneofthemotherssaid.“Theguardstreatmethatwayatthefacility.Thelawyerstreatmethatway.EveryonelooksatmelikeI’mtheonewhodidsomethingwrong.ButIdidn’t.”Shepaused.“Wedidn’tdoanythingwrong.”
“Didn’twe?”Onemotherspokeupafterthinkingforamoment.Somepeopleshruggedandsomepeoplenoddedandsomesatperfectlystill.Thegroupleaderlookedasthoughshewassilentlycountingtoten,atacticshemighthavelearnedinhersocialworkprogram,andthensheremindedustherewerecookiesforthebreak.
“Yougonnacomebacknextweek?”LisawiththeeyehammockspassedmeanapkinforthecoffeethatdrippedonmyhandwhileIfilledthesmallStyrofoamcup.
“Idon’tknowyet.”Myforeheadwasbeadedwithsweat.Icouldn’tbeintheroomanymorewiththesewomen.I’dwantedtoseeothermotherslikeme,motherswhosechildrenwhohaddonesomethingasevilasmine,butthebasementwallswerebeginningtofeelliketheywereclosinginonme.IfeltinmypursefortheprescriptionIstillhadn’tfilled.InsteadIfeltthesoftnessofhisdiaper.Ihadalwayscarriedoneinmypurse.
“Thisismysecondgroup.TheotheronehappensMondays,butIusuallyworkMondaynights,soIcan’tgounlesssomeoneswitchestheirshiftwithme.”
Inoddedanddrankthelukewarmcoffee.
“Yourdaughter,isshewithindrivingdistance?”
“Yeah.”Ilookedaroundfortheexitsign.
“Metoo.Makesitaloteasier,doesn’tit?Yougooften?”
“Sorry—therestroom?”
ShepointedmetowardsthestairsandIthankedher,desperatetoleavethebasement.
We’renotthatbad,”shesaid.Istoppedinthedoorway.“You’llfindoutforyourself,ifyoudecidetocomebackfromthebathroom.”
“Didyoualwaysknow?”Thewordsfeltliketeethyankedfrommyjaw.ButIhadtoask.
“Knowwhat?”
“Didyoualwaysknowsomethingwaswrongwithher?Whenshewasyoung?”
ThewomanraisedhereyebrowsatmeandIthinksheknewthenthatI’dliedtothem.
“Mydaughtermadeamistake.Younevermadeamistakebefore,Maureen?Comeonnow,we’reallhuman.”
47.
Thiscitywassuffocating.Iwantedtogo.Todrive.Twenty-twoweekshadpassed,andIstillhadahardtimewalkingthestreets.Istillhadahardtimethinking.Iwantedthetwoofustogetinourcar,andmilebyslowmile,leavethisplacebehindforawhile.Thesea.Thedesert.Anywhere,Ihadsaid,let’sjustgo.Youwouldn’tleavetown.Yousaiditdidn’tfeelright,notwithoutViolet,andthefamiliarroutineofschoolwaswhatsheneededrightnow.
Ihadn’tlookedherintheeyessincehedied.Irelapsedbacktospendingmydaysinbed.WhenIwasn’tthere,I’dbestandinginthekitchen,staringatthedishesinthesink,unabletorinsethem.Unabletodoanythingatall.
Therewereremindersofhimeverywhere.Butmostofalltheylivedinher.Thetinygapbetweenhertwofrontteeth.Thesmellofherbedsheetsinthemorning.Thestripedpajamassheinsistedonwearing,theonesthatmatchedthejumperhediedin.Thewalktoschool.Bathwater.
Thosehands.
Icravedfindinghiminher,aspainfulasitwas.AndIhatedherforit.
Nobodyevertalkedabouthim.Notourfriends.Nottheneighbors.Notyourparentsoryoursister.They’daskhowweweredoing,andtheireyesachedwithsympathy,buttheyneverspokehisname.It’sallIeverwantedthemtodo.
“Sam.”SometimesIwouldsayitoutloudwhenIwasaloneinthehouse.“Sam.”
Caroline,themotheroftheboywhodiedintheplaygroundtwoyearsbefore,sentmeanemailafewmonthsafterSamdied.MyheartracedwhenIsawhername.
I’vebeenprayingthatyou,likeme,somehowfindawaytomoveon.Idon’tknowhow,butIeventuallyfoundasenseofpeace,eveninthegrief.
Thepeaceshewroteaboutdidnotapplytome.Ideletedheremail.
“Maybeyoushouldgoaway.Justyou.”Youspokefromthebathroomdoorway.Isunkdeeperintothetubwatersothatmyearswerecovered.
LaterthatnightIaskedyouwhatyouhadmeant.Gowhere?Go.Youwantedmegone.
“Thereareplacesthatcanhelpyou.Withyourgrief.Counsellingretreats.”
“Likerehab?”Iscowled.
“Likeatreatmentcenter.Ifoundoneoutinthecountry.It’sonlyafewhoursaway.”Youhandedmeasheetprintedonheavy-stockpaperfromyouroffice.“They’vegotspacerightnow.Icalled.”
“Whydoyouwantmetogo?”
Yousatontheendofourbedandputyourheadinyourhands.Thebackofyourribsshookandthetearsspilledontoyourpants,slowlyandevenly,likethedripfromourkitchentap.Therewasaconfessionbrewinginyou,somethingheavythatyankedatyourgut,somethingthathadn’tyetbeensaidaloud.Don’tdoit,Ibeggedyousilently.Pleasedon’tdoit.Idon’twanttoknow.
YourubbedyourchinandstaredatthepaintingfromSam’snurserythatleanedagainstthewall.
“I’llgo.”
48.
Thereweresoundbaths,energyhealingcircles,lessonsabouthoneybees,andsilkhammocksthathungfromwoodbeamsintherefurbishedbarn.Myroomhadessentialoilslineduponthebathroomcounterandapocket-guidetonaturalhealinginthebedsidedrawer.Therapywasatnineinthemorningandthreeintheafternoon.Individualfirst,groupsecond.TheyhandedmethewaiverwhenIchecked-inatthefrontdesk.Itickedofftheboxthatsaid:Imindfullydeclinetoparticipateinthetherapysessionsthatareincludedinmyweeklyrate.Ididn’twanttohavetosayourdaughter’snameoutloudwhileIwasthere.Ihadlefttogetawayfromher.Iwasnotinterestedintalkingabouther,oryou,orhowfuckedupmyownmotherwas.Ihadadeadchild.Ijustwantedtobeleftalone.
Ourdinnerwasservedatfivesharpinthediningroom.ThesolotableswerealltakensoIsatonthebenchofthelongfarmtableandlookedaroundataseaofrichpeople.Mysweatsuitdidn’tseemuptosnuff.Izippedmyhoodietomychinandreachedfortheblackbeans.
“Justarrive?”Inearlydroppedthespoonandturnedtomyleft—hervoicesoundedjustlikemymother’s.Thewomanleanedovertolookintomybowlandsaidshedidn’tfeelIwaseatingtherightfoodsformyenergyfield.Bytheendofthenight,weweresharingablanketbythefirepitanddrinkinggingerteaasIlistenedtohertalk.IriswasthemostintensewomanIhadevermet.ButIlikedherimmediately.
Sheinvitedmetojoinheronawalkeachmorning,timedpreciselysowe’dcrossoverthefieldwhenthesuncameup.Shearrivedatmycabinporchwithazirconcrystalinherhandthatsheinsistedshecouldn’tstartherdaywithout.Wewalkedacrossthemeadowthatseparatedtheguestcottagesfromthemainbuilding,andthendowntoacreekthatlinedthenorthoftheproperty,andthenuparoundthelavenderfieldsthroughamarkedtrail.We’dgoforanhourandahalfeachtimeandIwasalwaysastepbehindher.Irisspokeoverhershoulderinaconstantstreamofconsciousness,withsuchparticularemphasisonherwordsthatitalmostsoundedasthoughshehadrehearsedeverysentence.Shehadalong,sharpnose.Herevensharperblackbobbarelymovedwhileshewalkedbriskly,andherhairnevercurledinthedampairlikemine.
Shemostlytalkedaboutherownlife,hercancer,themiraclesshe’dwitnessedasadoctorandthelossesshe’dsuffered.Irishadbeenmarriedtoasurgeonwhohadafatalheartattackwhilehewasoperating.Shespokeabouttheincidentasthoughtheworstpartofthewholethingwasthathecouldn’tfinishtheprocedure.Whenshewasdonetellingmeaboutwhateveritwassheintendedtosharethatday—therealwaysseemedtobeanintention,likeshewasloggingalessonbook—shewouldstopandstretchhercalvesandtellmetowalkaheadofherfortherestoftheway.
ThisiswhenherquestionsaboutSamwouldbegin.QuestionsthatmademefeellikeIwasunderalamponheroperatingtable,beingrippedopenatmyribcage.Crackbycrack.
IhadtoldheraboutSamwhenwefirstmetatdinnerbecauseshe’dsopointedlyaskedme:“Howmanychildrendoyouhave,andaretheyallstillliving?”
Ihadansweredhercalmly.Ihadonechild.Andhewasdead.Irisofferedlittlesympathy.Shespokeflatly.ShetoldmeIneededtofindanewwayoflivingintheworldnow.IhatedherandIlovedher.
Igotoutofbedatfiveo’clockeverymorning.IbrushedmyteethandsteppedoutintothefreshdewygrasstotalkwiththiswomanIdidnotknow.WhenIspoketoIrisaboutSam,mylegsachedandmychestfeltheavyenoughtopullmetotheground.I’darrivebackatmycabinattheendofthewalk,feetwetandleggingsdamp,andI’dstepunderthesteaminghotoutdoorshowerandforgeteverylastthingIhadsaidthatmorning,everylastquestionIrishadaskedme.Whatdoyouthinkhe’dbelikenowifhehe’dlived?Whatwasyourfavoritethingabouthim?Whatdidhefeelliketohold?Howwashebornintotheworld?Whatwastheweatherlikeonthedayhedied?Iscrubbeditallaway,likeanaffairwithanotherman,likeillicitsexthatnobodycouldeverknowabout.
ThedaybeforeIwastoleave,twoweeksafteryoudroppedmeoff,thegroundskeepersfoundmeintheice-coldstreamontheproperty.Iwasnakedandfrantic,flailinglikeananimalbeingeatenalive.
Letmetouchhim.I’mhismother.Ineedhim.Ineedtotakehimhome.
Myvoicewasgoneforhours.
Icouldn’tstandupwhentheypulledmeout.Theresidentmediccameandwent.Peoplewhisperedandheldtheirhandsgentlytotheirclaviclesastheywatchedmegainmyfootingandpullonapairofsweatpantsfromthegiftshopwiththelogooftheresortembroideredonthehip.Idroppedtheblanketfrommyshouldersandletmyshriveledbreastsstarebackatthesmallcrowdaroundme.Iwasfarbeyondtheplacewhereshamecouldexist.
Irisbroughtteatomycabin,butIdidn’topenthedoorwhensheknockedorwhensheapologizedloudlythroughthecedarplankstosayshehadmisjudgedhowfragileIwas.Fragile.Iwrotethewordwithmyfingertipontheothersideofthedoor.
Atherapistwhospecializedingrief,theoneIsomindfullydeclined,requestedshedoaformalassessmentwithme,thatIthinkaboutstayinglonger.ShesuggestedImightnotbesafeonmyown.Shesuggestedshecallyou.
“No,thankyou,”Isaidandthatwasall.Therewasn’tmuchmoretosay.
Thenextmorning,Isatontheporchofmycabinwithmysuitcaseandwaitedforyou.Istaredatthetreesacrossthelot,eachsweptorderlytothewest.
“So?”Youkeptyoureyesonthehighway.Iputmyhandontopofyours,ontopofthegearshift.Youmovedfromfifthgeartosixth.IknewwhatIhadtosaynext.
“Howisshe?How’sViolet?”
49.
“We’llbefine.Go.Havefun.”Iflippedthepuzzlepiecesright-sideuponthefloorandforcedmyselftolookatViolet.Shedidn’tlifthereyes.Youhadaworkthing.Theyweremorefrequentthantheyusedtobe,itseemed,andyoulookeddifferentwhenyouleftthehousenow.Layeredyourclothing,beltedyourjeans.YoulookedhandsomeandItoldyousoearlierinourbedroom.
“Sameoldguyyoumarried,”you’dsaid.
Icouldn’thavesaidthesameofmyself,andwebothknewthis,oureyesmeetinginthefull-lengthmirrorbehindthedoor.
Thesolarsystempuzzlehadonethousandpiecesandhadn’tbeeninourhousebeforeIleft.YourparentshadstayedwithyouandVioletwhileIwasgone.YourmotherandIhadn’tspokenaboutmuchsinceSamdied,althoughshehadcalledeverytwodaysformonthstosayaquickhello,tooffertocomestay,tosayshewasthinkingofme.Shewastrying,butshedidn’tknowhowtobearoundme,andIdidn’tknowhowtobearoundanyone.They’dbeengonebeforeIarrivedhomefromtheretreat,althoughthecookiesshemadewerestillwarmonthecounter.ThebabysitterwastherewhenIcamethroughthedoor—Ihadn’tseenhersinceSamdied.Hereyeswereswollenandred.WehuggedandIthoughtofthesugarysmellshehadleftonhimwheneverItookhimfromherarms.
Threedays.That’showlongittookforViolettospeaktomeafterIwalkedbackintoourhome.Samhadbeendeadfornearlysixmonthsbythen.ShestartedatNeptuneandIworkedonJupiter.Eventuallywemetsomewherenearthesun.
“Whydidyouleave?”
“Ineededtofeelbetter.”
Ipassedherthepieceshewaslookingfor.
“ImissedyouwhileIwasgone,”Isaid.
Shepunchedinthepieceandlookedupatme.Peoplealwaystoldmeshelookedolderthanherage,andIdidn’tseeituntilthen.Thecolorinhereyeslookeddarkertome.EverywhereIlookedinthehouse,everythingwasdifferent.Everythinghadchanged.Ilookedawayfromherfirst.Bilefilledthespaceundermytongue.Shewatchedmeswallow.Andswallowagain.Iexcusedmyselftothewashroom.
ThepuzzlewasputawaywhenIcameback.Ifoundherinherbedroomreadingabook.Shehadnodoubtheardmeretchingintothetoilet.
“Doyouwantmetoreadthattoyou?”
Sheshookherhead.
“Mystomach’sabitupset.Fromdinner.Youfeelokay?”
Shenodded.Isatattheendofthebed.
“Doyouwanttotalkaboutanything?”
“Iwantyoutoleaveagain.”
“Yourroom?”
“Leaveus.MeandDad.”
“Violet.”
Sheturnedthepage.
Myeyeswelled.Ihatedher.Iwantedhimbacksobadly.
50.
Aftermymotherleftus,myfathercontinuedlikenothinghadhappened.Logisticallythiswasn’tdifficult—she’dbecomelessandlessapartofourroutineastheyearshadpassed,acasualobserverofus,likeshewaswatchingamovieshemightturnoffbeforetheending.
Theonlythingthatchangedwasthathemovedmytoothbrushandmyhairbrushtothetopdrawerinthebathroom,whichwasstainedwithyearsofmake-upandtackyhairproductthathadleakedfromheraerosolcans.ThatInolongerkeptmythingsunderthesinkmademefeellikeIhadnewresponsibilitiesnow,althoughIdidn’tknowwhattheywere.
MyfatherbegantohavefriendsovertoplaypokeronFridaynights.IwouldgotoMrs.Ellington’sandstaytherewithThomas,watchingmoviesandeatingpopcorn,untilsheturnedoffthetelevisionandofferedtowalkmehomewhereI’dgostraighttobed.ButonenightIlingeredinthedarkhallwayoutsideofthekitchenandlistened.Thehousesmelledofmuskycologneandbeer.
Ididn’tmindthosenights,thehousefullofmenandtheirsmells—itwasoneoftheonlytimesmyfatherseemedlikearealperson.Mydaddidn’tdrinkmuchthenbeyondhisoneglassofwhiskeyafterashift,buttheothersdid.Theywereswearingateachotheroverslurredwordsandthensomeonebangedonthetable.Iheardawaterfallofpokerchipshitthefloor.
“You’reacheater,”mydadhadsaidinawayI’dneverheardhimspeakbefore,likeitwashardforhimtobreathebetweenthosethreewords.Andthensomeonesaid,“Yourwifewasthecheater,youweakpieceofshit.Nowondersheleftyou.”
WhenIliftedmyeyesfromthehallwayfloor,Isawmydadstaringatme,shakingwithrageinthedoorwaytothekitchen.MylegshadbeentoonumbtomovewhenIheardhisfootstepscoming.Heyelledatmetogotomyroom.Someoneslammedabottleonthetable.Someonesaid,“Sorry,Seb,thingsgotoutofhand.He’shadtoomuchtodrink.”
InthemorningmydadsaidhewassorryIhadtohearthat,andIhadshruggedandsaid,“Hearwhat?”
“Blythe,peoplemightthinkbadthingsaboutyouthataren’ttrue.Theonlythingthatmattersiswhatyoubelieveaboutyourself.”
IdrankmyorangejuiceandhedrankhiscoffeeandIthought,myfatherisbetterthanthosemen.Butsomethinghadbeensaidthatnightthatranginmyears—weak.Youweakpieceofshit.Ithoughtofallthetimesheneverstoodupforhimself,neveraskedhertostayhomefromthecity.Ithoughtofthewetdishclothhangingfromthesideofhishead.Ithoughtofthemanwho’dcalled,oftheclumpsoffleshybloodinthetoilet.Ofthepillshenevertookaway,ofthesmasheddisheshealwayscleanedup.Ofhisquietretreatstothecouch.Ihatedthatmymotherhadlefthim,butIwonderedifheeverreallytriedtostopher.
51.
IstartedwritingagainbythrowingouteverywordI’dwrittenbeforeSamdied.Mybrainhadchanged,asthoughitwasonadifferentfrequencythanbefore.Before.After.Afterfeltcurt,mysentencesabruptandsharp,likeeveryparagraphcouldhurtsomeone.Therewassomuchangeronthepage,butIdidn’tknowwhatelsetodowithit.IwroteaboutthingsIknewnothingabout.War.Pioneering.Amechanicshop.IsentthefirstshortstoryIfinishedtoaliterarymagazinethathadpublishedmebeforeIhadchildren.Theirreplywasasbrusqueasmysubmissionletter,anditfeltgratifying,thesamewaysmearingbloodacrossmystomachhadfelttheweekafterSamdied.Fuckyou.Ididn’twritethisforyouanyway.NoneofitmadeanysensebutitfilledthehoursIhadtogetthrough.
Istartedgoingtoacoffeeshopashortwalkawaywheretheydidn’tplaymusicandthemugswerelikebowls.Ilikedthatplace.Youdidn’t.SoIkeptitasmyown,forwriting.TherewasamanIsawoftenthere,ayoungman,maybefiveyearsyoungerthanIwas.Hewouldworkonhislaptop,nevergotrefills.Webothlikedtositneartheback,awayfromthedraughtofthedoor.Ilikethewayhehunghisjacketonhischair,sothatthethickliningofthehoodcreatedacomfortableplaceforhisbacktoreston,andIstartedhangingmycoatthesameway.
Onedayhebroughttwoolderpeoplewithhim,oneofthemwithhisverylargenoseandtheotheronehisverydarkeyes.Heinvitedthemtositdownandbroughtthemcoffeesfromthecounterandacroissanttoshare.Heplacedtwonapkinsgentlyonthetable,oneinfrontofeachofthem,likehewasservinglong-standingcustomersatafine-diningestablishment.
Hehadboughthisfirsthouse!Thisnewsthrilledme.Ilistenedasheexplainedeachofthelistingphotosonhisphone.Thekitchenentranceisthere,andthisleadstothepowderroom,andoh,thiswillbethebaby’sroom.Hewouldbehavingababy!LikemySam.Iwantedhimtolookatme,sothatIcouldsmile,soIcouldacknowledgethatIcaredabouthisfuture,thatIhadworriedaboutwhetherthisniceyoungmanhadsomeoneinhislifewholovedhim.
Theytalkedaboutpropertytaxesandaroofreplacementandhowlonghisnewcommutewouldbe.Andthenthemotheraskedaboutherson’splansforwhenthebabywasborninjustamonth’stime.
“Icancomebacktothecityfortheweektohelp,howeveryouneed.Dishes,laundry.It’snoproblemforme,I’vegotthetime.Icanbringthecotfromthespareroomatourhouse.”Hervoicewassohopeful,andIknewbeforethesonrepliedthatitwouldbeoneofthehardestthingssheeverhadtohear.HeexplainedthatSara’smotherwouldcomeinstead.ThatitwouldjustbebetterforSarathatway.Thatshecouldvisitafterwards,oncetheyweresettled,oncethey’dhadsometimetogether,justthethreeofthem.AndSara’smom.Hewouldletherknowwhenshecouldcome.Maybeafewweekslater,orso.They’dhavetoseehowthingswent.
Themother’sheadmovedslowlyforwardandthenbackandshemusteredthewords,“Ofcourse,honey,”andsheputherhandonhisforthemostfleetingmomentbeforeshetuckeditbackbeneathherthighsunderthetable.
Amother’sheartbreaksamillionwaysinherlifetime.
Ileftthen—Ididn’twanttoeavesdropanymore.Iwalkedthelongwayhome.
52.
Therewasamomentinthecaronourwayhomefromsomewhere—Ican’tremember.Weturnedtolookateachotherinthefrontseat,mufflinglaughsandlockingeyes,thesamereflexweusedtosharewhenVioletsaidsomethingfunny.Thatwasallthatmattered—thatwesharedthisintimateknowingofeachother.Thatwe’dcreatedhertogetherandnowhereshewas,sayingtheseimpossiblygrown-upthingsshe’dlearnedfromusinhertwiggy,seven-year-oldvoice.HowhadIbeenabletofindthatmomentofperfectlytypicaljoywithyou?Withher?NotadaywentbythatIdidn’treplaywhathadhappenedatthatintersection.
Butlifewasmovingon,IrealizedasIlookedawayfromyou,whetherIwantedittoornot.Weweretogether,thethreeofus,inthecarwithouthim,lookingateachotherlikewehadbefore.Hehadbeengoneformorethanayear.
Imissedhimdesperately.Iwantedtosayhisnameinthecarsothatyoubothhadtohearit.Heshouldhavebeentherewithus.
Ireacheddowntothebagatmyfeetandpulledoutasmallpackageoftissues.IlookedbackatVioletinherboosterseat.Ipulledoneoutandtosseditovermyheadintothebackseat.Shewatchedthetissuefloatupandthenlandonherlap.Ipulledanotherone,andthenanother,andanother.Youlookedawayfromtheroadandglancedatmeonce,andthenagain,andthentoyourrearviewmirrortowatchher.Violet’seyesmetyours,andthenshestaredquietlyoutherwindowasthetissuessailedaroundthebackseat.
WeusedtodothiswithSamsometimeswhenhecriedinthecar.Weusedtotossthetissuesallaroundhimuntilhislong,sadsobsbecameacrescendooflaughter.Helovedthem.We’dgothroughawholebigboxsometimes,madwithgiggles,thesoftwhiteparachutesfilingthecar,thechildren’ssquealsheightening,ourtired,relievedfacesgrinningaimlesslyahead.
NeitherofyousaidathingwhileIdidthisforhimthatafternoon.Iturnedawayfromyouwhenthepackagewasempty,andIplaceditonthedashboard,sothatyou’dhavetoseeitasyoudrove.Therewerefields,Ithink,outsideofthewindow.Irememberlookingoutandwantingtorunthroughthemuntilyoucaughtmebythehoodofmysweatshirt.Ifyouranaftermeatall.
ThatnightIaskedyouifVioletshouldseesomeone.AchildpsychologisttohelpwiththegriefSheseemedsoreluctanttotalkabouthim.
“Ithinksheseemstobecopingprettywell.I’mnotsuresheneedsit.”
“Thenwhataboutus?Together.Couplestherapy.”Wecouldn’tseemtotalkabouthimeither.Youhadn’tevenmentionedwhatI’ddoneinthecar.
“Ithinkwe’recopingprettywell,too.”You’dkissedmeontheforehead.“Butyoushouldgo.Byyourself.Youshouldtryagain.”
Iwalkedaimlesslythroughourquiethouse.
You’dbeenbuildingamodelinyourdenandyourthingswerespreadacrossthedeskundertheswing-armofthelamp.SuperglueandacuttingmatandasetofX-ACTOknives.Thetinyfoam-boardwallswerelinedupattheside.Violetlovedtowatchyoubuildmodelsofyourwork.
Ipickeduptherazorbladesonebyoneanddroppedthemintothetin.Theyshouldn’thavebeenlayingout.I’daskedyoutobecarefulaboutthembefore.Ipickedupthelastoneandranitovermyfingerandflinchedatthesharpness.Howeasilytheycouldcut.HoweasilyIcouldcut.Itouchedthescarbeneathmyshirt,theraisedlineofskinthathadformedonmystomach.Howgoodthebloodhadfelt.Iclosedmyeyes.
“Whatareyoudoing?”Yourvoicemademejump.
“Cleaningupyourstuff.Youshouldn’tleavethesethingslyingaroundforhertofind.”
“I’lldoit.Gotobed.”
“Youcoming?”
“Inabit.”Youtookaseatonthestoolandclickedonthelamp.Itouchedyourshoulderandthenrubbedthebackofyourneck.Ikissedyoubehindyourear.Youslippedabladeintotheknifeandthenreachedforthemetalruler.Youalwaysheldyourbreathwhileyouworked.Iputmyearagainstyourbackandlistenedforyourlonginhale.“Sorry,honey.Nottonight.Ineedtofinishthis.”
Hourslaterthesoundpulledmefrommysleep—onebyone,slowly,therazorsdroppedintothetin.Clink.Clink.Clink.Apause.Andthenclink,clink.Apause.Iopenedmyeyesandanchoredmyselfintheroomwiththefaintglarereflectingfromourglassceilinglight.Clink,clink.Myheadfelltothesideandthesoundofthosemetalbladesagainstthetinbecamethefrozenpelletsofrainagainstthedrainpipeoutsideourwindow.Thewindpickedup.Clink,clink.Clink.Iclosedmyeyesanddreamedofmybabyboyinmyarms,thesmellofhiswarmneckandthefeelofhisfingersinmymouth,ofblooddrippingonhimslowlylikebeadsofwaterfromaleakyfaucetashetwitchedwitheverydrop.Iwatchedthebloodhithisfreshskinandtrickleintojaggedriversthatcollectedinthecrevicesofhistinybody.Ilickedhimuplikehewasameltedicecreamcone.HetastedlikethesweetnessoftheperfectlyripestrawberriesIfedhimthesummerbeforehedied.
Younevercametobedthatnight.InthemorningIfoundyousleepingonherbedroomfloorundertheblanketfromthelivingroomcouch.
“Theicepelletsscaredher,”you’dsaidatbreakfast.“Shewashavinganightmare.”
YourubbedherheadandpouredhermoreorangejuicewhileIwentbackupstairstobed.
53.
“It’sfreezingoutthereBlythe,doesshenotbringmittenstoschool?”Yourmotherwincedasshebentdown,pullingoffherwetboots.ShehadcometostayforafewnightstospendsometimewithVioletandhadgonetopickherupfromschool.Violetsatinapuddleofmeltingsnow,brushingoffherpants.
“They’reinherbackpack,butshewon’twearthem.”
Violetwiggledpastmetothekitchen.
YourmotherfluffedherthinninghairinthehallwaymirrorandIcouldtellbythewayshefiddledthattherewassomethingonhermind.Istoodagainstthewallandwaitedforhertospeak.
“Youknow,theteachersaidViolethadatoughday.Thatsheseemedangry.Shewasn’twillingtojoinanyoftheclassactivities.”
Ifeltmychesttighten.“Theteacherhasmentionedthatbefore.ButwhenIaskVioletaboutit,sheshrugsitoff.Foxthinksshe’sboredatschool.”
“ShewassittingaloneinthecornerofschoolyardwhenIgotthere.Notplayingwithanyoneatall.”SheraisedhereyebrowsandlookedtowardsthekitchentomakesureVioletwasstilloutofearshot.“It’sonlybeenayearandahalf.Youhavetoremembershelovedhimtoo,likewealldid.Despiteeverything.”
Despiteeverything—herwordssurprisedme.Sheneverbroughtupthedeathofourson.Ididn’tknowifsheknewwhatIknew.Ihadalwayswantedtoaskher.ShewastheclosestthingIhadtoanally.
“Helen,”Iwhispered.“HasFoxtalkedtoyouaboutthedaySamdied?AboutwhatItoldhimhappened?”
Shelookedawayandthenturnedtostraightenthecoatshe’dhungintheentryway.“No.AndIdon’tknowifIcantalkaboutthattobehonestwithyou.I’msosorry.Iknowyouwerethere,youlivedit,but—Ican’t.”
“Yousaid‘despiteeverything’,Ithought—”
“Imeanthowseeminglyunaffectedshe’sbeen.”Shespokesharply.“Howwellshe’sadjustedathomeeventhoughyouhaven’tbeenavailableforher.”Ishotalooktowardsthekitchenandsheloweredhervoiceagain.“Idon’tmeanthatasacriticismBlythe,Ipromiseyou.You’vebeenthroughhell.”
InoddedtodiffuseanytensionI’dcaused.Shelookedsofeebletomethen,somucholderthanhersixty-sevenyears,andIrealizedthenthatlosinghergrandsonhadtakenatollonhertoo.Ofcourseyouhadn’ttoldherwhatIbelieved.VioletcalledoutforhertomakechocolatechipcookiesandIcouldhearherdiggingthroughthecupboardofmixingbowls.Yourmotherhadwalkedtothestoreinthesnowthatmorningtobuyalloftheingredients.Ireachedoutforherhandandsqueezedit.
“You’reastrongperson,”shesaidquietly.Thosewordsmeantnothingtome—theyweren’ttrue.Shelovedme,butshedidn’tknowmeatall.
Whenyoucamehomethatnight,Isawherpullyouasideintothedarklivingroom.Youspoketogetherinlowvoices.Iheardyourhandspatherback.AfterwardsyousmelledlikeherstrongroseperfumeandIthoughtofthatembraceallnight.
54.
There’sastoryofmeandVioletthatgoesthroughmyheadsometimes.
Thatstorygoeslikethis:
Shesucksmilkfrommeuntilsheturnsone.Iamfueledbythefeelingofherhotskinonmine.Iamhappy.Iamgrateful.IdonotwanttocrywhenIhavetobenearher.
Weteacheachotherthings.Patience.Love.Simple,joyfulmomentswithhermakemefeelalive.Webuildtowersafternaptimeandwereadthesamebookeverynightuntilsheknowseachpage,andshecanonlysleepifIrockherfirst.Idonothateyouwhenyou’relatetocomehome,latetotakeherfromme.Itismeshecallsforwhenshewakesupinthenight.ShesquealsgoodmorningwhenIcomeintoherroom,andwespendaquiethourtogetherbeforeyougetup.Shedoesn’tneedyoulikesheneedsme.
Wewalktopreschooltogetherandshewavesatmefrombehindthegate.Imissheralldayinthebackofmymind.ShemakesmeacardforMother’sDaywithwordsshecameupwith,somethingtheteacherprintsforher,anditmakesmeweepywhenIopenit.IdonotfeeldreadwhenIpickherupattheendoftheday.
Shesmilesatme.Shehugsmylegs.Iaskherforkisses.
Shecaresforhimlikeababydoll.Shetoucheshisheadwhilesheholdshim.Shewatchesmefeedhimandshecuddlesupbesideusandwantstoshareinthewarmthofourbodies.IdonotwishheandIwerealonewithouther.Shetalksabouthimwhenhe’snotthere.Shetellsstrangersabouthim.Everyonceinawhile,sheasksifwecangototheparkalonebecauseshemissestimewithjustme.Wedo,andweswingsidebyside,andgetvanillaicecreamcones.Wegohomeandheiswaitingforus,safewithyou.Idonotquietlypretendthatheismyonlychild.
ShesitsonmybedwhileIgetchangedandwetalkaboutthingsmothersanddaughterstalkabout.Iamgentle,andIamwarm.Sheiscurious.Shelikestobenearme.Hereyesaresoft.Itrusther.Itrustmyselftobearoundher.Iwatchhergrowintoayoungwomanwhoisrespectfulandkind.Whofeelslikesheismine.Wehaveasonandshehasabrother.Welovethembothequally.WeareafamilyoffourthateatsthesamekindofdinnereverySunday,thatarguesoverwhichtelevisionshowtowatchonFridays,thatgoesroad-trippingonspringbreak.
Idonotspendmydayswonderingwhowecouldhavebeen.
Orwhatlifewouldbelikeifshehaddiedinsteadofhim.
Iamnotamonster,andneitherisshe.
55.
You’dgonetobuymoresunscreenfromtheshopinthehotellobby.Weneverdidwellwithbeachvacations,weburnedtooeasily.Butweweretryingtobeanormalfamily.Yourmothersuggestedwego,thatachangeofscenewouldbegoodforus,andsoyoubookedit.Violetlovedtoplayinthesand,evenattheageofseven.Ireadanovelunderourstripedumbrellaandliftedthefloppybrimofmyhateverysooftentocheckonher.Shewasdiggingamazeofcanalstofillwithwater.Askin-and-bonesboy,noolderthanthree,lingeredbetweenherandthelapoftheocean,pickingatthecornerofhisthumb.
Shetip-toedoverandcrouchedathisfeet,thewindcarryingtheirvoicesawayfromme.Helookedlikehewasgiggling.Shetoppledoverwithasillylookonherfaceandhelaughedtowardsthesun.Hefollowedher,andshehandedhimabuckettohelpherfillthecanals.
HismotherhadaneleganceI’dadmiredwhenIsawherearlierthatdaynearthepool.
“Whatadollyourdaughteris,tobeentertaininghimlikethat.Doesshebabysityet?”
Iexplainedshelookedolderthanshewas.Iinvitedhertohaveaseatonyouremptyloungechairwhilethetwoofthemplayed.Wewatchedourchildrenandexchangedthekindofpleasantriesyoudowithothermothers.Theboylookedupandcalledforher,waving,showingherthebuckethe’dbeengiven.
“Isee,Isee!Hownice,Jakey!”Theyweretherefortheweek.Shehadtwootherchildrenwhowereonaboatforthedaywiththeirfather,butsheandJakewerepronetoseasickness.Violetbeganburyinghiminthesand.Hislegsfirst.Thenuptohiswaist.Shepattedthesand,smootheditoutoverthemound,astheboyheldasstillashecould
“Doyoumind?”Sheasked,holdingupherphone.
Shehadtomakeacallforworkbutthebeachwastoowindy.SheranuptotheboardwalkbehindusandIwatchedthewayherwhitecaftanblewaroundherlonglegs.
Theboywasburieddeepuptohisnecknow,hishot,roundheadlikeacherrydroppedinthesand.Violetrantothewaterandfilledthelargestbucketandwalkedslowlybacktohim,herarmsshaking.Howcouldshehavecarriedsuchaheavybucket?Isatupinmychair.Sheheldthebucketoverhisheadandherchestrose.ShepausedandlookeduptoseeifIwaswatching.Istaredback,myheartbeating.Theboy’seyeswereclosed.Iscrambledtostand.Somewatersplashedoutassheshiftedtoputonehandunderthebucket.Shewasgoingtoturnitover.Theremusthavebeenagallonofwater,itwouldfillhisairwayinaninstant.Shestaredathim,still,herhandreadytotipit.MylegswentweakunderneathmeandItriedtoyellbutnothingcameout.Ihitmychest,tryingtofindmyvoice.AndthenfinallyIscreamed.Hisnamecameout,barelyaudible,thepitchlikefireinmythroat.
“Sam!”
“What’swrong?”YourhandonmyarmstartledmeandIswattedyouaway.Violetstoodstaringatus,thebucketdownbyherside.Theboycranedhisneckandthesandcastcrackedlikeicearoundhim.
“Youruinedit!”
“I’msorry,”hesaidandstartedtowhimper.
Shedroppedtoherkneesandhelpedhimup,brushingthesandfromhisbackandhisfineblondhair.“Don’tcry.Wecandoitagain.Areyouokay?”Herhanddrapedaroundhislittleshouldersandhenodded.Shelookedoveratmebriefly,wantingtoseeifIwaswatchingherstill.
“Nothing,”Isaidtoyoufinally,andadjustedthebottomofmybathingsuit.Myheartbeatshookmychest.Iwatchedhertryingtocheertheboyup.MaybeI’doverreacted.Ithoughtagainofherpinkmittenspushingthestrollerandthenquicklybattedtheimageaway.Youhandedmetheplasticbagandseemedunfussed—youhadn’theardmesayhisname.Oratleastyoupretendednotto.
Westayedfortwomorehours.Ifinishedreadingmybook.Youflewakitewiththekids.Weatedinnerthatnightwiththeboy’sfamily,theelegantmotherandherthreeseer-suckeredsons.
IwatchedVioletputmarshmallowsontheendsofthekids’sticksandshowthemhowtomake‘smores.Ifeltyoulookingatme.Iturnedtomeetyoureyesandyousmiled.Youfinishedyourwine.Igotuptobreakanotherchocolatebarintosmallsquaresandgavethemtothechildren.IjoinedyouontheAndorakchair,onthelapinwhichIusedtospendlongstretchesofchildfreetime,andslippedmyhandsupyourshirttowarmthem.Youkissedmeonmylips.Iwatchedthewomanwatchingusfromacrosstheflames.Thingscouldbesoeasy,ifonlyIcouldletthem.
56.
Along,exasperatedpausebeforeananswerthatshouldbeeasytogive.Closingthebathroomdoorwhenyouhadalwayskeptitopen.Bringinghomeonecoffeeinsteadoftwo.Notaskingwhattheotherisgoingtoorderinarestaurant.Rollingovertofacethewindowwhenyouheartheotherpersonbegintowakeup.Walkingjustthatmuchfurtherahead.
Theseslipsinbehavioraredeliberateandnoticeable.Theyeatawayatwhatoncewas.Thisturnplaysoutslowly,anditalmostdoesn’tseemtomeananythingatall;whenthemusicisjustrightorthesunslipsintothebedroomjustso,itcanalmostmeannothingatall.
Onthemorningofyourthirty-seventhbirthday,Iwentdowntothekitchenandmademyselfbreakfast.Youhadsuggestedthenightbefore(yousaidittwice,infact)thatyou’dliketogotothebrasseriedownthestreetforeggs
ButIwantedyoutowakeupinourbedandsmellthatIwastoastingabagel.Youhatedbagels.YouwouldrealizethatIwouldn’tbegoingtothebrasserieforbreakfast.Iwantedtohurtyou.Iwantedyoutothink,maybeshedoesn’tlovemeanymore.Iwantedyoutobesodisappointedthatyourolledoverandwentbacktosleepandfeltlikeyouwerenotthekindofhusbandwhosewifewantedtomakehimhappyonamorningthatshouldhavemattered.
Youcamedownthestairstwentyminuteslater,dressedinthesweaterIhated.Thewoolwaspilledandratty.Iwasrinsingthecreamcheeseoffoftheknife.Itwasnineo’clockbythenandyousaidyouweregoingoutforthenewspaper.WesubscribedtotheTimes,andItosseditonthecounterinyourdirection.YousaidyouwantedtheJournal.Ididn’tthinkyoulikedtheJournalanymore.Youcamehomeafteranhourandahalfandsaidnothing.Youdidn’teatanythinguntilweheatedupbowlsofleft-overspaghettiwellpastlunchtime.Andsoyoumusthavegonefortheeggswithoutme.WeneverspokeofitandIneverregretteddoingthattoyou.
ThreedaysbeforethatyouaskedmethenameoftheflowersIhadboughtforthekitchentabletheweekendbefore,thewhitefluffyones.Theyweredahlias.Iaskedyouwhyyouwantedtoknow,andyousaidyouwerejustcurious,thatyoulikedthem,thatIshouldbuythemmoreoften.Thiswasstrange.Youneverseemedtocareaboutflowersbefore.Youhadneveraskedmeaboutthenameofaflower.
Theweekafterthatyousatinyourreadingchairandyouhadmyphoneinyourhand.Ihadleftitonthetable.YouwerelookingataphotographofyourselfthatIhadtakenthemonthbefore.Iwasnotinthephotowithyou,andneitherwasViolet.Thiswasjustapictureofyou,handsome,grinning,twodaysoffacial-hairgrowth,oneelbowleaningonthetableatarestaurant.Laterinbedthatnight,Ithought,maybehe’swonderinghowhelookstootherwomen;maybehewasimaginingthekindoffirstimpressionhemightgivetoawomanwhomightfindhimattractive.Maybehewastryingtofindadifferentversionofhimselfinthatphotograph.
Butlookingataphotographofoneselfisnotproofofanaffair.Andaskingaquestionaboutatypeofflowerisnotproofofanaffair.Theseare,though,thekindsofthingsthatfesterinaperson’sminduntilshenolongerfeelsloved;theyarethehappeningsthattookusfromaplacewecouldhavesurvived,eveninthegravefaceofadeaththatnearlykilledmetoo,totheplacewesimplycouldnotcomebackfrom.Thesethingsbecametooheavyandtoohurtful,habitualabusesinwhatoncefeltlikethesafestplaceintheworld.
That’swhyIdidn’tgoforbreakfastwithyouonyourthirty-seventhbirthday.
57.
Youpouredyourselfacupofcoffeeandslidtheresignationlettertowardsme.I’djustcomebackfromdroppingoffVioletandhadn’texpectedyoutobehome
“Butwhy?”
Yousatbackandcrossedyourlegs.Inoticedthenyouhadn’tshavedyourfaceinafewdays.Maybethreeorfour.TherewassomuchaboutyouIdidn’tseeanymore.
“Iwantsomethingmoreforward-thinking.Maybesomethingfocusedonsustainability.There’snoroomforcreativitythereanymore.Tony’sgothishandsineverything.”
Iwatchedyourfingersrapslowlyonthewoodtable.Myeyesshiftedtotheletterandyoursignature.Thenotewasbrief.Afewsentences.Datedforthedaybefore.
“Weshouldhavetalkedaboutthis,don’tyouthink?”Ididn’treallyknowhowweweredoingfinancially,orhowmuchwehadsaved.Mymindracedback,tryingtorememberthelastbankstatementI’dseen.Youpaidourbills.Ididn’tkeeptrackofwhatweearnedandspent.Ifeltfoolish.“Imeanareweokayfinancially?Thisisabigdecision.”
“We’refine.”Youlikedtokeepmeoutofit.Youtappedthetableagain.“Ididn’twanttobotheryouwiththis.”
“Sowhatnow?”
“I’vegotsomeopportunitieslinedup.”
Youstretchedbackinyourchairandbouncedyourheels.Youseemedrestless.Andmayberelieved.Icouldn’tquiteplaceitthen.
“I’mgoingforarun.”
“It’stoocold.”
“Carryon.DowhateveryoudoduringthedaywhenI’mnothere.”YoutousledmyhairlikeyoualwaysdidtoVioletandleftthekitchentofindyourrunningshoes.Youneverwentforrunsanymore.
Somethingdidn’tfeelright.Myheadwaslight.Ihadanurgetocallyourmother.Shewaswalkingthedogwhensheanswered.
ItoldherIwantedtotalkabouttheholidays,togoovertheplansfortheirvisit.Theyweretocomeonthe22ndandwe’dtakeVioletskatingthenextdaywithyoursister.Iaskedaboutgiftideasforyourfather.Wetalkedthroughwhowouldcookwhatforthedinner.
“Iknowthiswillbeahardone,”shesaid.“WithoutSam.”
“Imisshim.”
“Me,too.”
“Helen,”Isaid,wonderingifIshouldhavejustsaidgoodbye.“Foxtoldmethismorningthatheresignedfromhisjob.Didyouknowhewasthinkingofleaving?”
“No,hedidn’tmentionit.”Shepaused.“Ifmoneyisaproblem,youknowwecanalwayshelp.Idon’twantyoutoworryaboutthat.”
“It’snotthat.It’s—IfeellikeIdon’tknowhimanymore.He’sgrownso…distant.”Iheldmybreathandrolledmyeyestomyself.Ididn’tliketalkingtoheraboutyou,butIwasdesperateforsomekindofreassurance.“Ifeellikesomethingelsemightbegoingon.”
“Oh,Idon’tthinksohoney.No.”HertonesuggestedsheunderstoodwhatIwasinferring.“You’restillgrievingparents,Blythe.Thisisahardtimeforbothofyou.MaybeFoxisstrugglingmorethanyourealize.”Shegavemespacetoagree,butIdidn’tspeak.“Bepatientwithhim.””
“Pleasedon’tmentiontohimthatIcalled,okay”Irubbedmytemples,tryingtoeasethetension.
“Ofcourse.”ShechangedthetopicbacktotheChristmasturkeyandIwatchedforyoufromthewindowofthelivingroom.
YourlaptopwasonandIknewyourpassword.Yourdesklookedthesame,toolsscattered,aprojectinprogressleftwhereverwe’dinterruptedyouthenightbefore.Nothinglookedasthoughitwerewindingdown,nothinglookeddifferent.Iopenedyourinboxandscrolledthroughthemessages.Theemailfromyourbosswasn’thardtofind:I’mgladwebothagreethisisthebestoutcomegiventhenatureoftheincident.I’msorryithadtoendthisway.Perhapswebothcouldhaveusedbetterdiscretioninhowthingswerehandled.Laurenwillbeintouchwiththedetailsoftheseveranceweagreedon.
Therewasanincidentofsomekind.Severance—youhadbeenfired.
Iopenedanemailsentthatmorningfromyourassistant.Youhadn’treadityet.She’dwrittenonly,IjustmetwithHR.Callme
IwenttoViolet’sroomandpickedupherunicornpencilcase.Theerasershegaveherwasstillinside.Ismelledtherubber,asthoughitwaspossibletofindsomekindofconfirmation.Iputitbackonhershelfandlaiddownonherunmadebed.
Iclutchedmypoundingchestwithbothhands.Thelatenightsattheoffice.TherejectionwhenItouchedyou.Thewayyourfingershadtappedthetableasyouliedtome.IclosedmyeyesandsmelledViolet’spungentsleepinessonthepillow.
“Ihateyou,”Iwhispered.Toyouboth.Ihatedbothofyou.IonlywantedSam.Ifhewasthere,everythingwouldhavebeenokay.IcrieduntilIheardyouopenthefrontdoor.Yourshoesdroppedonthetiles.Yourfeethitthestairs.IlaystillandyouwalkedpastViolet’sbedroomdoorandintothebathroomforashower.I’dlefttheemailopenonyourlaptop.You’dfindittwentyminuteslaterandnotsayawordtome.
58.
Thenextmorning,IwaitedoutsideforawhilebeforeIcamebackinthehouseafterdrop-off.Iwantedyoutobegone,butthehousestillsmelledtoostronglylikeyou.Youweresomewhere.Ididn’tcallforyou.IshutthebathroomdoorandgotintotheshowerandIscrubbedmyselfhard.Everypieceofme.Istoodundertheshowerheaduntilthewaterrancold.
Icouldhearyouontheothersideofthedoor,thesoundsIhadheardnearlyeverymorningofourlifetogether.Yourdrawersopeningandclosing.Yourfreshunderwear.Yourundershirt.Andthenthecloset.Yourdressshirt—youmusthavebeentryingtoimpresssomeonethatday.Themetalclipsonthehangersclanged.Yoursuitslippedofftheheavywoodenshouldersandontoyourarms.
Andthenthebathroomdooropened.Iwasnaked.Youstaredatmybodydifferentlythatmorning;thehangingskinthathadheldyourchildren;thebreaststhosechildrenhadsuckeddry;thepatchofscragglypubichairthathadn’tbeencaredforinayear—allthere,fortheeyesofamanwhohadsomethingbetter,younger,firmertolookat.Iimaginedherskinwassmoothandfreeofpurpleveinsandenduringhairs.Iwatchedyouwatchme.AndIwonderedwhatthisbodymeanttoyounow.Wasitjustavessel?Theshipthatgotyouhere,fatherofonebeautifuldaughterandasonyou’dbarelyknown?
Yousawmewatchingyouandthenyoulookedaway.Youknewyou’dlingeredtoolongonmynakedbody.YouknewthatIknew.Youreachedoutforthetowelonthehookandyouhandedittome.
Wedidn’tsayawordtoeachotherthatmorning.Youweregoneuntiltenatnight.AndthenyoucamehomeandfuckedmesohardthatIbled.Ihadbeggedyouto.Iimaginedyou’dfuckedherthatnighttoo.ButIwantedtofeelused,inamechanicaltypeofwaythatmademybodyfeelseparatefromwhoIwas.Iwantedtofeellikeabargeinthesea.Rusted,trusted,dented.
Therearedays,likethatone,whichmarkthemomentsinourlifethatchangewhoweare.WasIthewomanbeingcheatedon?Wereyouthemanwhobetrayedme?Wewerealreadytheparentsofadeadboy.OfadaughterIcouldn’tlove.Wewouldbecomethecouplethatsplit.Thehusbandwholeft.Thewifewhonevergotoveranyofit.
1972
TherecameatimewhenitwascleartoeveryonethatEttawasslippingaway.She’dstoppedcookingandstoppedeating.She’dstoppeddoingmuchofanythingbythen.Thehousehadaranksmelltoit,likedamptowelsthathadbeenlefttoolonginthewasher.Shewanderedthesecondfloorsomedays,butothersshedidn’tleaveherbedroom.
ItwasatoughtimeforCeciliaaswell.Shewaswastingaway,swimmingintheclothesthathadfitherearlierthatyear.She’dlostherappetiteandstoppedcaringforherselfinthewayotherfifteen-yearoldgirlsknewhowtodo.Shedidn’twanttoaskHenryformoneytobuysanitarypads,soshestartedstuffingherunderwearwithsocksduringherperiod.Therewasneverlaundrysoapinthehouse,sosheletthempileupunderherbed.WhenHenryfoundthem,Ceciliawashumiliated.Heaskedhissistertomoveinforthetimebeing.ShelivedoverseasandasfarasCeciliacouldremember,Henryhadn’tspokenaboutherbefore,soshefiguredthingsweredesperate.Theykepttheirdistancefromeachotherasbesttheycould—Henry’ssisterunderstoodthatthesituationwasdelicate.Shecleanedthehouseandboughtgroceriesforthefridge.
Oneday,CeciliaoverheardHenry’ssistersuggestthatCeciliashouldmoveawaytoaboardingschool.Shedidn’tthinkitwassafeforhertobelivingwithhermotheranymore.Henry’sfistrattledthesilverware.
“She’sherdaughter,forGod’ssake.EttaneedstobewithCecilia.”
“Henry.Shedoesn’twanttobe.Shedoesn’tlovethatgirl.”
Ceciliapeeredaroundthecornerandwatchedhim.Hecoveredhisfacewithhishandforaminute.Andthenheshookhishead.“You’rewrong.Lovedoesn’thaveanythingtodowithit.”
Afewdayslater,EttahangedherselffromanoaktreeinthefrontyardusingoneofHenry’sbelts.ItwasaMondaymorningandthesunwasjustcomingup.TheylivedonthesamestreetasCecilia’sschool.Ettawasthirty-threeyearsold.
59.
IwonderedifthepainofspendingmydaysimaginingyoufuckinganotherwomanwouldmeanI’dstarttomissSamless.Surelythereisalimittohowmuchsadnessonepersoncanhold.AndsoIthoughtifIjustfocusedmoreattentiononwhatyoudidtome,maybethepainofSamwouldstarttofeellesssuffocating,lessconsuming.
Butthatneverhappened.Icouldn’tfindenoughheartbreakinyourbetrayal.WhathappenedwithSamhadbluntedme,knockedmesohardthatIstillcouldn’tfeelanythingmoredeeplythanhisloss.Youwantedanotherwoman?Fine.Youdidn’tlovemeanymore?Iunderstood.
ThedoctoratthehospitalwhospokewithusafterSamdiedsaidthisbeforeyouleft:“Bestrongtogether.Manyrelationshipsdon’tsurvivethedeathofachild.Youhavetoknowthisandworkhardonyourmarriage.”
“Whatkindofthingisthattosaytous?”You’dsaidtomelaterabouthercomment.“Wehaveenoughtoworryabout.”
Ididn’tconfrontyouaboutwhatIsuspectedforeightdays.WewentaboutlifequietlysothatVioletwouldn’tsenseanytension.Youwereextrakind.Extrathoughtful.Ididn’twantanyofit.IneveraskedwhereyouweregoingduringthedaysbecauseIdidn’tmuchcare.Toseeher,tofindanewjob?Ididn’tknow.Itoldyoutocancelyourmother’svisitforChristmas,althoughitseemedlikeapunishmentforusboth.
“Whydon’tyoucallmymother?”yousaid.“Youseemtoenjoykeepingheruptodateaboutme.”
She’dtoldyouI’dcalled.
Idon’tknowwhatexcuseyougaveherwhenyoucancelled.Ididn’tanswerhercallsafterthat,althoughithurteachtimeIignoredher.
Ontheeighthnight,Ifoundyouinthedencleaningupyourdesk.Allofyourprojectswereputaway,handedofftothepeopletakingoveryourclients.Thelongarmofyourlampwastuckedagainstitselfnow,asthoughitwouldbeputinbubblewrapandpackedforamove.Maybeitwouldbe.Ilookedforthetinofrazorbladesanddidn’tseeitanywhere.
“Wheredidyouputallyourthings?Yourmodelingtools?”Iheldmybreathandfelttheshameofneedingtoknowwherethebladeswere.Theanxiousnesstickledinmychest,threateningme.Youpointedtotheclosetandsortedthroughaboxofloosepapers.Islidopenthedoorandscannedthemessyshelves.OldboardgamesandstackedemptypictureframesanddictionariesI’dsavedfromcollege.Thetinwasthere,onthesecondshelf,betweenyourarchitecturebooksandabinofrulersandpens.Iclosedthedoorandturnedtoyou.Yourshoulderswerestartingtobuildthesamehunchyourfatherhad.Iwonderedifshelikedtorunherhandagainstthebristlesofhaironthenapeofyourneck,ifshewouldonedayshavethemforyoulikeIdideverysooften.
“Whatisshelike?”
Youliftedyourhead.Theroomfeltsodifferentwithouttheshadowsfromyourlampthathadalwaysdancedoverthewallasyouworked.Youweresostill.Iheldmybreathagainandwonderedwhatyouwouldsaynext.Butyoudidn’tspeak.Iaskedyouagain:“Whatisshelike,Fox?”
AndthenIleft.Iwenttobed.Iwonderedifyou’dbegoneinthemorning,butafewhourslater,ormaybeitwasjustone,Ifeltyoursideofthemattressmove.
“I’mnotseeingheranymore.”
You’dbeencrying.Icouldhearthethicknessinyournasals.Therewasnothinginsideofme.Norelief.Noanger.Iwasjusttired.
InthemorningIbroughtcoffeetoyouinbedbeforeVioletwokeup.Isatnexttoyouwhileyoudrankit.
“WelostenoughwhenSamdied,”Isaid.Yourubbedyourforehead.“Youneverdealtwithyourgriefproperly.You’veneverfacedit.”
Iwaitedforyoutospeak.
“Samisn’twhyourmarriageisfallingapart.Hedoesn’thaveanythingtodowithit.”
ThedoortoourbedroomopenedandVioletwalkedinandstaredatus.Youlookedatmeslowly,yoursleepyeyesnowaswideopenashers.Andthenyoulookedbackatourdaughter.
“Morning,honey,”yousaid.
“Breakfast?”sheasked.Youlefttheroombehindher.
60.
Ithadbeenastupidplaceformetoleaveit.Underthebed.I’dtossedittherewhenIheardyoucomehomemid-afternoon.YounevertooknoticeofthebooksIhadlayingaroundanyway.AndIhadn’tthoughtofher,ifI’mbeinghonest;Ibarelyexistedinherworld,andshebarelyexistedinminebeyondthelogisticsoftheroutinewekept.
Idon’tknowwhyIorderedit.Iknewitwouldn’thelp,butitfeltlikesomethingIcoulddototrytomakeitreal.Tomakemefeelsomethingotherthandesperatelycurious.TwomonthshadpassedsinceIconfrontedyouabouttheaffair.AndallIcouldthinkaboutwas:whoisthiswoman?What’sshelike?Yourefusedtosayawordabouther—allIknewwasthatshe’dbeenyourassistant.Thewomanyou’dtakenourdaughteroutforlunchwith.
EverytimeIaskedyoutotellmemore,youshookyourheadandsaidonly,quietly,“Don’t.”
Ifoundthebookinherbackpack.SurvivinganAffair:HowtoOvercomeBetrayalinYourMarriage.Violetwaseatingyogurtatthekitchencounter,herafterschoolsnack,andlookedupasIstaredatitinmyhands.Ididn’tknowwhattosaytoher—shewaseight.Shecouldn’tpossiblyhaveknownwhatanaffairwas.ButthenIthoughtoftheolderkidsatschoolwhomshewouldn’thavehesitatedtoask.
“Whydidyouhavethis?”Isaid,nervous.Sheraisedhereyebrowsknowinglyandwentbacktostirringherbowl.
“Answerme.”
“Whydidyouhaveit?”
Iwalkedaway.
Anhourlater,IknockedonViolet’sdoorandaskedifwecouldtalk.Shespunherdeskchairaroundslowlyandlookedatmeblankly.IheldthebookoutandsaidthatIwantedtoclearsomethingup—thatthisbookwasforresearchforsomethingnewIwaswriting.Thatweshouldtalkaboutwhatthisgrown-upword“affair”meant—whatshethoughtitmeant.ThatIdidn’thavethisbookbecausetherewassomethingwrongbetweenhermomanddad.Thatwelovedeachotherverymuch.
“Okay,”shesaid.Andthensheputherheadbackdowntoherworkbook.
Iknewsheknewwhothewomanwas.MaybethatdaywhenyoutookViolettoyourofficewasn’ttheonlytimethey’dmet—Ididn’tknowwhatsecretswhatyoutwokept.Itwassostrangetomethatshe’dneverusedtheunicornpencilcaseoreraserthewomanhadgivenher.She’dkeptthemonherbedroomshelf,ondisplayliketrophies,prizedpossessionsthatmusthavemeantmoretoherthanIhadrealized.
Ithrewthebookinthetrashbinoutside,andIwonderedaboutotherliesIcouldtellherthatwouldcorroboratetheoneI’djusttold.Iwantedtowalkbackinthereandconvinceher,withtheauthoritythatamothershouldhave,thatshewaswrong.Ididn’twanthertothinkIwasthekindofwomanahusbandcheatedon.AnddespitemyeightyearsofresentmentfortherelationshipyouandVioletshared,Ididn’twanthertobelieveyouwerethekindofmanwhowoulddothat.
Iwashangingontomyfamilybyathread,Iknew.ButIhadto.Ihadnothingelseleft.
Whenyoucamehomethatnight,ItouchedyouwithaffectionwhenIthoughtshemightbelooking,andIcalledyou“honey”insteadofyourname.Islippedinbesideyouonthecouchwhileyouwatchedthebaseballgame.Iputmyhandonyourlapandmychinonyourshoulder,andIcalledherintotheroomtoaskifshehadhandedinthemoneyfortheschoolpizzalunch.Sheglaredatmeandlookeddownatmyhandonherfather’sthighandshookherheadjustslightly,justonesharpback-and-forth,justenoughtotellmesheknewwhatIwastryingtodo.Shehadaremarkableabilitytomakemehatemyself.
Onemonthlater—threemonthsafterIdiscoveredtheaffair—IwokeuponaSundayandIknew.Wewereover.Weneededtostoppretendingwewouldsimplyfloatpastthis,likeitwassomethingunpleasantonariverbank.ThesittertookVioletoutfortheafternoonandwewenttothepubdownthestreet.
“You’restillseeingher,aren’tyou?”
Youlookedoutthewindowandthenimpatientlywavedfortheserver.Iaskedyouagainifyoucouldjustplease,tellmeaboutthewoman.Tellmewhyyoulovedher.Youdidn’tavoidmyeyes.Youlookedlikeyouweretalkingyourselfthroughthedecisionofhowmuchtotellme,whatsecretsyouwerewillingtopartwith.
“Doesshehavechildren?”
Youliftedthebeertoyourlipsandshookyourhead.No,shewasnotamother.IletgoofthebreathIwasholding.Ihadn’trealizeduntilthen,butthatwasallIwantedtoknow.AnurgencywelledinsideofmeandIcouldnolongerbethereacrossfromyou—weneededtogetthisdone.Iwantedyougone.
Iwalkedhomebrisklywithmycoatclutchedatmychest.Ibroughtupthesuitcasesfromthebasement.Ipackedallofyourclothesneatlyandzippedthemclosed.Icalledamovingcompanyandbookedfourlargepackingbinsandasmallsizedmovingvantoarrivethenextday.IfoundapadofstickynotesinyourdeskdrawerandIwalkedthroughthehouseandstuckoneoneachitemwesharedthatIwantedyoutotake:thesmallrollingislandinthekitchen,therecordplayer,thesetofdishesfromyourparents,therunnerinthefronthallwaythathadmarksfromtheshoesyounevertookoffwhenIaskedyouto,thesofainthelivingroomthathadbeenimprintedwiththeshapeofyourassforyears,thegreenglassvase,thechoppingblockstainedwiththebloodofredmeat,thechairsyoucommissionedforthediningroomtablethathurteveryone’sbacks,allofthefurnitureinyourden,andmostoftheartinthehouse.AndthenIwenttotheclosetinyourdenandfoundthetinofrazors.Itookthelongestoneandwrappeditinansilkscarf,andIputitinmybottomdrawer.
“Idon’tcarewhereyoustaytonight.Justcomebacktomorrowtopackeverythingelse.”Ievenkissedyougoodbye,ahabit,areflexofamarriedwoman.AsIwalkedupthestairsIthoughtofSam’sthings.Everythingwekeptthathadbelongedtohimwasinboxesinthebasement.Maybeyouwouldwantsomething—ablanket,atoy.MaybeIshouldaskyou.MaybeIshouldgiveyouoneofthosethings,thesmellofhimstilllingeringinthefabric.Iturnedonthetapofthebathandtookmyclothesoff.Thesoundofthewatermuffledyourfootstepsbecauseyoustartledmeinthedoorway.Iclutchedmybreastsandturnedaway.Youfeltlikeanintrusionnow.Allthoseyears,andnowyoufeltlikeastranger.
“WhataboutViolet?”Youdidn’ttakeyoureyesoffmeasIsteppedintothetub.Thewaterwastoohot,butIforcedmyselflower.
“Whatabouther?Thisisyourdoing.Youcanfigureoutwhattotellher.”
Youlookedupandaway,asyoudidwheneverIsaidsomethingthatmadeyouwishIwasn’tsostubbornorvagueordifficultorindecisive.Orflippant.Orsarcastic.Thoseweresomeofthethingsyoudidn’tlikemetobe.Yourubbedyourforehead..Iseemedtomakeyoutired.IseemedtomakeyouwishIhadn’teverexistedatall.
“I’vetriedmybesttokeepthisfromherbecauseIdon’twanthertothinkbadlyofyou.Idon’twantthingsbetweenyoutwotochange,”Isaid.“ButIthinksheknows.”
Iwaitedforyourreaction.Iwantedyoutobegratefultome,toconcedethatyouweretheonedoingthistous.Butallyousaidwas:
“Iwanttosharecustody.Andsplitthetimeevenly.”
“Fine.”
Youwatchedmeslipintothetubuntilmywholebodywasmagnifiedunderthewater.Youstaredatme,thewomanyou’dbeeninsideforfifteenyears.Iwonderedifyoumighttrytocomeinwithme.Ifdespiteallmyfaults,allofthewaysIdisappointedyou,youstillwantedtofeelmyskinonelasttime.Ilookedupandfeltnothingforyou—notlove,nothate,notanythinginbetween.Isthiswhattheendwassupposedtofeellike?Therearepeoplewhoworkthroughit,whofightforoneanother,whodoitforthechildren.Thelifetheythoughttheyneeded.ButIhadnothingtofuelthefire.Nothingtogive.
Andthenwhatyousaidhitme—sharedcustody.I’dbealonewithher.That’swhatyouhadmeantwhenyou’dasked,“WhataboutViolet?”You’dmeant,“WhataboutyouandViolet,whataboutthelifeyou’llhavetoenduretogetherwithoutme?Whataboutthedaysyoudon’tspeaktoeachother,whataboutthenightssheneedssomeone,andyoujustwon’tdo?Whataboutthetimessheknowsyou’repretendingtocareasmuchasyoushould?Whowillbelieveher?Whowilldefendher?Whowillcomforther?Whowilllightherupinthemorningwhenshewakes?Whowillloveheronthosedayswhenshe’salonewithyouandneedstoknoweverythingwillbeokay?Whowillbelieveher?”
Youstoodinyourjeansandyourgreysweaterwithyourhandsinyourpocketsandyouwatchedme.Bare.Inadequate.Imetyourpuncturingeyes.
“We’llbefine,”Isaid.“I’mhermother.”
61.
Ourbrainsarealwayswatching.Lookingfordanger—athreatcouldcomeatanytime.Informationcomesinanditdoestwothings:ithitsourconsciousness,wherewecanobserveandrememberit.Andithitsoursubconscious,wherealittlealmond-shapedsectionofthebraincalledtheamygdalafilteritforsignsofdanger.Wecansensefearinlesstimethanittakesforustobeawareofwhatweareseeingorhearingorsmelling—justtwelve-thousandsofasecond.Werespondsofastthatitcanhappenbeforewe’reconsciouslyawarethatsomethingiswrong.Likeifweseeacarcoming.Likeifweseesomeoneabouttogethit.
Reflexes.Theytellyouaboutthemostnaturalreflexintheworldwhenyougivebirthtoyourbaby—theOxytocinreflex.Themotheringhormone.Itmakesthemilkandhelpsitflowalong,fillducts,streamintothebaby’smouth.Itstartstoworkwhenthemotherexpectssheneedstofeed.Whenshesmellsortouchesorseesherbaby.Butitalsoaffectsamother’sbehavior.Itmakeshercalm,itreducesherstress.Anditmakesherlikeherbaby.Itmakesherlookatherbabyandwanttokeephimalive.
Therewasaviralvideocirculatingonlineofafamouswoman,aroyalbymarriage,andherrambunctiousyoungson.Threedifferenttimesshe’scatchinghiminperilousmoments—swoopingintograbhishandashefallsdownthewetstepsofanairplane,yankingtheneckofhisshirtontheslipperybowofaboat,pullinghimbackfromapolopony’spathinthenickoftime.Likeavipersnappingherpreyintheclutchesofherjaw.Theinstinctsofamother.Eventhatmother—brooched,heeled,panty-hosed,dressedinapastelsuitwithafascinatorpinnedtohercurls.
VioletpickedupmyphoneonemorningandfoundthevideoonYouTube.Shetooktheseatrightnexttomeonthecouch,inthebeamofsunonawarmSundayafternoon.I’dbeenreading.Sheheldthephoneup.
“Haveyouseenthis?”
Iwatchedit.Shestaredatmeintentlyfortheentiresixtyseconds.
“Themomsavesherkideverytime,”shesaid.
“Soshedoes.”Iputmybookdownandreachedformytea.Myhandtrembledholdingthecup.Iwantedtosmackher.Iwantedtoknockherheadbackintothecouchandmakehermouthbleed.
Youstupidfuckinglittlegirl.Youkiller.
InsteadIlefttheroomandcriedquietlyoverthekitchensinkasthewaterran.Iwassosad.Imissedhimdesperately.Itwasalmosthisfourthbirthday.
62.
Istaredattheemptyspaceyouleftinourbedroom.You’dtakenSam’spaintingwhenyoumovedoutthatday.Isatonthefloorandvisualizeditthere,themother,thecuppedhandonherchin,thegrasponthebaby’sthigh.Thewarmthoftheirskin.
“I’mhungry.”Violetwaswatchingmefromthedoorway,stilldressedinwhatsheworetoschool.“Whatareyoulookingat?”
“We’llorderin.”
“Idon’twanttake-out.”
“Okay,I’llmakespaghetti.”
Thatworked—sheleftmealoneIdidn’twantherthere.Icouldn’tliftmyeyesfromthenailholeinthewall.
Icookedwhileshefinishedherhomeworkatthetable.Shehadthesamehabityoudid,puttinghernosesoclosetothepaperitnearlytoucheditasshewrote.Isawthehunchinherbackandsmiledwithoutthinking.Andthenrememberedyouweregone.Thatyouweren’tapersonIshouldsmileaboutanymore.
“Youwanttohaveicecreamafterdinnerandwatchashow?”
“Wedon’thaveacouchanymore.”
“Right.Wecouldplayagameatthetable?”
Shedidn’tneedtoanswerthatone.
“Whattimeisit?Wecouldprobablystillmakeamovie,alatershow.”
“It’saschoolnight.”Shevigorouslyerasedsomethingandbrushedtheflakesofrubberonthefloor.
“Well,Iwasgoingtomakeanexception.”
IslippedanaprononwhileIstirredthesauce.I’dgoneshoppingfornewclotheswhileyoumovedoutofourhouse.Iworeoneofthesweaters,acream-coloredcashmerewrap,straighthomefromthechangeroomatthedepartmentstore.Ineverdidthissortofthing,buypilesofexpensivenewclothesatonce,butIwantedtofeelrecklessthatdayanditwasthebestthingIcouldthinkof.YouwerestillpayingtheVisabill.
“Shehasthatsweateryou’rewearing.”
She.Istoppedstirring,asthoughifIwerestillenough,Iwouldn’tspooktheanimal.IntheperipheryIsawVioletretreatbacktoherwork,noseinchesfromthepage.Iwantedhertosaymore.
“That’snice,”Isaid.
Shelookedupatme—wasit?
“Iguessshehasgreattastethen.”Iwinkedandputherspaghettionthetable.SheletitcoolwhileshefinishedupandIleanedonthestove,wonderingwhatelseshemighttellme.
“So,you’regoingtoDad’stomorrow.Areyouexcitedtoseehisnewplace?”
“It’stheirplace.”
Ididn’tknowifshewaslyingtomeornot—sheseemedtoknowmorethanIdid.Iassumedyouwerelivingonyourown,butInevermadeapointofasking.Iwonderedifyou’dtalkedtoVioletaboutourseparationmuchearlierthanyouandIhaddiscussedit.Itooktheapronoffandlookedatthesweater,wonderingifitwastoolatetoreturnit.Therewasasplatterofsauceonthesleevenow
“Okay,well,theirplace.Areyouexcited?”
“There’ssomethingyoushouldknowabouther.”Shespokesharply.Iheldmyowndishofspaghetti,abouttositdownwithher.Ifoundmyselfnearlyoutofbreathallofasudden—maybeitwasthefearaboutwhatshe’dsaynext.
“What?”
SheshookherheadandlookeddownagainandIcouldtellshe’dneverintendedtotellme.Ormaybetherewasnothingtotell.
“Wedon’tneedtotalkabouther.That’syourDad’sbusiness,notmine.”Ismiled.Itwirledthenoodlesandstuffedtheminmymouth.
63.
Mymotherreinventedherselfwhensheleftme,althoughperhapsreinventionisbeinggenerous.IlearnedthiswhenIwasthirteenandsawheratadinerjustoutsideofthecity.ShewasstandingbetweentwostoolsatthemilkshakebaraskingforacleanforkinavoiceIhadnotheardherusebefore.ButIwouldhaverecognizedthebackofheranywhere—theroundofhershoulders,thecurveofherhips.Whenshewasgiventhefork,shesaidthankyouinavoicethatsoundeddifferentthanithadwhenshewasmymother.Herwords,withtheirsuperiority,hadcomeoutofhermouthasshespunonherblackheels.Shehandedthenewforktothemanshewaswithandhesaid,“Thanks,Annie,honey.”Annewashermiddlename.
Later,I’dcometofindoutthebulkymanwasRichard.I’dknownanothermanexisted,theoneonthephonebeforesheleft,theonewhoIsuspectedhadsomethingtodowiththebloodinthetoilet.ButIhadn’tpicturedhimlookingthisway—hewashandsomebutslippery,withwethairandshinyskin,andheworeahugegoldwatch.HisfacelookedtannedfromthesunalthoughitwasonlyMarch.Hewasnothinglikemyfather,nothinglikethelifeIimaginedshehadleftmefor.
IsankintotheboothbesideMrs.Ellington,whohadbroughtThomasandmetocelebrateourfirst-placewinintheregionalschoolsciencefair.Shehadwatchedusfromacrossthegymnasiumaswepresentedourfindingstothejudges,standinginfrontofthecardboardposterwe’dmade,ourexperimentwritteninThomas’carefulcursive,andthedetailedpicturesI’ddrawnforeachsection.Somethingaboutultravioletlight—Ican’tremembernow.ButIrememberhernoddingalongwiththepresentationwegave,likeshecouldheareverywordwesaidthroughthehumofonehundredstudents.IwatchedherinthedistanceandstraightenedmyshouldersasIspoke,likeshedid.Iwantedtomakeherproud.
IwatchedmymotherandRichardforwhatfeltlikehoursastheyatetheirmealandthenfoldedtheirnapkinslikeproperpeopledid.Sheworeablacksheerblousewithbigroseembroideryonthecollar;I’dneverseenherinsomethingsexylikethat.Heputcashonthetablebeforethey’devenseenthebill.Mrs.Ellingtonglancedoverathertoo,butshedidn’tsayanythingtomethen,norItoher,andsowejusthadourmilkshakesandThomastalkedaboutwhatwecoulddowithourtwenty-fivedollarsinprizemoney.Iwasnumbwithanxiety,wonderingifmymothermightturnherheadaroundandcatchaglimpseofme.Asmallpartofmehopedshewould.Sheneverdid,andIwasmostlyrelievedwhentheyleft—Iwasn’tsureifshewouldcomeovertosayhelloevenifshesawme.WelefttherestaurantanddrovehomeinMrs.Ellington’scar.
“Youokay,Blythe?”Mrs.EllingtonletThomasruninsidethehousewhileshewalkedmetotheendoftheirdriveway.Inoddedandsmiledandthankedherforthedrive.Ididn’twantMrs.Ellingtontoknowhowmuchithurttoseemymother.Happy.Beautiful.Betterwithoutme.
ThatnightIgotonmyhandsandkneesbeforeIwenttobedandprayedthatmymotherwoulddie.Iwouldratherhaveseenherdeadthanasthenewwomanshehadbecome,thechangedwomanwhowasnolongermymother.
64.
I’dneverbeenavoidedbefore,atleastnotthatIcouldrememberorknewabout.Butitwouldhavebeeneasiertomeetfacetofacewiththequeenthantohaveseenyouinpersonthosefirstsixmonthsafteryouleft.YouonlyeverwantedtohandVioletoffatschooldrop-offandpick-up,andyourtextmessageswerecurt.Iwantedtomeetthewomanyouleftmefor,thewomanwhowaslivinginthesameapartmentthatmydaughterwouldspendhalfofhertime.Iwantedtoknowhowwecompared.Iwantedtobeabletopictureyoutwotogether.Wewereavoidingcourtsandlegalcounselatyourrequest,andsoIhadsomethingofanupper-handinourstiltednegotiations.Butthisoneyouwereadamantabout—youwouldintroduceuswhenyouwerereadyandtherewasnoroomfordiscussionotherwise
“I’dlovetomeetDad’snewgirlfriend,”IsaidtoVioletaftershetoldmethewomanhaddroppedheroffatschoolthatmorning.ItwasFridayandIhadherfortheweekend.
“Maybeshedoesn’twanttomeetyou.”
“Maybe.”
Violetbuckledherseatbeltandlookedatthekeyintheignition,desperateformetostartthecarandgetheronestepclosertonotbeingintheseatbehindme.Iglancedintherearviewmirrorandherfacechanged—alookofpity.Ididn’tknowifitwasgenuineornot.
“There’sareasonDaddoesn’twantyoutomeether.”Hervoicelowered,likeshewastellingmeasecret,givingmeacluetoamysteryIhadn’tyetknownIwassolving.Shelookedoutthewindowatthefamiliarrowofbrownstonewalk-upsthatwepassedonthewayhome.Shebarelyspoketomefortherestoftheevening.
Andso,I’mnotsureyouleftmemuchchoicebuttodowhatIdid.
Violettoldmeyouweregoingtotheballettogether,justyouandher,thefollowingweekthewomancouldn’tgo,shehadstandingWednesdaynightplansatthesametime.I’dlookeduptheshowonlineandsawitbeganat7pm.Iknewyou’dtakeVioletforpizzafirst.
Yourlow-riseapartmentbuildingwasinaquaintpartofthecitythatIknewwellItookataxioverandgotoutafewblocksaway.Itwassix-thirtyandtrafficwasstillheavy.Thedriverstaredatmeintherear-viewmirrorlikehecouldsensemynerves,seemyfingerspullingoverandoveratthestraythreadinthehemofmycoat.Itippedhimtoomuch,notwantingtowaitforthechange,andpulledupthehoodofmycoatsothefurshieldedmostofmyface.Walkingwasgoodformynerves.Icalmeddownandwatchedmyfeet,oneinfrontoftheother,untilIapproachedyourbuilding.Ileanedagainsttheredbrickandtookmyglovesoffandpulledmyphonefrommypocket.Ididn’treallyhaveaplan,butitmadesensetolookbusy,distractedbytexts,likeanyotherpersononthestreet.
Iwatchedthedoortothelobbyfromthecornerofmyeye—itbecameeasiertoseeinsideastheskydarkened.AfewwomencameandwentbutIknewtheyweren’ther—tooold,toobig,toomanydogs.Andthenawomaninapuffydownjacketwalkedoutofthebuilding,phoneinhand,andsmiledatthedoorman.Shehadlongcurlyhairpulledtothesideandadiamondearringthattwinkledunderthelightsofthelobbyoverhang.Shereachedherarmsuptoputacross-bodypurseoverherheadandthenpulledonleopardprintgloves—ithadquicklybecomeacold,blusterynight.Iwasprettysureitwasher.SoItookmychancesandIfollowedher.
Itwaseasytokeepup.Hersuedeanklebootshadalow,thickheelandshewalkedataslowpace,likeshehadn’tgrownupinthecity.Shehiteverycrosswalkbuttoneventhoughmostpeopleknewtheywereuseless.IthoughtI’dbenervousaboutbeingcaughtdoingsomethinglikethis,butfollowingherfeltsoeasy.ShemadeaquickphonecallasIstoodseveralfeetbackfromheratasetofstreetlights,andthenshehustledtocatchthegreenshe’dnearlymissed,distracted.HalfablocklatersheturnedintoaplaceI’dgonemanytimeswhenIwasintheneighborhood—asmallbookstorewithornatelycarvedwall-to-wallshelvingandhugemilky-glassspheresthatswayedeversoslightlyfromthesoaringtwenty-footceilingeverytimethedooropened.
Idoublecheckedthesignonthewindow—itclosedatsixo’clockonWednesdays,whichIvaguelyrecollected.Butthelightswereonandthestorehadforty,maybefiftypeopleinside.Allwomen.Coatswerespreadonacoupleofoldchurchbenchesandtherewasatableofserve-yourselfwineatthesidewithacupcaketowersponsoredbythebakerynextdoor.Theglarefromthestreetlampsmadeithardtosee,soIputmyhandsuptotheglassforabetterlook.Nobodyseemedtobetakingticketsornames.Iexpectedtoseesignsaboutanauthorappearanceoratablepiledwithbooksforasigning.EveryonelookedyoungerthanIwas,manyinthesamebootsshe’dbeenwearing—yourswasahigh-rentneighborhoodwherealltheboutiquescarriedthesamethings.Thetwowomenstandingnexttothewindowhadfreshnewbabieswrappedtotheirchestsinswathsofstripedfabric.Theyswayedfromsidetosideastheychatted,inexactlythesamerhythm,andIrememberedthatfeeling,thattickofmetronomethatneverquiteleavesyourhipswhentheweightofyourbabyisagainstyou.
Shewasneartheback,smoothingherthick,darkhairassomeoneputahandonhershouldertosayhello.Theyhugged,herblushedcheekpressedagainsthertall,blondefriend.Shehadabrightface,hugedarkeyesswathedinmascara,andhermouthwaslockedinasmile.Sheseemedtoremembersomethinginherpursethatshe’dbroughtfortheblondewoman—shereachedinquicklyandpulledoutsomethinggreyandknitted,andthefriendpresseditagainstherchestinthanks.Anotherwomanjoinedthemandhandedthemtwoglassesofwine.
TheroombegantofillandsoonIcouldn’tseeherfromoutsideanymore.Myheartsank.Ineededmore.Ishouldhavebeenterrifiedtowalkthroughthatdoor—surelyshemusthaveseenapictureofmeatsomepointandknewwhatIlookedlike—butIwentinsideandaddedmycoattotheheap.Irecognizedthestaffpersonclosingthetillandleanedintospeakquietlytoher.
“Doyouknowwherethehostofthispartyis?”
“It’snotreallyaparty.It’samom’sgroup.Justadrop-inthing.Sometimestheyhavespeakerscomeorbrandsgivethemfreestuff.Wejustlendourspaceandhopetogetafewsalesoutofit.”
“Soeveryonehereisamom?”
“Iguesstheydon’thavetobe,butnotsurewhyelsethey’dcome.”Sheshruggedandexcusedherselftothebackwithatrayofcash.Ilookedaroundandsuddenlyheardthesymphonyofmomproblemsaroundme—sleeptraining,startingsolids,sleeperswithzippersinsteadofsnaps,preschoolwaitlists.Ipouredwineintoasmallplasticcupandmeanderedtotheoppositesideoftheroom,toaspotwhereIcouldstillseeher.Ilookedatmyphone,hopingnobodywouldspeaktome,andglanceduptowatchhereveryfewseconds.Sheseemedtobetellingastory,usingherfreehandtomaketiny,panickedflutters,likebutterflywings.Thetwootherwomennoddedandlaughed.Oneoftheothersleanedinandrolledhereyesasshespokeandtheylaughedagain.Shetouchedpeoplealot,Inoticed.Theirarms,theirhands,theirwaists.Shewasaffectionate,Icouldtell.Ithoughtofyourbarefeetunderthesheets,alwaystryingtofindmineatnight,alwaystryingtorubagainstmycalves,tofeelmywarmth,andofthewayIpulledawayacrossthebed.Furtherandfurtherandfurtheraway.
“Yourfirsttime?”
SomeonewithaveryhighponytailandbrightredlipstickpoppedupinfrontofmeholdingapostcardthatsaidMom’sNightOutwithacollectionofsmallbusinesslogos.
“Yes,actually.Thanks.”
“Great!Icanintroduceyoutosomepeople.How’dyouhearaboutus?”
Sheputherarmatthesmallofmybackandledmetowardsthemiddleoftheroom,notinterestedintheanswer.
“Jill,she’snew,”shesaidloudly,andpointedtomeurgentlyabovethecrowdasthoughIneededatagstapledtomyearsotheycouldkeeptrackofme.Jill’seyesliftedandshesqueezedthroughthecrowdtocomeoverandintroduceherself.
“Andyou’re…?”
“Cecilia.”Itwastheonlynamethatcametome.Ilookedovertheirheadstowardstheback,whereshehadbeen,butIcouldn’tseeher—shewasn’twiththeothertwowomenanymore.Iscannedtheroomandstartedtofeelsick.
“Well,welcome,Cecilia!Congratsforgettingyourselfoutofthehousetonight!Howoldisyourchild?”
“Thanks—youknowwhat,Ijustwantedtostopbyandgetsomeinformation.I’lltrytostaynexttime.”Iliftedmyphone,asthoughsomeonehadbeentextingme,asthoughIwereapersonwhowasneeded.“I’vegottorun.”
“Ofcourse.Comebackagain.”Shetookasipofherwineandlookedaroundwonderingwhototalkwithnext.
MycoatwasstillatthetopofthepilebutIdugthroughthemanyway,buyingtime,lookingovermyshouldertofindherinthethickcrowd.Ihadtogo—Ihadbeentherelongenough.Ipulledmyhoodupandwentoutsidewherethesnowflurrieswhippedaroundthestreet.Isatonabenchacrossfromthebookstoreandputmyheadbetweenmyknees.
Youhadliedtome.Shewasamother.Youhadfoundabettermotherforourdaughter.Thekindofwomanyoualwayswanted.
65.
ThesecondtimeIwasnervous.
I’dboughtthelong,brownwigatatheatresupplystore.Youwouldhavedescribeditasmousy,butmousywasthelookIwasgoingfor.MyheartracedasItuckedmyblondehairintothesilkcap.Iwasn’tsureIlookeddifferentenough,butIcouldn’tthinkofwhatelsetodo.Ipracticedahappiersmileinthemirror,andthenhungmyhead.Youfool.Youabsolutefool.Forwearingthewig,forthinkingI’dgetawaywithit,forbelievingyouhadansweredmetruthfullywhenIaskedifshehadachild—anyoneofthose.Allofthose.
WhenIgotthere,Jill,theunofficialleaderofthegroup,wasatthedoorhandingoutsamplesofnaturaldiapercreamtowhoeverwalkedin.Itouchedtheendsofmynewhair.
“Hi!Isthisyourfirstmeeting?Welcome!”Shespokeslightlyovermyhead,asthoughshewerelookingforsomeonebettertocomeupbehindme.Inoddedandthankedherandputthediapercreaminmybag.TherewasaspeakersettingupapresentationtheywerecallingANaturalHousehold,ANaturalYou.Theroomwasfullofchairs.Igotmywineandsurveyedthecrowd.IpretendedtobrowsethebookshelveswhileIkeptaneyeonthedoor,watchingasgroupsofwomencongregated,complimentingoutfitsandaskingabouteachother’skids.Thebrownstrandsblurredmyperipheryandmademewanttoswipeatthehairlikepeskyflies—Iwasn’tusedtobeingabrunetteyet.Thehigh-ponywomanwhohadspokentomelasttimesoughtmeoutfromacrosstheroom.God,hadsherecognizedme?MycheeksburnedandIturnedtofindsomeoneelsetotalkto,anyone,buteveryonearoundmewasinconversation.Islippedintoagroupofthreewomenwhowerediscussinga“notime-outpolicy”andsmiled,abouttointroducemyself,whenshetappedmeontheshoulder.
“I’mMelissa.Here’sacard.CupcakesarefromLola’s.WineisfromEstherEstates.Nextweekwe’rehavingasleepexpert,she’samazing.AreyouonourFacebookpage?”Relief.Itookthepostcardfromherhand,again.Ichattedwiththesmallgroupandwatchedthedoor,butshenevercamein.Melissacalledeveryonetotakeaseatandthepresenterbegan.Isatinthebackrownearthedoor,intentonleavingonceIcouldduckoutunnoticed.ThewigwasitchyandIhadnointerestinbeingthere,ifnotforher.
JustasIwasabouttostand,Ifeltthecoolairblowinfromthedoorbehindme.Thereshewas,wavinganapologytothespeaker,tiptoeingtothebenchassheunzippedhercoat.Iturnedslowlybacktofacethefrontoftheroomandcrossedmylegs,holdingmybreath.Therewasanemptyseatbesideme.Sheslippedintoit,awaveofhersweetperfumefloatingoverme.
“Sorry,”shewhisperedassheknockedmylegwithherpurse.Ismiledandkeptmyeyesonthepresenter,althoughmyheartwaspoundingsoloudlythatIcouldn’thearawordthewomansaid.Idroppedmyeyestotheside,lookingatherrippedjeans,thebootstheyallwore,theexpensivebagshe’dputonthefloor.
“Ifollowheronline,she’samazing.”Herwhisperstartledme.InoddedenthusiasticallyasshepulledoutasmallpinknotebookwiththewordJOYingoldfoilonthecover.ShejotteddownnotesabouthowtomakespraybottlesofnontoxichousecleanerwhileIpretendedtocarewithanoccasionalnod.Herhandswerelongandbeautiful.Ifoldedmine,speckledwithsunspotsandhundredsofcreases.Iwasthirty-eight—shelookedatleastadecadeyounger.Shedidn’twearanyrings.Istillworemyweddingbandfromyou,buthadtakenitoffthatnight.
Thepresentationseemedendless.Whenitfinallywrapped,Iturnedtoher.
“Thatwassogood.She’sgreat.”
“Right?Ihaveafriendwhodoesliterallyeverythingshesays,andIswearsheisneversick.”Sheputthenotebookinherpurseandpointedtothetable.“Doyouwantaglassofwine?”
Ifollowedherwhileshetouchedvariouspeoplehelloalongtheway.Ashoulder,anarm.Kissesandhugs.Shepouredtwoglassesandliftedherchintowardsaclearinginthebuzzingcrowd.Ifollowedherover.Shereleasedahugebreath.
“That’sbetter.Itgetssocrowdedinhere.Ishouldn’twearwool.”Shepulledattheneckofherburgundysweaterandtookthetiniestsipofwine.“Oh,sorry,I’mGemma.Idon’tthinkIsaidthatyet.”
“I’mAnne.”
“Howoldareyourkids?”
Ihadaplanforthispart.Iwasasinglemomwithtwoyounggirls,atwo-andfive-years-old.Redandblonde.Soccerandballet.Ihadrehearsedtheirnamesoutloud.
“Ihaveone.He’salmosttwoandahalf.HisnameisSam.”
Thewordsechoed.Ifelthimbrightinsidemeandmyheadbecamelight,likeI’dsniffedadrugI’dbeenoffforyears.Ilookeddown,afraidforhertoseemyeyes.IpicturedhimathomehavingdinnerwithyouandViolet,wonderingwhereIwas,ifI’dbehomeintimetotuckhimin.Hewouldhavebeentalkingbynow.Fullsentences.IloveyouMommy.
“Ihaveaboy,too.He’llbefivemonthstomorrow.”TheechoofSam’snameinmyearsdiedandmyeyessnappedup.Shetookanothernon-sip,justwantingthetasteonherlips.Herbreasts,Inoticedthen,weretorpedoes.Filledwithmilk.
“Sorry,didyousayfivemonths?”
Shejumpedaswinesplashedonhersuedeboots—I’dletmyarmfall.Istaredattheemptyplasticcupinmyhand.
“Oh,shit.”Shelookedaroundforsomethingtocleanherselfwith.“Ihavewipes,”shemutteredandlookedthroughherbagwhileIstoodfrozen,silent.Iwatchedherpullthewet-wipesfromthepackageasIranthroughthecalendar.ItwasDecember.Iwentthroughthemonths.Haditbeensixmonthsalready?HadhemovedoutinJuly?Yes.Yes,itwasthebeginningofthesummerholiday.Thelongweekend.Heleftjustbeforethebabywasborn.
“SohewasborninAugust?”
“Yes,August15th…letmejustfindsomenapkins,thesearen’tworking.”
“Shit,sorry.”Irantothecupcaketableandcamebackwithafistfulofnapkinsandbenttopatherbootsdry.She’dtakenthemoffandwassittinginachair,herfeetturnedin.Irubbedatthedarkenedsuedeandapologizedprofusely
“Ihavethisthing—thistremorinmyhand.”Itwasremarkablehoweasilytheliescametome.
“Oh—that’sokay.”Hertonechangedatthethoughtofmynewdisability—sheputherhandonmyupperarm,asI’dseenherdototheotherfriendsshehadmadeintheroom.“Don’tworryonebit.They’lldry.”
Webothstoodup.Shewasnearlyafoottallerthanmeinherdampsocks.Ihadtolookuptospeaktoher.
“I—you—fivemonthsold,that’ssolittle!”Iwasamazedwithmyselfforspeaking.Forholdingittogether.“Youlookgreat.”
“Thanks.I’mtired.He’saterriblesleeper.Ican’twaittohearthesleepcoachspeakingnextweek.Ormaybeyouhavesometipsforme.Didyousleeptrain?The‘cryitout’method?Ijustdon’tthinkIcandothat.Ican’tstandhimtobeupset.”
Thisboyshespokeaboutwasyours.Shehadgivenbirthtoyourson.Youhadbeengivenanotherchance.Andthat’swhenithitme—theninemonthsittakestogrowababy.ThatshegotpregnantthemonthbeforeIdiscoveredtheaffair.Themonthyouwerefiredfromyourjob.Youknew.
“Um,youknow,hejustsortofslept.Ididn’thavetodomuch.”
“Ohreally?Likefromhowold?”
Theroomfeltthick.Ithoughtofherpushingthebabyout.Ofyouwatchingyournewboycometolife.
“Maybefourmonthsorso?Ican’treallyremember.”
“I’mthinkingoftoppinghimupatnightwithsomeformula.Theysaythathelpstofilltheirbellies.ButI’mnotreallysurewhatkind—”
“Andthefather?”
“Sorry?”Sheleanedcloser—shethoughtshehadn’theardmecorrectly,thequestionwassoodd.
“Imean,doyouhaveapartner?”
“Ido.He’sgreat.He’sagreatfather.Hejustsentthis,actually.”Shesmiledandpulledoutherphone.Herlipsmovedslightlyasshesearchedforaphototoshowme,asthoughshewastalkingtoherself.Sheheldthepictureupandliftedhereyebrows,waitingformyreaction,likeitmightbeaphotoofahuge,unwieldyerection.Thebabywasswaddled,asleepinacrib.Thesheetshadstarsandmoons.Icouldn’tseehisfacefromtheangleofthephoto.Itookthephonefromherandstaredatthewrapped-uphuman,thehumanwhowashalfofyou,whosharedhalfofourdeadson’sDNA.“Hecangethimtosleepsoeasily.Theyreallyloveeachother.”
“Verysweet.”Ihandeditbackandtouchedmyhair,rememberingthewig.Ineededtogetoutofthere—itwastoohot,tooloudallofasudden.
“Andyou?Doyouhaveapartner?”
“Idon’t—I,hewasneverinthepicture.So.Singlemom.”Inodded,confirmingthelietomyself,hopingshedidn’taskmore.
“Youknow,Anne,youlookfamiliartome.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,Ifeellikewe’vemetbefore.”
“Maybe.”Iturnedtowardsthecoatpile.Ihadtoleave.
“Where’dyougotoschool?”
“Oh,asmallplaceoutwest—”
“Doyoudoyoga?”
“Yeah,maybethat’swhy.I’vetriedabunchofdifferentstudios,somaybewecrossedpaths?”
“No…Idon’tthinkthat’sit.”
Istartedmakingmywayout.Shefollowed.
“I’moutandaboutintheneighborhoodalot,maybewe’vejust—”
“Oh.Shit.Iknow.”Shesnappedherfingers.Iheldmybreathandlookedatthedoor.
“It’sjustaresemblance—myspininstructor.YoulookaLOTlikeher.”
*
Iphonedyouinthecabonthewayhome.Fourtimes.Iknewyouwouldn’tpickup.Iachedtospeakwithyou,toaskyouifhelookedlikeSam.Ifhehadthesamepout,thesamesmell.I’dforgottentoaskherthebaby’sname.Irealizedthatwehadn’tspokentoeachothersincethebabywasborn.MaybeyouthoughtI’dtaintyourlifesomehowifyouheardmyvoice,takesomethingawayfromtheexperienceyoudeserved.Sheseemedlikeawonderfulmother—Icouldtelljustbybeingnearher.Shefeltlikeavery,verygoodmother.
66.
Iwonderifyouwatchedashervagina,swollenandburning,openeduptoreleaseanewbeing,halfofyou,intothehandsofadoctorwhocongratulatedyouonyourson.Aboy,forthesecondtime.Iwonderifyoureyesfilledwithtearsastheyplacedtheslipperybabyonhersweatychestandsawhimgapetowardshernipple.Iwonderifyouheldthatwoman’sshakinghandwhiletheyyankedthreadthroughtheskinofherperineum,pulledandtuggeduntilthedamagewasdealtwith.Iwonderifyoutookherbytheelbowandledhertothetoiletinherroom,whereshecriedinpainandhoveredwithshakingthighs,bloodpouringfromher,herinsidesheavy,hervulvapulsing,herbodysoweakafteranexperiencesostrong.Didyousquirtwarmwaterupintoherbloodypartslikethenursestaughtyoubefore?Didyougetintothatwidehospitalbedwithher,andthebaby,andwonderhowyou’deverlovedadifferentwoman?Didyouputyourphoneonsilentsoshewouldn’thearmytextsasshewastryingtogetcolostrumintothebaby’smouth?Didyouarguetocircumcisehispenis,likeyoudidwithSam?Didyoutakeherhomethenextday,insoftjerseycottonpajamasshe’dboughtjustfortheoccasion?Andwasthathomeyoutookhertotheplacewhereyoumadethisbaby,theplacewhereyoucameinsideherwithsucheuphoriathatyoudidn’tgiveashitwhathappenedafterwards?
Icouldn’tsleepfordaysaftermeetingher.
Icouldn’tsleepuntilIwentintothebasement.
Ibrushedoffthelayerofdustonthestoragecontainer.InsidewereSam’sthings.Onesies,blankets,footedpajamas,afewotherlittlethingsheloved.BennytheBunny.Icarriedtheboxupstairstothefootofmybedandbeganmyritual.Nightlighton.Organiclavenderlotiononmyhands,thekindIusedtorubonhisskinafterhisbath.Thewhitenoisemachinewasatthebottomofthebox.Oceanwaves.Iplaceditonthebedsidetable.
IclosedmyeyesandtriedtoremembereverylastthingofhisinsideThesoftmint-greenone-piecefromyourmother.ThepajamasthatmatchedwithViolet’s.Themuslinblanketwiththeheartsonit.Thetinyredsocks.Theflannelblanketfromthehospital.Icouldlistthemall,Icoulddoitagainrightnow,agameofmemory.Noneofithadbeenwashed.Somuchofhimwasinthosefabrics.
ThiswasanindulgenceI’dallowedmyselfonlyafewtimessinceSamdied.IsaveditforwhenIneededitmost.
IliftedeachitemslowlytomyfaceandinhaledasdeeplyasIcould,untilmynosestung,lettingmymindsoakupwhateveritcouldfind…bangingpotsonthekitchenfloorwhileImadeoatmeal,suckingsoapywaterfromthewetfaceclothinthebath,cuddlingforstories,naked,happy,theriskofadiaper-freebumonourduvet.Icravedtheselittlesilentmoviesofhim.Itdidn’tmattertomethatthesememorieswerenotexact,thatmostofthemhadn’thappenedpreciselyastheydidinthescenesthatplayedthroughmyhead—Ijustneededtoseehim,andthenIcouldfeelhimwiththesethingsinmyhands.IfIfocusedjustenoughSamcouldberighttherenexttome,andIcouldfeelaliveagain.
WhenIfinishedcaressingeachofhisthings,Ichosethepajamasheworethemost,thininthekneesfromcrawlingafterViolet,stainedattheneckfromblueberryjam.Thelight-knitblanketfromhiscrib.AndBenny.Iusedtobeabletofindhiminthatfur,distinctly,breathinghimintofillmybrainlikeananesthetic.ButnowSam’sscentwasnearlygoneandBennyfeltabitdampandmusty.Iranmythumboverthestainedpartofhistailthatlookedlikenothingbutoldrustnow.
I’dkeptanunuseddiapertoo.Ilaideverythingoutonthebed,eacharticleasitwouldhavebeen:thediaperinsidethepajamas,theblanketlaidunderneath,Bennytuckedinnearhisneck.AndthenIpickedhimupandIcradledhiminmyarms,andIsmelledhim,andIkissedhim.Iturnedoffthenightlight.Ituckedinthecornersoftheblanketsohewaswrappedandwarm.IswayedtotheoceanwavesandhummedthelullabyIalwayssang.Irockedhimbackandforth.Andwhenhewasstillandheavy,whenhisbreathingwaslonganddeep,Icarefullyslippedintobedsoasnottowakehim.Imovedthepillows,madeasafespot.AndIsleptthere,withhiminmyarms.
Inthemorning,Iputeverythingcarefullyback.Icarriedtheboxdowntothebasement.Backinthekitchen,Iputthekettleonthestove,pulleduptheblinds,andbegananotherdayalone.
67.
Myfathertoldmehewasgoingtodropmeoffatmymother’shouseonSundayforlunch.Iwasstunned.Wehadn’tspokenmuchaboutherinthethreeyearssincesheleft,andIhadn’tseenhersincethetimeatthedinerwithMrs.Ellington.Hetoldmeshehadcalledtheweekbeforeandextendedtheinvitation.Ididn’tseemtohaveachoice,thewayhetoldmeaboutit,butIrememberwantingtogodespiteherbetrayal—Iwascurious.Maybehewas,too.
Whensheopenedthedoorshelookedpastmetothedriveway,searchingformyfatherthroughthereflectionofhiswindshield.Shewatchedthecaruntilitturnedoffthestreetandthenlookeddownatme.Iworemyhairadifferentway,intwolongbraids,andmyfacewasspeckledwithnewfrecklesfromthesummersun
“Nicetoseeyou,”shesaid,asthoughwe’drunintoeachotheratthegrocerystore.
Ifollowedherin.Herhouse,modestontheoutside,wasfilledwithfancyitemsIhadn’tseenbefore,notevenattheEllingtons’.Properrunnersonthetablesandglassstatuesonpedestalsandpictureslitfromabovewiththeirownspeciallamps.Noneofitfeltrealtome.Itfeltlikeaset,likeactorswouldsweepinanyminuteandtakeoverthestage.Richardcalledforusandsheshuffledmetothekitchen,wherehehandedmeadarkpinkdrinkinacocktailglass.
“ImadeyouaShirleyTemple.”Itookitfromhishugehandandtheywatchedmehaveasip.
“ThisisRichard.Richard,thisisBlythe.”Shesatatthetableandlookedaroundherkitchen,promptingmetodothesame.Everythinglookedpristine,unused.Maybeitwas.
“I’veorderedsomesandwiches.”
Richardstaredatmeandthenbackatmymother.Sheraisedhereyebrowsathimasiftosay,happynow?
Heaskedmeafewquestionsaboutthefirstweekofschoolandtoldmehelikedmyname,andthenexcusedhimselftomakeacall.MymotherunwrappedourlunchfromcellophaneandaskedmewhatIhadbeenupto.Forthepastthreeyears,orjustthisweekend?Iwantedtoask.Butitwasclearthatweweresupposedtopretend—justlikethehouseshehadsetup.Justlikethislifeshehadwantedtoshowmeforsomereason.Sheleanedoverthecountertoreachaknifeandherblousetouchedablobofmayonnaise.
“Shit,”shehissedandrubbedatthestainwithateacloth.“I’vewornthisonce.”
IatemyturkeysandwichandlistenedtothemtalkaboutsomewhereonthecoastofFrance.They’dgoneforthesummer.Iwonderedwhereallthemoneycamefrom,whytheylivedinthatboringhouseinthatmediocreneighborhoodahalf-houroutsideofthecity.I’dalwaysimaginedsheleftusforanurban,bohemianlifefullofpeoplewhowereasbeautifulasshewas.ThatwasclearlynotRichard.Buthecertainlydidn’tmatchtheglassstatuesandtheelegantchina,either.HelookedasoutofplaceasIknewshewas.
Herhairandherskinandherlipsandherclothesweredifferent—evenhervoice.Newtexturesandsmellsandpitches.EverypartofherthatI’donceknownhadbecomeglossyandcoatedandsmelledlikeadepartmentstore.IlatersawpilesoftissueandfancyshoppingbagsfoldedinherclosetfromstoresIhadn’theardofbefore.She’dgivenmeahaphazardtourofthehouse,afterwhichwelingeredinthebedroom.Thereweren’tanypillsonherbedsidetable.Inoticedshehadasmallsuitcaseinthecorner,open-faced,herthingsstrewnontop..Shesawmestaringatit.
“Ihaven’thadachancetounpack.Westayinthecityalot.Richardhasbusinessthere.Welivedthereforawhile,actually.”Shetookoffherstainedsilkblouseandlookedthroughherclosetforsomethingelsetowear.Shesighed.“Ihateithere,but—”
Butwhat?Iwondered.Herbrawasblackandlacy.Ihadahumiliatingurgetoputmyfacebetweenherbreasts,justtosmellherskin,asifthatcrevicecouldhavepossiblyremindedmeofchildhood.
Laterthatafternoon,afterIcamedownquietlyfromthebathroom,IwatchedfromthehallwayasRichardgrabbedherwaistfrombehindandpulledherintohim.Shereachedupandputherfingersinhiswaxy,greyinghair.
“Imissedyou.Don’tdisappearlikethatagain.”Shepulledherhandawayfromhis.
“Iwishyouhadn’tcalledhim.”
“Well,itworkedtogetyouhome,didn’tit?”
Richardhadinvitedmeover,notmymother.Iwasaploytogetherbackfromthecity.Buttheremusthavebeenasmallpartofherthatwantedtoseeme,thatstillcaredwhatmyfatherandIthoughtofher.
Icountedtotenandwalkedintothekitchen.Myfatherwouldbebacksoon.Ithankedthemforlunchandwatchedforhiscarfromthewindow.Iwaitedforhertosaysomething—Comebacksoon.I’mgladyoucame.I’vemissedyou
Shewavedgoodbyetomefromoutsideofthedoorway,makingsuretogivemyfatherachancetohaveagoodlookather.
Heneveraskedmeaboutthevisit—notthehouse,notRichard,notwhatsheservedforlunch.Butatdinner,aswedidthelastofthedishestogetherinsilence,Isaidtohim:“Itwasn’tyouwhomadeherunhappy.”Ineededhimtoknow.Hedidn’treply—hefoldedthedampdishtowelonthecounterandheleftthekitchen.
ThatwasthelasttimeIsawmymother.
68.
WhenVioletwaswithme,itwaslikelivinginthehousewithaghost.Sherarelyspoketome,butshemadeherpresencefelt.Sheleftlightson,tapsdripping.Sheseemedtochangetheairintheroom.Iknewthefeelingofresentmentwellbythen,enoughtorecognizeitinthethicknessofthespacearoundher.
Whodidsheblamefortheseparation?Theobviousanswerwouldbeme,ifsheblamedanyoneatall.Ithinkshelikedthesplittingofourfamilyintotwo.Sheflourishedinhernewroleasachildofdivorce,whileshequietlyreveledinthereprieveshefoundfromme.Wehadn’theardfromherteachersinawhile.Iwonderedifwewereinthecalmbeforethestorm.
OnthewaytoschoolonemorningIreachedbackandhandedheramuffin.Shewasfishingforsomethingunderherscarfbutstoppedtotakeitfrommyhand.WhenIturnedbackaroundshepulledoutadelicategoldchainwiththeletterV,similartotheoneyou’dgivenmeyearsbeforethatIneverwore.Iwatchedhertouchittenderlyintherearviewmirror.
“Wheredidyougetthat?”
“Gemma.”
Shehadn’tsaidhernamealoudtomesincethatfirstlunchatyouroffice.IdesperatelywantedtokeepupmysecretrelationshipwithGemma,soIneveraskedVioletabouther.Icouldnotinciteanypossiblereasontobementionedinyourhousehold.
*
Itdidn’ttakemelongtoestablishaconnectionwithGemma.Shewaschipperandhigh-energyandenjoyedbeingaskedaboutherself.Shehadahabitofgoingintolongtalksandthen,mid-thought,squeezinghereyesclosedtosay,“I’vereallygoneon,haven’tI.Whataboutyou?”andthentouchingbothofmywristsinthemostdelicateway,asthoughshewerepattingthepawsofabunny.Thegesturewascharming,andIunderstoodthereprieveyoufoundinherwhilewewerestandinginsidethequietlycrumblingwallsofourmarriage.
Webegansittingtogetherduringtheweeklypresentationsandthenminglingwiththewomenafterwards.IstayedascloseGemmaasIcouldsothatInevermissedachancetohearsomethingnew.ShewasapuzzleIwasputtingtogetherslowly,weekbyweek.MyheartracedtheentiretimeIwaswithher,eager,desperatetolearnmoreabouther.Ioftenfoundmyselfstaringather,visualizingwhatyoulookedlikenexttoher.Howyoutouchedher.Howyoufuckedher.Howyouwatchedhernurseyourbabyandsoothehimtosleepandticklehiminthemorningandhowutterlyhappyshemadeyou.
“Iloveitactually—Ilovebeingastep-mom.”
Isnappedoutofmyfantasyandsawherclearlyagain.ShehadnevermentionedVioletbefore.Ihadbeenwaiting.
“She’seight,whichcanbeatoughageforsomegirls.Butsheseemstolikeme.’mlucky.Imeanyouhearthehorrorstoriesofstep-children…”
Someoneelsejumpedinandchangedthetopic.Later,whenwewerealone,Iaskedheraboutwhatshe’dsaid.
“Ididn’tknowyouhadastep-daughter.”
“Oh,Ihaven’tmentionedher?Hername’sViolet.She’sasweetheart.Myhusbandsharesequalcustodywithhisex,soshe’swithusalot.”
“Andyougetalong,itsoundslike?”
“Noissuesatall.Wejustworksowell,ourlittlefamily.Myhusbanddotesonus.Heloveshavingthefourofustogether.”
“Andwhatabouthermother?”
“She’snotreallyinthepicture.It’salongstory.Shehassomeissuesandsowesortofkeepourdistance.”
Inoddedandwasquiet,hopingshe’dsaymore.
“There’ssomehistorythereandIstayoutofit.Seemslikeshe’snotthemostlovinghumanbeing,fromwhatIgather.Althoughwhoarewetojudge,right?”Shesighedandeyedtheroom.
Iwantedmore.Iwantedtoknoweverylastlieyouhadtoldheraboutme.“Violet’sluckytohaveyou,then.”
“That’ssweetofyou,thanks.Iloveherlikeshe’smyown.”
Isearchedherfaceforthetruth.IwaslookingforthesameuneasinessthathadconsumedmeaboutViolet.ButGemmaswayedtothemusicoverheadandputheremptycuponthecashdesk.“Shallwego?”
Iclearedmythroatandfollowedhertothedoor.“AndsoViolet,doesshelikethebaby?”
“SheadoresJet.She’sthebestbigsister.”
“Ihuggedhergoodbye,feelingherswollenmilkytitsagainstmine.
69.
I’dgottenanewphonewithadifferentnumbersothatwecouldtexteachotherduringtheweek.Atfirstitwasaquickseriesofboringpleasantries—Willyoubethere?Great,metoo!Andafterwards,Sonicetoseeyou!Haveawonderfulweek.Later,shewouldtextmeforadvice,standingintheaislesofthepharmacywhileshelookedfortherightcoughmedicine,orwonderingifJetshouldwearreusableordisposableswimdiapersforhisMommy-and-melessons.Shewasaconfidentwoman,loquaciousandlively,buttherewasapartofherthatconstantlywantedreassurancewhenitcametoJet.Shewantedtobeaperfectmother,todoandbuyandgivetheverybest,andsheoftenlookedtomeforadvice.Ifoundthisvulnerabilityendearing.Thewaysheconsumedherselfwithherson’swellbeing,constantlyevaluatingherselfandwhatsheprovidedforhim.
Shelovedbeingamother,yes,butshealsolovedtomother.Todote,tocare,tofuss,tolove,tohold,tofeed.Shethrivedonit.WhenIaskedifshehadthoughtaboutweaningthebabysoon—hewasnearlyayearoldbythatpoint—sheshookherheadvigorously.Ishouldhaveknown—sheoncetoldmethateverytimeshenursedhim,shefeltanemotionalsurgeshehadneverexperiencedbeforehewasborn,somethingdeepfromwithinherthatshecouldn’texplain.Itoldheritsoundedlikeshewasdescribinganorgasm.
“Youknowwhat,Anne—it’sevenbetter.”
Welaughed,butshewasserious.
“I’dlovetomeetSam,”shesaidtomeoneWednesdaynightasweputonourcoats.“Wouldn’titbefuntogettheboystogether?”
“Thatwouldbesonice.”
Sheneverfollowedupontheidea,althoughIhadasuiteofwell-thoughtoutexcusesifshehad.Schedules.Illness(shewasterrifiedofgerms).Last-minutesplanstobeoutoftown.CarryingontogetherfeltsomucheasierthanIthoughtitwould.
Oneeveningshecalledmeatteno’clockonanightwhenVioletwasatyourhouse.Shewasworried.Jethadaterriblechestcoldandwashavingtroublebreathing.Shedidn’tknowwhattodo—shouldshetakehimintoemergency?Shouldsherunanothersteamyshower?
“Whatdoesyourhusbandthink?”Iknewyouweren’tmarried—weweren’tevendivorcedyet—butshecalledyouherhusbandanyway.
“He’snothere—he’soutoftownforworkandhe’snotanswering.”
“Oh.”Iwassurprisedyou’dleftVioletwithGemmaforthenightandnotsaidsomethingtomeaboutit.Ithoughtofourlooseagreement,ofhowfairI’dbeenaboutthesplittingourtime.Weweresupposedtoleteachotherknowifwe’dbeleavingVioletwithsomeoneelse.Youhadstartedtotakeadvantageofherpreferenceforyou,askingforanextranighthereorthere,nottellingmewhenshe’dbeleavingthecitywithyouforaweekendaway.Youknewyouhadtheupperhandnow.“So,you’realone?”
“Hisdaughterishere.IfItakehimintoemerg,she’dhavetocometoo.Andshehasschooltomorrow.She’salreadyasleep.Maybe—she’sonlyeight—butmaybeshecanstayalone?Thehospitalisliterallyonlyfourblocksaway.Sheneverwakesup,ever.ButGod,I’dfeelawfulifshedoesandcan’tfindme.”Sheblewoutalongstreamofair,thinking.“No,noI’llhavetowakeherupifIgo.”
Idon’tknowwhatcameoverme.
“Leaveher.Leavehertherealone,she’llbefine.Nothingwillhappen.Putthemonitorinherroomandwatchherfromthere.She’soldenough.IwouldtakehiminrightawayifIwereyou.”
“Really?Shit.Youthink?”
“Yes,forsure.Justgo.Youwon’tbelong,shewon’twakeup.Youcan’triskit—he’sjustababy.Youcan’ttakethechance.You’llneverforgiveyourself.”
Ineverwouldhaveleftheralone.ButIwantedyoutobeangrywithher.Furious.Iwantedhertodosomethingyouwouldthinkwasterrible.
“Oh,Idon’tknowAnne.”
“Justtakehim.,”Isaidwithurgency.“Icanhearhim,andhesoundsprettyawful.I’mworried.”
IfeltsickwithmyselfwhenIhungupthephone.
Shetextedmeinthemorningtosaythey’dsentherhome,afterafour-hourwait,withtheadviceofrunningahotshowerandholdinghimnearthesteam.He’dbeenfine.
ThenextweekwhenIsawheratthemomgroup,shetoldmeyouhadfreakedoutwhensheadmittedtoleavingVioletalone.Ipicturedyouspittingmeanwordsatherthroughclenchedteeth,thewayyoudidwhenyouweretrulyenraged.IthoughtIcouldtrustyouwithher.Ithoughtyouwereabettermotherthanthat.
“Idon’tknowAnne,Iprobablyshouldn’thavedonethat.Iwasn’tthinkingstraight.”
“I’msosorry—maybeIgaveyouthewrongadvice.Butyouweredoingwhatyouthoughtwasbest.”
“Yeah.Maybe.”Shewasmorequietthanusualthatnight,andIknewshewasupsetwithme.ItextedherasIwaitedforataxitogohome.
Everythingokay?Youseemeddowntonight.
Justoneofthoseweeks—nothingpersonal,Ipromise!?
Shewastooniceforconfrontation.IfeltillatthethoughtIhadbetrayedher.ShehadslowlybecometheonlypersonIneeded.
70.
I’veleftoutanimportantpartofourfriendship.Perhapsthemostimportant.WhenIwaswithGemma,IwasSam’smother.Hecamealiveinmeagain,inawayIneverthoughtcouldhappen.BeingwithGemmawaslikeplayingpretendandmyimaginaryfriendwastheloveofmylife.Mysweetson.Mygap-toothed,babblingtoddlerwhopatteredbarefeetthroughthehallsofmyhouseinpinstripedoveralls.Helovedmeasuringtapesandthemetalgratesontheductsandsugarpacksfromrestaurants.Hehadhisownvocabularyofmis-pronouncedwordsthatIrepeatedinasing-songvoicesavedjustforhim.Weswamonweekendsandwentformuffinsinthemorningonourwaytodaycare.Hewaslatetowalkandearlytotalk.Sunhatsneverfithim.
OnWednesdays,IletmyselfwonderalldaywhatI’dsaywhenIgottothemom’sgroup—thathe’dbeenupallnightandIwasexhausted,thathe’dcriedwiththebabysitterwhenIleft.MaybesomethingtheteacherhadsaidabouthimwhenI’dpickedhimupfromdaycarethatafternoon.CraftingthenarrativearoundSamwasaddictive—Icycledthroughstorylineslikeanobsession,thinkingaboutwhathe’dbelikeandhowIwouldcareforhimifhewasalive.IfViolethadn’tkilledhim.AlthoughItriednottoletherentermymindonthosedays.Theyweresacred,justforhim.AndwhenGemmasometimesbroughtherupinconversation,Ibristledandlistened,conflicted—Iwaseagerfortheopenwindowtoyourlifetogether,buthatedthatsheexistedintheperipheryofSam’ssecondchance.
IloveditwhenGemmaaskedmequestionsabouthim.SheoncetoldmemyeyeslitupwhenshesaidhisnameandIhadnodoubtshecouldseemyinsidesglow.Nobodyevermentionedhim,andhereshewas,givinghimspaceandtimeandworth.Shewantedtoknowabouthim.ToGemma,Sammattered.Andsoshematteredtome,deeply.
Ihadn’tthoughtaboutphotos.
SheaskedmeonedayifIhadapictureofSamthatshecouldsee.SheleanedovertolookatthephoneIheldcasuallyinmyhand,expectingIcouldeasilyflickthroughhundredsofhispictures,likeshehadofJet.
“Youknowwhat,Ijustclearedoutmyphone,actually.Iwasoutofspaceagain.”Itriedtolookannoyedbythistechnologicalfact.Itossedthephoneinmybagandcalmlychangedthetopic.
IthoughtyoumighthaveshownherbabypicturesofSamandVioletatsomepoint..Maybeyoustillkeptafewframedonyourdesk.Shewouldrecognizethem,wouldn’tshe?ShemightevenseeastrongresemblancetoJet.Thethoughtgavemechills.IpouredaglassofredwineandwentsearchingonlineforpicturesofboysthatlookedlikeSam.Iflippedthroughsocialmediaaccountsofstrangerswithopenprofiles.Ispenthoursscanningthelivesofhappy,clapping,bubble-blowing,wagon-riding,ice-cream-coveredtoddlers.I’dnearlyfinishedthebottlewhenIfoundtheperfectchild.Darkcurls,gap-toothedgrin,andthesamehugeblueeyes.SiobhanMcAdams,mumtoJamesbyday,Bakerofcakesbynight.
Itracedherfaceonmyscreen.Shelookedverytired.Shelookedveryhappy.
IsavedadozenofJames’photosandplacedoneasthebackgroundonmyphone—hewasonaswing,handsabovehisheadlikehewasonthecrestofarollercoaster.Samhadlovedtheswings.
Ipickedupitemsfromsecond-handstoresandsometimesbroughtthemtoGemma,pretendingtheywerethingsSamhadgrownoutof—Icouldneverhavepartedwithhisrealclothesortoys,andbesides,youorVioletmighthaverecognizedthem.ShealwayshuggedwhateverIbroughther,asthoughshewerehuggingSam.Ilovedtowatchherdothat.Ilovedtowatchherthinkofhim.
OneweekshebroughtmeabeautifulsetofFroebelbuildingblocksthatIknewwereexpensive.
“Actually,itwasmyhusbandwhosuggestedIbringthemforyou—someonegavethemtousasagift,butwealreadyhadaset.
Irealizedshemustn’thavetoldyouaboutmyroleintheemergencyroomincident.IheldtheboxtomychestingratitudethewayshedidwiththethingsIhadgivenher.Peopledothat,don’tthey,whentheyspendtimetogether—takeoneachother’ssubtlegestures,begintoactlikeoneanotherother.Iwonderedifshehadevermimickedmewithoutknowing,maybethewayIhadbeguntouchingtheendsofmyWednesdaynighthair,orthewayIcluckedmytonguesometimeswhenIwasthinking.IwonderedifIevercrossedyourmindwhenthishappened,fleeting,ephemeral,thethoughtgoneasquicklyasitcame.
Onthewayout,Iaskedhertothankyouforthegift.AndthenIsaidsomethingIshouldn’thave—thatI’dlovetomeetyouandJetandVioletsometime.Thiswasn’tpossible,ofcourse,butIwantedtotalkaboutyousomehow.Gemmanoddedandsaidshe’dlikethattoo,thatmaybeIcouldcomeoverforpizza,withSam,likeshe’dsuggestedbefore.
“AndhowarethingsgoingwithViolet?”
“Violet?She’sgood.Everyone’sgood.”Shewasdistracted,textingsomeoneonherphone.
ButIwonderedifshewaslyingtome.Iwonderedifsheeverlookedatmydaughterandhadafeelingsomethingwaswrong.Iwonderedifsheeversuspectedhersonwasindanger.
ShekissedmycheekgoodbyeandItouchedherarm,likeshealwaystouchedmine.
Weweregettingfartooclose.IpromisedmyselfIwouldskipnextweek.ItooktheblockshomeandputtheminSam’sroom.
71.
Iwasn’tgoingtogo.ItextedhertosayIwasn’tfeelinggreat—thatSamhadhadarestlessnightandIhadn’tsleptmuchthenightbeforeeither.Shetextedbackasadface,andthenagaintosayshe’dmissseeingme.Ididn’twanttodisappointher.
Wesatnearthebackandexchangedupdatesfromtheweekinlowvoices,hers,aseriesofinconsequentialproblemsthatworriedher,mine,sweetthingsSamhadsaidordone.
We’dbeenseeingeachotherattheWednesdaynightgatheringfornearlyayearandknewmostoftheregulars,althoughGemmaandIhadestablishedourselvesasapairatsomepoint.Theotherwomenheldtwospotsforusiftheseatingwastight,andaskedoneofuswheretheotherwasifwewerelate.IwonderedwhyGemmahadtakenaninterestinme,ofallthewomenthere.Theanswer,I’msure,wasthatI’dsoughtheroutwithsuchintentionthatI’dgivenhernochoice.Still,Iwantedtobelievetherewassomethingaboutmethatshewasdrawnto—shethoughtofmeasawonderfulmother,capableandlovingandcommitted,andbefriendingmegavehergreatcomfortasshenavigatedthoseearlymonthswithyournewson.ItmademefeellikeIwasaclandestinepartofthenewfamilyyouhadbuilt,onestepremovedfromtheclutchesofyourjudgementsatlast.
WesaidgoodbyetotheothersandIwrappedmyscarfaroundmyneck.
“Myhusband’shere.”Gemmapointedtothedoor.Thereyouwere.Standingoutside,staringatme.Iclutchedthewoolinmyhandsandcaughtmybreath.SlowlyIturnedsothatmybackfacedyou.You’dbeenwatchingus.
“Come.I’llintroduceyou.”Sheputherhandsonmyshouldersandguidedmetothedoor.Ididn’tknowwhattodo.
“Gemma,I—Ihavetousethebathroom—”
“Oh,justcomeoutquickly.We’regoingtocatchamovie,butIwantyoutomeethimwhilehe’shere.”
Iloweredmyeyesandtriedtothink.WhatcouldIdo?Ipulledmyscarfuphigharoundmychinandyankedmyhatlowovermyforehead.Ifishedthelong,brownstrandsofhairoutfromundermycoatandspreadthemovermyshoulders.Asifyouwouldn’thaverecognizedme.Thewomanyoulovedforthirteenyears.Themotherofyourchildren.Istoodthereinfrontofyou,asnakedasIhadeverbeen.Shekissedyou.Shedidn’thavetoreachuplikeIdid.Youreyesfeltlikebullets.Iswallowedandtearspooledonthelipsofmyeyes,althoughitcouldhavebeenfromthebittercoldforallGemmaknew.
“Fox,thisisAnne.Anne,thisisFox.”
Myheadfloatedawaylikeacandlelitpaperlanternintothenightsky—Iwasnolongerstandingthere,nolongerlockedinyourstare,waitingtobemassacredbywhateveryouwouldsaynext.It’stheonlywayIcouldsurvivetheshame,thefear,theregretofyouknowingwhatI’ddone.Ileftmyself.Iwatchedfromabove.
“Nicetomeetyou.”Iofferedmygloved-handtoyou.YoulookedatGemma.Andthenlookedbackatme.Youdidn’ttakeyourhandsfromyourpockets.I’dboughtthatcoatforyourbirthday.
Sheturnedtoyouwithgenuineconcern,asthoughtheonlyreasonyoucouldhavebeensorudeisifyou’dhadananeurism.Youslowlypulledyourhandfromyourcoatpocketandtookmineinyours.Wehadn’tspokeninmorethanayear.Wehadn’ttouchedinevenlonger.Theskinonyourfacewasredfromthecoldandyoulookedolder.Maybelesssleepwiththebaby,maybethestressofthenewjobIpresumedyouhad.OrmaybeIhadjustlosttrackoftime—despiteeverything,inthememoriesthatcametometheeasiest,youwerestillthemanIwasinlovewithyearsago.
“You,too.”YouglancedovermyheadasyouspokeandIknewthenyouweregoingtospareusallthehumiliation.Idoubtedyouweredoingitforme.
Gemmalookeduncomfortable.Herusualsoft,fluidmannerismsdisappeared,andshetensed.Icouldseeitevenunderherthickdowncoat.Ithinksheunderstoodthatsomethingwasn’tright,butitwastoocoldtostandstillforlong,andtherewereotherwomencatchinghereyetosaygoodbye.Thethreeofusturnedawayfromtheperilousnessofeachother.Islippedthroughthecrowdthatlingeredonthesidewalkandthenbegantorun.Ididn’tknowwhatelsetodo.IneededtobeasfarawayfromyouasIcouldbe.
72.
Idon’tknowifGemmatoldyouwhathappenednext.
Iimagineyouwaiteduntilafterthetheatretotellher.Ormaybeitwasdays.Maybeyouhadwantedtospareherthedisappointmentaslongasyoucould,untilyoufeltdishonestkeepingquietanylonger.Ormaybeyoudidn’twanttoadmitthatyou’dbeenmarriedforsolongtoawomanwhowoulddosomethingasunthinkableasIhad.Asunhinged.Shamebyassociation.Ididn’thearfromGemmathatweekandIdidn’tdarereachout.Herunusualsilencewasproofthatyou’dtoldherwhoIwas.IstoppedgoingtotheWednesdaynightgroup.
Maybeshetoldyouverylittleabouttheyearoffriendshipweshared.Butitmeantagreatdealtome.Ihadn’thadafriendlikeherbefore,someoneforwhommyfondnessfeltsowarmandeasy.Shewaslikeatemperatesummerday.Shefelttomelikeyouoncehad.Before.Itwasn’tuntilshewasgonefrommylifethatIrealizedhowlonelyIwas.
MycuriosityateawayatmeuntilIworkedupthenervetoaskVioletoneday.
“How’sGemma?”
“Whyareyouasking?”
“Justcurious.”
“She’sfine.”
“Andthebaby?”
Thebaby.Wehadneverdiscussedhim.Herforkstayedinhermouthandshestaredatthenoodlesontheplate,wondering,I’msure,howIknew—maybeshewasprocessingtheshiftinpower,thatshenolongerharboredthissecret.
“He’sfine.”Somethingaboutthewaysheclearedherthroatafterwardsmademefeeluneasy.Sheexcusedherselffromthetableandneitherofusmentionedthebabyagainthatevening.Beforebedsheaskedifshecouldstaywithyoufortheweekend—yourparentswouldbevisiting.Istillhadn’tspokentoyourmothersinceIdiscoveredtheaffair.Shecalledeverysooftenbuthadstoppedleavingmemessagesbythen.
“Allright,butyourfathershouldbetheonetoaskmethat.”
Sheshrugged.Webothknewtherewasnoplaceforprotocolinthismesswe’dcreated.Myphonechimedfromtheotherroom.ItwasGemma.Shehadsentmeatext:
Canwetalk?
Ibentoverinrelief.
Wemetthenextdayforteanearthebookstore.Ididn’tsleepthenightbefore,playingoutversionsofwhatI’dsay,howI’dpossiblyexplainmyself.Iwasmostnervous,insanely,forhertoseemeinmyownhair,withoutthemousybrownwigI’dcometolovewearing.Ifocusedmyseaofnervestowardsconfrontingthisonething—myhair.Notmytwistedmanipulation,notthederangedwayI’dbroughtmysonbacktolife,nottheshockingeasewithwhichIlied,asthoughIwerehavingmindlesschitchatwithstrangersduringamorningoferrands.
Isawfromthedoorthatshehadorderedapotofteaforus.Wedidn’thugasusualwhenIsaidhello.Islippedintothechairandreachedfortheendsofmyhairandthenremembered—IwasBlythe,notAnne.Istraightenedthecollaronmyshirtinstead.I’dwornsomethingIknewsheliked—she’dmentionedsoonce,fingeringthesleevetofeeltheweightofthelinen.
“Idon’tknowwhattosay.”Ihadn’tplannedtospeakfirst,butthereitwas.
GemmanoddedbutthenshookherheaduncomfortablyandIunderstood.Ichewedonmylipasshepouredteaintomycup.Shewaitedamomentandthenslidthemilkandsugaracrosstome.WelistenedtomyspoonclinkagainstthechinaasIstirred.Itwasclearshedidn’twanttospeakandsomaybeshejustwantedtoknowwhatI’dsaytoherifIweregiventhechance.
“Idon’texpectyoutoeverforgiveme.There’snoexcuseforwhatI’vedone.”
Shelookedovermeandwatchedtheworldpassbythecafe.Hereyesfollowedeachpasserby,likeateachersilentlycountingherstudentsastheycameinfromrecess.Iwonderedifsheregrettedaskingmetomeet.IwonderedifIshouldjustshutup
“I’mashamedofmyself,Gemma.I’mdeeplyashamed.IlookbacknowandIcan’tbelievewhatIdid,Ican’tbelieveI’mcapableofsomethingso…psychotic.I…”
Iwaitedforhertotearmeapart.Hereyesmovedawayfromthewindowandstudiedmyhair.I’dwornitthesamewayforyears.Iwonderedifshenoticedthewirygreystrandsamongtheashblonde.IwonderedifshethoughtIlookedolderthisway.
“Ifthere’sanythingIcananswer,anything—”
“I’msorryaboutyourson.I’msorryyoulosthim.”
Herwordsshockedme.
“Ican’timaginelosingJet.”Shetouchedherlip.
Iexhaledandtouchedminetoo,wonderingwherehercompassioncamefrom.Sheshouldhaveloathedme.Deadchildandall.
“Foxnevertoldmewhathappened.”Shelookeddownatherteaandswirledthecup.“AllIknowisthathehadason,thatyouhadason,together,andhewaskilledinanaccident.I’vealwaysassumeditwasacarcrash.Wasit?”
I’dtoldsomanylies.Icouldn’ttellanotherone.Iopenedmymouthandthetruthcameout.ItoldherexactlywhatIremembered.Stepbystep.Mymemoryofherpinkmittensonthehandle.Thesoundofthecarslammingintothestroller.Thathewasstillstrappedinwhenhedied.Thatwecouldn’tevenseehisbodyafter.Thatthestepdaughtershelovedandtrusted,thesisterofherownbaby,hadpushedthatstrollerintooncomingtrafficandkilledmyson.
Shedidn’treactasshelistened.ShewasstillandlookedmeintheeyestheentiretimeIspoke.IthoughtIsawherswallow,thewaypeopledowhenthey’retemperingsomething,arealizationtheywishedtheyweren’thaving.Isawahairlinecrackcrawlthroughtheice.Ileanedtowardsher.
“Gemma.Doyoueverthinkthere’ssomethingdifferentaboutViolet?Haveyouhadevenahintofworrythatyoursonwasn’tsafebeingalonewithher?”
Shepushedherchairawayandthescreechingsoundonthetilesmademecringe.Sheplacedatwenty-dollarbillonthetableandthencarriedhercoatoutsideintothelastofFebruary’sfallingsnow.Shedidn’tevenstoptoputiton.
73.
Bysixinthemorning,exceptforMondays,thenewspaperthwacksthedoor.Mondaysitdoesn’tcomeuntilnine.Myidlemindhasdecidedit’sbecausethepaperboy—man—hasastandingcommitmenttobegineveryweek,perhapsamothertodrivetotheseniors’center.Thismorningthepaperhasn’tcome,andit’snotaMonday.Iguessthisistheoneweekintheyearwhenmostoftheworldshutsdownforeverythingbutfamily.Christmasshopping.Skating.Movies.Freshcookies.Thesortsofthingsweusedtodoattheholidays.
Insidethehouseweallusedtolivein,thereisonepairofshoesatthedoor.Thekettleperpetuallysteams.IusethesamewaterglasssixtimesbeforeIwashit.Ibreakdishwashertabsinhalf.Thehangersineachclosetarespacedtwoinchesapartandthere’snobodyheretomovethem.TherearesplotchesofteaonthehallwayfloorthatIhaven’tyetwiped,althoughIthinkaboutdoingiteveryday.Iputinordinateimportanceonorganizeddrawers,andtheplantsareoverwatered.Thereareforty-tworollsoftoiletpaperinthebasement.InearlyalwaysforgettoremovethisitemfromthelistofgroceriesIreordereveryotherweekonline.
Ihopeforamouse,andIknowthisisstrange,butIoftenyearnforthecomfortofaregularvisitor,thecrinkleofabaginthecupboardorthescatterofclawsonthehardwood;brief,non-verbal,predictablecompany.
Onsomeweekends,IturnontheFormula1races.ThepitchyhissoftheenginesandtheBritishcommentarytakesmebacktoSundaymorningsbeforeswimlessons,whenI’dbringyoueggsandcoffee,toastwithoutthecrustforVioletandSam
I’vegrownusedtotheloneliness,buttherewassomeone,forafewyears,whoonlycameoverwhenVioletwasatyourhouse.HewasalessthansuccessfulliteraryagentwhoGraceintroducedmeto.Helikedtofuckmeslowlywiththebedroomwindowswideopen,listeningtothefootstepsontheconcreteofthesidewalk.Ithinkfeelingclosetothestrangersoutsidemadehimcomefaster.
I’mstartingwiththat,butitwon’tmaketherightimpression.Hewasmeasuredandintelligent,andhewasareasontocookatnight,toopenabottleofwine.Heusedupthetoiletpaper.HeaddedwarmthtothebedwhenIneededitonoccasion.IlikedthefactthatheneveraskedaboutViolet—theydidn’texisttoeachother.Ihadn’tmetamanwhowaseasiertobearound,inthatsense,thanhewas.Hedidn’tliketothinkaboutthefactthatIhadchildren—thatmybodyhadbirthedandhadfed.Youthoughtofmotherhoodastheultimateexpressionofawoman,buthedidn’t;forhim,thevaginawasnothingotherthanavesselforhispleasure.Tothinkofitotherwisemadehimphysicallyqueasy,thewayothersfeltwhentheygaveblood.HetoldmethisoncewhenItoldhimIhadanappointmentforapapsmear.
HereadmywritingandwetalkedaboutwhatIcoulddoandwhatcouldsell.Hewantedmetowriteyoungadult,somethingcommercialandangstythatwouldworkwiththerightcover.Something,inotherwords,thatwouldworkforhimtorepresentandmonetize.SometimesIwonderedabouthismotives,inthatrespect.ButIwasonthecuspoftheagewhenwomenworryaboutdisappearingtoeveryonebutthemselves,blendinginwiththeirsensiblehair,theirpracticalcoats.Iseethemwalkdownthestreeteverydayasthoughthey’reghosts.IsupposeIwasn’treadytobeinvisibleyet.Notthen.
1972—1974
Henry’ssenseofparentalresponsibilityseemedtohavediedwithEtta.Hisheartwastoobrokentocareforanyoneelse.HeblamedhimselfforEtta’ssuicide,althoughhewastheonlyone—CeciliaknewhelovedEtta,andthathehadtried.NobodysaidawordtoCeciliaaboutwhathappened.Nobodyknewwhattosay.
Shebarelywenttoschoolafterthat,butshewassmartenoughtokeephertruanciesbelowthepointwherethey’dexpelher.Highschoolwasn’tmuchbetter.Shehadahardtimefacinganyonethere,andthefeelingseemedmutual.Shesuspectedallanyonesawwhentheylookedatherwasherdeadmotherhangingfromatree.
Shespentmostofhertimereadingpoetry,whichshediscoveredwanderingthetown’slibraryduringtheclassessheskipped.Thecollectionwasn’tverybig.Shecouldmakeitthroughtheentiretwoshelvesinabouttwoandhalfweeks,andthenshewouldstartoveragain.ShehaddreamsoffindingEttadeadwithherheadintheoven,likeSylviaPlath,whosebooksshesometimessleptwithunderherpillow.
Shebeganwritingherownpoetry,fillingnotebookafternotebook,althoughshedidn’tthinkanyofitwasanygood.Shedidthisuntilsheturnedseventeen,ayearbeforegraduation.Shehaddecidedbythenthatsheneededtomakeherownmoney,ifshewantedtoleavetownandbecomesomeonenew.
ShetookacaregiverjobwithMrs.Smith,anelderlywomanwholivedafewdoorsdown.Mrs.Smithhadlefta‘HelpWanted’signonherfrontdoorinprintingthatlooklikeachild’s.Shewasdeafandnearlyblind,butshecouldstillgoaboutmostofherbusinessonherown.Sheneededsomeonetohelpwiththingsthatherhandscouldn’tfeeltheirwaythroughanymore,soCeciliawouldmendherclotheswithaneedleandthreadorpinchtherightamountofspiceintoherstew.Shewasn’tusedtohelpinganyonebutherself,soshefoundthisroleunexpectedlysatisfying,ifalittletediousattimes.Butshelikedthatshecouldgoaroundafamiliarhousewithoutanotherperson’sdemonsthreateningherday.Therewasakindofpeaceandorderthereshehadneverfeltbefore.
WhenMrs.Smithdiedinhersleep,Ceciliawastheonewhofoundher,layinghalf-wayoffthebed.Oneshrunkenbreasthadfallenoutofherwhitenightgown.Whileshethoughtofwhattodonext,shetookthetinfromthewoman’stopdresserdrawer.CeciliahadwatchedMrs.Smithtuckhermoneyawaywhenshecamefromthebankeachweek.Shefoundsixhundreddollars,enoughforatickettothecity,androomandboardforafewmonths.CeciliawonderedifmaybeMrs.Smithhadmeantforhertohaveit—shehadnevertriedtohideitfromher,andshehadnonextofkin.Oratleastthisthoughtmadeherfeellessguiltywhenshetookeverylastdollar.
HenrydroveCeciliatothetrainstationthemorningafter.Hedidn’tsayaword,notevengoodbye.Butsheknewthiswasonlybecausehecouldn’t.Shekissedhimforthefirsttimeinherlife,onceoneachofhishairycheeks.Hedidn’tshavemuchafterEttadied.Shewhisperedtohimtheonlypossiblethingtherewastosay:thankyou.
Outsideofhiscar,Ceciliastraightenedhernicestoutfit,aplumcorduroyskirtandblousethatshe’dboughtsecond-hand.TherestofherthingswerepackedinEtta’steal-coloredmonogrammedluggage,agiftfromHenrythatshe’dneverused.TherewasnowhereEttahadwantedtogo.
Ceciliahadjustturnedeighteenandknewshehadaclassicsortofbeauty,akindhermotherneverhad.Shesuspecteditwouldworktoheradvantagemoreinthebigcitythaniteverhadbackathome.NosoonerhadCeciliasteppedoutofthetaxi,whenshesawSebWest,thedoormanatafancyhotelshecouldn’taffordtostayat.Thehotelwastheonlyplaceshe’deverheardofinthecity—shedidn’tknowwhatotheraddresstogivethetaxidriver.Sebheldouthiswhite-glovedhandtotakehers,andtheybarelyletgoafterthat.
SebshowedCeciliathecityandintroducedhertohisfriends.Oneofthemhelpedhergetapoorlypaidjobathisuncle’shigh-endliveryservice.Shehelpedwithbookingsandkepttheofficetidy.Shewentforlunchwiththeotherwomenintheoffice.Oneofthemtoldheraboutasmallstudioforrentaboveanartgallerythathadgoneoutofbusiness,butshestillcouldn’taffordthecostofcitylivingonherown.Sebmovedinwithhertosplittherent,andhecoveredthecostofeverythingelseinCecilia’slife.Theywereofficiallyacouple.
Shereveledinthefreedomofthecity.Havingsomewhereimportanttobeinthemorning.Gettingcoffeefromthevendoronthestreet,readingpoetryintheparkduringherbreaks.Meetingpeoplewhohadnoideawhereshecamefrom.Orfromwhom.
Ceciliawasrightaboutherbeautyandthekindofattentionitattracted.Men’seyesfollowedherdownthestreetandaroundtheoffice,andshewasalwaysbeingtouched—ahandhere,ahandthere.Shefeltbothpowerfulandvulnerableatthesametime.SebandCeciliawouldgooutfordrinksoften,ortopoetryreadingsatundergroundbars.Shefeltlikepreytheminuteheturnedhisback.EvenSeb’sfriendswhoknewtheywereanitemwouldplacetheirhandsalittletoolowwhentheysqueezedpast.
Onenight,hisfriendLenny,whoSebthoughthungthemoon,shovedheragainstthewallofthebarandstuckhistonguedownherthroatwhileSebwasinthebathroom.Ceciliapushedhimawayandwishedshehadn’tlikedit.
Butbeingwantedinthatwaywasthrillingforher.Itmadeherfeelwildforthefirsttimeinherlife,andshelikedit.SosheletthiskindofthinghappenoftenwithLenny.
Soontheybeganmeetingduringhercoffeebreaksatwork.Cecilialovedwhathehadtosay.Hetoldherhecouldhelphergetintomodelling,andthatherlooksshouldn’tbewastedworkingatadead-endofficejobandsleepingwithadoorman.Helikedtosaytherewassomethingabouther,somethinghecouldn’tquiteputhisfingeron.Shetoldhimshelovedpoetryandhopedshemightonedayfindajobatapublishinghouse,maybeevengetsomethingofherownpublished.ShehadnevertoldSebanyofthis.Lennysaidhehadafriendwithbigconnectionsthathecouldintroduceherto.HetalkedtoheraboutleavingSebandmovinginwithhim.
Oneweeklater,Cecilialearnedshewaspregnant.
Asquicklyasshefoundthecity,shelostit.
Sebhadnosavingsandheinsistedtheymoveintohisparents’houseinthesuburbsuntilhehadmoremoneyputaway.Hewasthrilledtostartafamily.He’dhadahappychildhoodwithmemoriesofbigThanksgivingdinnersandcampingvacations.
Ceciliawasdevastated.
WhenshefinallyfoundthecouragetotellSebshewantedanabortion,hetoldhernevertomentionitagain.Hesaidshecouldmovebackhomeforgoodandaskherstepfatherforthemoney,iftheideaofhavingababywithhimwasthatterrible.
Ceciliacouldn’tstopthinkingabouthermotherhangingfromthetree.
Shefelttrappedandshefeltfoolish.Andso,shegavein.
74.
TherewasnothingtodistinguishtheyearsbetweenwhenIlostGemmaandwhathappenednextthattuggedherbackintomylife.Thoseyearswereunremarkable.Ihadascarewithalumpinmybreast,butIdon’tremember,sittingherewritingthisnow,howthatfeltandIdon’tknowwhy.PerhapsIwasn’tallthatscared.Ihadn’ttoldVioletaboutit,ofcourse.Shewasonlytenthen,tooyoungtounderstand.Iwasn’twithhermuchanyway—youhadsomehowmaneuveredthingssothatsheonlycameonceortwiceaweek.AtonepointIemailedalawyer,someoneafriendhadusedinherdivorce.WesetupacallandIwatchedmyphoneringonthetablewhenthedateandtimecame.Ihadnofightinme,andbesides,itseemedVioletwashappierlivingwithoutme.
SoIwassurprisedwhentheteachercalledmetoaskifIwouldchaperoneafieldtriptoafarm.Itwasthenightbeforethetrip—anothermotherwhodidthissortofthingregularlywassickandhadtocancel.ThethoughtofViolettreatingmewithherusualchillinfrontofherclassmatesfilledmewithdread.ButIagreedtogo.IknockedonViolet’sdoortotellherI’dbegoing.Shehadnoreactionatall.Shedidn’tlookupfromthebeadedbraceletshewasstringingwithpatientfingers.Herhandslookedsodifferentthanmine.
Isatsomewhereinthemiddleofthebus,besideafatherwhomostlyreademailsonhisphonewhilewebumpedourwayoutofthecity,listeningtothecloudcoverofpre-teenexcitement.Violetwasseveralrowsbehindmeontheothersideofthebusinthewindowseat.Thegirlshesatbesidewastallwithaburgeoningchest.HerbackwasturnedtoVioletassheleanedacrosstheaisletowhisperwithapairofbrunettesinmatchingFrenchbraids.Violet’seyestrackedtherollingcountryside.
Violetlookedlikeshewasn’tpayingattentiontothewhispers,butIknewshecouldheareveryword:IsawtheballinherthroatslowlyslideupandthendownIrememberedhowthatfelttobeexcluded.Ididn’tthinkVioletcaredaboutfittinginwiththecoolcrowdatschool.Sheseemed,tome,farmorecomfortableontheperiphery,andmostlyonherown—shewasn’tliketheothergirlsherage.Sheneverhadbeen.
WhenwegottothefarmIdroppedbackbehindthegroupandwatchedher.Shewalkedinlockstepwiththegirlsfromthebus,buttheydidn’tspeakmuchtoher.Whentheystoppedattheentrancetotheappleorchard,Violetlookedaroundtoplaceme.Igaveasmallwavefromthebackofthegroup.Sheflippedherponytailbehindhershouldersandinsertedherself,stiffly,intothesmallgroupofgirlswhoweretalkingloudlyoverthefarmer’sinstructionsabouthowtopicktheapplesproperlysothebudwasn’tdamagedfornextyear’scrop.Theteacherhandedoutplasticbags.
Wehadonehourintheorchardbeforetheyweregoingtoteachushowtomakepies.Iwanderedawayfromtheotherparents,whomostlykepttheirdistanceaswell,andfoundtheMacintoshtrees.SeveralrowsoverIsawtheredofViolet’sjacketweavingbetweenthetrees.Shewasalone,holdingherbaginonehandandreachingwithherotherarmupintothebranches.Therewasagracefulnessinhermovementsthatsurprisedme.Shefelttheskinoftheapples,lookingforimperfections.Whenshepluckedone,shewouldsmellitandturnitaroundinherfingers.Shelookedsomature,theplumpnessinhercheeksgone,thelineofherjawmoreprominent.Despitethebuddingfemininitythatwasbeginningtodefineher,shemovedjustlikeyou.Isawitinthewaysheshiftedherweightandhowshefoldedherarmsbehindherback.Butsheheldherheadjustlikeme—tilted,withatendencytoglanceupwardwhenshewasthinkingofherresponsetosomething,findingtherightwordinavocabularythatseemedtogrowevenfasterthanherlonglegs.
Thebreezepickedupeverysooftenanddistractedher,wispsofherdarkhairwhippingacrossherface.Sheplacedthebagatherfeetandpulledoutahairelastic,collectedherponytailagain,andthenranherhandoverthetopofherhead.Shekepthereyesontheground.Iwonderedwhatshelookingat,maybeabirdorarottingapple.ButasIwalkedcloser,Irealizedshewasstaringatnothing;shewaslostinthoughtandshelookedsad.
Onceshesensedmypresence,shepickedupherbagandwalkedtowardsaclumpofstudentswhohadgivenuponcollecting,eatingtheirapplesinstead.Iwatchedhersitdownandcrossherlegsandbiteintoherapple.
Theteacherwhistledwithhisfingersandstartedtowranglethestudents.IwatchedVioletfollowherclasstothebarn.AsImademywayinsideIlosttrackofherinthecrowdofkidsandscannedthebenchesasthestudentstooktheirseats.Isawthegirlsfromthebussittingtogetheratoneofthetables.
“HasanyoneseenViolet?”
Oneofthemlookedupmeandshookherhead.Theotherswerespellingtheirnamesonthetablewiththecurlsofapplepeel.“Youguysarefriendswithher,right?”
Anothergirlglancedaroundthetable,lookingforpermissiontospeak.“Sure.Iguess.Imean,kindof.”
Twoofthemgiggled.Theonewhospokenudgedthemtobequiet.
Myheartwaspoundingbythen.Ilookedaroundthebarnbutstillcouldn’tseeher.
“Mr.Philips,doyouknowwhereVioletwent?”
“Shewenttothebustolaydown.Shehasaheadache—shesaidyouweretakingher.”
Ijoggedouttotheparkinglot,butthebusdriverwasn’tthereandthedoorwaslocked.Thelotattendantsaidhehadn’tseenastudentwanderingaroundIranaroundbacknearthestablesandaskedifanyonehadseenabrunettegirl.Icheckedthehaypilesontheothersideofthestablesandthensawacornmazeinthedistancethatwasropedoff.
“Hasanyonegoneinthere?I’mlookingformydaughter.”Iwasyellingthen.Isoundedfrantic.Iwastryingtocatchmybreath.
Ayoungguyre-paintingtheENTERHERE!signshookhishead.
ThatwaswhenIknewshehadleft.Shewaspunishingmeforcoming.Wehadlearnedtowalkwidecirclesaroundeachotherinordertoco-exist—thatwasourunspokenagreement.Butbeingonthefieldtripviolatedthatrule.IranbacktothebarnIfoundtheteacherandtoldhimshewasmissing,thatIthoughtshe’dleftsomehow.Hesaidhe’dcheckthepremisesandaskedanotherparenttoalertthemanagerofthefarm.
Hedidn’ttellmenottoworry—hedidn’tsay,Shemustbeheresomewhere
Isawatableofboyslookingaround,awarethatsomethingwaswrong.Oneofthemwalkedovertomeandaskedwhatwashappening.
“Wecan’tfindViolet.Doyouknowwhereshemighthavegone?”
Hewasquiet.Heshookhisheadandwalkedbacktohisfriends,andtheyalllookedoveratme.Ithoughttheyknewsomething.Iwenttothetableandleanedovertheendandtookadeepbreathsomyvoicewouldn’tcrack.“DoesanyoneknowwhereVioletwent?”
Theyallshooktheirheads,likethefirstboy,andoneofthempolitelysaid,“Sorry,Mrs.Connor,wedon’tknow.”
Icouldseetheyhadfearintheireyes,too.
ThedadI’dsatbesideofferedtocirclethegroundswithmeagain.Bythenmyheadwasspinning.Mylegswerenumb.I’dfeltthiswaybefore,whenVioletwastwoandhadscamperedtoofarawayatanamusementpark,onlytobefoundminuteslateratthecottoncandycart.Thathadbeenminutes.MinutesduringwhichIknewshewasprobablysafe,probablyahairlineoutofsight.
AndthentherewasSam.Itriednottothinkabouthim.Itried.
“Ican’tbreathe,”Isaid,andthedadsatmedownonthepeagravel.
“Putyourheadbetweenyourlegs.”Herubbedmyback.“Doesshehaveacellphone?”
Ishookmyhead.
“Haveyoucheckedyourphone?”
Ididn’trespond.Hereachedintomypurseandfoundit.
“You’vegotmissedsixcalls.”
Igrabbeditfromhimandputinmypassword.ItwasGemma’scallsIhadmissed
“Violet,”Isaidinacrackingvoicewhensheanswered.“She’sgone.”
“Igotacallfiveminutesago.Fromatruckdriver,askingmetopickherup.”Shepaused,asthoughshemightnottellmewhereshewas.“She’satareststoponthesideofthehighway.I’mgoingtogether.”Shehungupwithoutsayinggoodbye.Thedadhelpedmetomyfeetandwewenttofindtheteachertocalloffthesearch.Isatinthetinygiftshopwithabottleofwaterandtriedcallingyouagainandagain,butyoudidn’tanswer.
Anhourlater,wewerebackonthebusandtookthesamespotswe’dhadonthewaythere.Thevolumewasnoticeablylowernow,theeffectofthefreshairmufflingthevolcanoofenergyfrombefore.NobodysaidanythingaboutViolet—itwasasthoughshehadn’teverbeenthere.Whenwearrivedbackattheschool,Icrouchedatmyseatandwatchedthestudentsmaketheirwayoff.Icheckedthebackofthebustomakesurenothinghadbeenleftbehind.Therewasthebraceletontheseatwherethebraidedgirlshadbeen,.ThepurpleandyellowandgoldbeadsViolethadbeendiligentlystringingthenightbefore.Shemusthavemadeitforoneofthem.Itwasuntied,abandoned.Iturnedthebeadsbackandforthbetweenmyfingers.
“Hey,”Icalledouttothethreegirls.Theysatontheschoolstepswaitingfortheirparentstopickthemup.“Didoneofyoudropthis?”
Oneofthemstaredattheground.
“Isaid,didoneofyoudropthis?”
Ihelditoutinthepalmofmyhandandtheyallshooktheirheads.Iclosedmyhandaroundthebraceletsandstaredatthemuntilacarpulledup.Theylookedstraightaheadanddidn’tsayaword.
*
AthomeIputthebraceletdeepinmybottomdrawerwhereIknewVioletwouldn’tfindit.EverythingthathadhappenedthatdaychangedhowIsawher.Shewaspowerlessamongherfriends,andshedidn’twantmetoseethat.Shewasnolongerthegirlwhocouldsoeasilyintimidateothers,whocouldeffortlesslyhurtpeoplewithwhatshesaidordid.Theycouldseethroughhernow,andforamoment,Ialmostfeltbadlyforher.
IcalledGemmathatnight,althoughIwasn’tsureshewouldanswer.Istraightenedinthekitchenchairwhenshedid.
“Ijustwantedtocheckonher.How’sshedoing?”
“She’sbeenquiet.Butfine.”Iheardhercoverthereceiverandwhispersomething.Shewassilent.Iimaginedherturningtoyouandrollinghereyes.Shedoesn’tgetit—shewasrunningawayfromHERSHEistheproblem.Iimaginedyougesturingforhertohangup.Iimaginedthebottleofwineyouwouldhaveopenednowthatthekidswereinbed.Ilookedaroundmydim,quietkitchen.IwantedtoremindGemmathatI’doncebeenthemothersheherselfhadturnedto,beforeshehaditallfiguredout.Thatshe’dsearchedmyfaceforthesecretsofhowtomotherherownchildren.Ihadliedtoher.ButIwasstillthesamewomanshehadcalledherbestfriend.Icouldn’thelpmyself.
“Howareyou?How’sJet?”
“Goodbye,Blythe.”
75.
Foralongtimeafterthefieldtrip,Ididn’tseeViolet.Ifilledmytimewriting,agreeingtoseetheagentwhenheaskedtocomeover,althoughatsomepoint,Istartedtofeelevenlonelierwhenhewasthere.
HewouldruntheshowerwhileIcheckedtheweather.Rainyandcold.Bringanumbrellatoday,Iwouldsay.Hewouldaskaboutmyplans.Writing,callingsomeonetocleanthegutters.Didhehavetimeforbreakfast?Hedidnot—ameetingateighto’clock,remember?Wouldhewanttocomeoverthatnight?Hecouldn’t—dinnerwithanewauthor.Hewouldcometomorrowinstead.WouldImakethatlambstew?Hewouldsteppastthepartitionintotheshowerwherehecouldhavebeenanyonebehindthewet,distortedglass—itwasthenIwouldwatchhim.Hewouldleavethebathroomdooropensothesteamwouldn’tfillthemirror.Ididn’tlikethestreaksthetowelleftwhenhewipeditbeforeheshaved.Ididn’tlikethespecklesofhisshavingsinmysink.Beforehewasdone,Iwouldleavetoboilwaterforourtea.DownstairshewouldkissmegoodbyeandIwouldbarelyleanintohim.I’mnotsureheevernoticed.
76.
Manymonthslater,Violetaskedifshecouldstaywithmefortheweekend.Shehadn’tstayedtheweekendinmorethanayear.Icancelledmyplansandtoldhertotellyou.TheovernightbagsheputinthetrunkwhenIpickedherupfromschoolwasfullofclothesI’dneverseenbefore.Iwasmissingsomuchofherlife.Thegoldsparklyleggingsmademesad—theyweresomethingIshouldhaveboughtherifI’dseentheminastore,butIdidn’tthinktobuyherthingsanymore.
Wewenttothemoviesandhadicecreamafterwards.Wedidn’tspeakmuchbuttherewassomethingaboutherthatwaslessagitated.Lessbristly.Idon’tknow,butIwascautious.Igaveherspace.Atonepointwewereinthecarandaskitcameontheradio,somethingaboutacatinheat.Iwasn’tsuresheknewwhatthatmeant,butwelookedateachotherandlaughedandIfeltmystomachsink.Notforthemomentweshared,butforhowforeignithadfelt—howmuchwehadmissed.
ShewasthesameageIwaswhenmymotherleft.
Iusuallysaidgoodnightstandinginherdoorway.Thatevening,IsatontheendofherbedandIputmyhandoverherfeetundertheblanket.Isqueezedthem.Ihaddonethiswhenshewasyounger,beforeshestoppedlettingmetouchher.Shelookedupfromherbookandmetmyeyes.Shedidn’tpullherfeetaway.
“Nanamissesyou.Shesaidsotheotherday.”
“Oh,”Isaidgently,surprisedVioletwouldtellmethis.YourmotherandIstillhadn’tspoken.
“Imissher,too.”
“Whydon’tyoucallher?”
“Idon’tknow.”Isighed.“Ithinkitwillmakemefeeltoosadtotalkwithher.IbetshelovesJet,doesn’tshe?”
Violetshruggeddismissively.Iwonderedforamomentifshewasenviousoftheattentionhegotinyourhouse,butthenthethoughtoccurredtomethatsheknewIwasbetteroffnothearingaboutyourson.Hereyesflickeredastheywanderedtheroom,andIwonderedifSamhadcrossedbothofourmindsthen.Iwanteddesperatelytomentionhim,toputhimthereinthebedroomwithus.Ilookedbackdownattheshapeofherfeetundermyhand.Ifeltstrangelycalm.
“Isthereanythingyouwanttotalkabout?Anythingatschool,or…anythingelse?”Ididn’twanttoleaveherroom.Ididn’twanttotakemyhandoffofher.
Sheshookherhead.“No,I’mgood.Night,Mom.”Sheopenedthebooktothepageshe’dheldwithherfingerandsettledherbackintoherpillow.“Thanksforthemovie.”
Ifellasleepthatnightonthecouch,stillinmyclothes,thinkingabouthowniceshewasbeing.Iwonderedifthingswerechanging.
Iwokeuptolightfootstepsonthewoodenfloorabove.IthadbeenjustoverfiveyearssinceSamdied,butmyinstincttowakeinthemiddleofthenightattheslightestnoisewasstilljustasstrongaswhenhewasborn.
Violetwaswalkingonhertoes,movingfromherroomtomine.Thedooropened.Wasshelookingforme?Iwonderedifshewouldcallforme.Herstepsbecameevenquieter.Shewasnearmydressernow.Iheardthehangingbrasshandletouchthewood.Andthenagainwhenitclosed.She’dbeenbrief.Efficient.Iwonderedwhichdrawer,whatshewaslookingfor.ThebraceletI’dfoundtossedasideonthebuswasinthere.Ofcourse.Ishouldhavethrownitaway—Ineverwouldhaveimaginedshe’dfindit.Icouldn’trememberthelasttimeshe’dgoneintomyroom.Iheardherstepscarryherbacktobed.Iwaited,givinghertimetofallbackasleep,andthenIwentupstairsquietly.Iputonmynightshirtandcheckedthedrawer—thebraceletwasstillthere.Shehadn’ttakenitifshehadseenit.
Shewaspleasantoverbreakfast.Notfriendly,notchatty,justpleasant.Idroppedheroffatyourhouseandwatchedfrommycarassheranupthedrivewayandflewthroughthedoor.IcouldseeGemmathroughthelivingroomwindow,rushingtogreether,towelcomeherhome.
Thatwaswhentheideafirstcametome.Todrivebacklater,afterthesunhadset.Towatchyouallatnight.
77.
Afterwemet,IstoppedgoingtomyfatherforthethingsIneededthemost.Comfort,advice.Hebecamelessusefultome.ThismusthavebecomeapparenttohiminthewayIglossedoverthedetailsofmylifewhenhecalled,changingtheconversationbacktohim.Ididn’tlethiminanymore.I’mashamedofthis—IknewIwastheonlythinghehad.
Onthedayhedroppedmeoffatmycollegedorm,hekissedmegoodbyeontheheadandwalkedawayquietly.WhenIlookedoutthewindowhourslater,hewasstillthere,leaningagainstatree,lookingupatmybuilding.Iclosedthecurtainbeforehesawmelookingout.Ithinkoftenaboutthat—thewayhestoodthere.
Themonthofgraduation,itoccurredtomeonemorningthathehadn’tcalledatallsinceI’dbeenhomefortheholidays.Iplannedtophonehimthatweekendandthenneverdid,althoughItoldyouIhad,andthathewaseagertoseeme.InsteadIshowedupathishouseunannouncedtheeveningaftermyexams.ItoldhimIhadtodropsomethingsofffrommydormroom.Weexchangedafewcordialwordsandthenhewenttobedearly.Idecidedtostayonemorenight.Thefollowingevening,IcookedusachickenthewayIknewhelikedit.Iwaitedforhimtocomefromwork,butthehoursrolledon.Whenhecameinjustafterteno’clock,hesmelledlikeboozeandsatatthekitchentable,lookingatthecoldplateoffoodwhileIleanedonthecounter.Ithinkweboththoughtofmymotherthen.Ipoureduseachadrinkofwhiskeyandsatdown.Ihadn’tplannedonaskinghim,butIdid:
“Whydidsheleaveme?”
HewasgonebeforeIwokeupinthemorning.Myheadpoundedfromthebottlewe’dfinishedtogether.Idrovebacktocampusandpackedthelastofmythings.Weweremovingintogetherthenextday.Itbecamehardformetothinkabouthimafterthatnight.Iwasdesperatetoleavemypastbehind.Hewastoomuchapartofmymotherandme,althoughhehadneverbeentheproblem.
Whenthepolicecalledtotellmethathewasfounddeadinhishome,thattheysuspectedhe’ddiedinhissleepfromaheartattack,Ihandedyouthereceiverandlaidonourwarmparquetflooringinabeamofmorningsun.We’dbeenlivinginourapartmentforfourmonthsbythen.
“I’mgladyouwenttovisithim,”yousaid,crouchingdowntotouchmyhair.
Iturnedawayfromyouonthefloor.Icouldonlythinkofthelastthingmyfathersaidthatnight,staringatthebottomofhisglass.We’dbeentalkinganddrinkingforhours.
IwouldlookatyouandsaytoCecilia,“Aren’twelucky.”Butshecouldn’tsee—
He’dcaughthimselfmid-sentenceandleftthetablewithoutsayinganythingelse.He’dbeentellingmeaboutthedaysafterIwasborn.I’dhungonhiseveryword.
Now,IrealizedmymotherandIhadbrokenhisheart.
Iwenthometoorganizethefuneralandapproachedthehousecautiously.Mrs.EllingtonhadasparekeyandhadcleanedupbeforeIgotthere.Iknewrightawaybecausethehousesmelledoflemonsandshealwayscleanedwithlemonoil.Hisbeddingwasdifferent.IrecognizedthecleansheetsfromthesparebedintheEllingtons’house.
Mrs.Ellingtoncamebyintheafternoontokeepmecompany.DanielandThomashelpedmeclearoutthehousethedaybeforethefuneralandIgaveitallaway—Iwanteditempty.Iwantedeverythinggone.
IlistedthehouseIgrewupinthefollowingseasonforapricebelowmarketvalue.Ifeltnothingtoseeitgo.Mrs.EllingtoncameoverthedayIsignedthepapers.
“Hewasveryproudofyou.Youmadehimveryhappy.”
Itouchedherhand.Shewaskindtolietome.
78.
ThreedaysafterthepleasantvisitwithViolet,Gemmacalled.Icouldtellbythepitchofhervoiceshewasupset.
She’dfoundJetinthelaundryroomthatmorningplayingwithanX-ACTOblade.He’dbeenjustabouttotrycuttingthejeanshewaswearingwhenshewalkedin
“Isityours?”
“Whatdoyoumean?”Ihadbeenwalkinghomefromthepool.I’dgonetoseeSam’stiles.Ihadn’tyetprocessedwhatshe’dsaid—Iwasstillsurprisedtohaveseenhernameonmyphone.
“Didthebladecomefromyourhouse?”
IthoughtoftheoneI’dtakenfromFox’stinfouryearsago,tuckedatthebackofmydresserdrawer,wrappedinascarf.Ihadn’ttoucheditsince.Violet.Iwonderedifthat’swhyshehadgoneintomyroom.Ifshe’dsomehowknownitwasthere.
“Ican’tthinkofwhereelseitwouldhavecomefrom.Foxdoesn’tkeepthemhere.Violetsaidyoustillhavehisoldthingsinthebasement,layingaroundintheopen.Nearwhereherlaundrybagwas.”
“That’sabsurd,”Isaid,startingtofeelwarm.IimaginedhergivingthebladetoJetwhileGemmawasdownstairsandthenwalkingaway.Myfacegrewhotter.
“Youshouldknowbetter,Blythe.Shecouldhavehurtherself.”
Shehuffedandhungup.She’dbecomemean.Sheusedtojustpityme.Now,shedidn’tlikeme.
Iwasstandinginthecoldwithwethair.Isworeundermybreathandhustledhome.Ipulledoffmybootsandranupstairstomyroomandopenedthedrawer.Thescarfwastherebuttherazorwasgone.
79.
Istoppedsleepingafterthat.WhenIdid,IdreamedofSam.Hisfingerswereslicedonebyoneashewriggledinmyarms,screaming.Idon’tknowwhowasdoingthecutting.Violet,Isuppose.AndthenIcouldfeeltheendsofhisfingersrollingaroundmytongueasIsuckedandchewedthem.Likeamouthfulofjellybeans.IspitinthesinkwhenIwokeup,expectingIwouldseeblood.That’showrealitfelttome.
Violetcameoverthefollowingweek.Wewerequieterthistime,lesspleasanttoeachother.Thecoldnesswasback.SheknewGemmahadcalledme.Iknewshe’dtakentheblade,butIdidn’tknowifIshouldconfrontheraboutit.Ididn’tknowwhattodo.Iwasexhaustedfromnotsleepinganditwaseasiernottothinkaboutit.
Idecidedtoletitgo,untilonedaysheaskedmeaquestion.Iwasbleachingthebathroommatinthelaundrytubdownstairs.Shepointedtothepoisonsymbolonthebottleofbleach,andopenedhermouthforamomentbeforesheletthewordsout:“Thatmeanssomeonewoulddieiftheydrankit,right?”Shepausedagain.“Whydoyouhavesomethingsodangerousdownhere?”
“Whyareyouasking?”
Sheshrugged.Shewasn’tlookingforananswer—sheleftthelaundryroomandIheardherphoneyoutopickherupearly.Theanxietycrawledupmyspine,thatfamiliar,cripplingpanicthatnearlyclosedmythroat.Ihadbeentherebefore.Ihadbarelysurvivedit.
IputthebottlebackinthecupboardwhereIkepttheothercleaningsupplies.Iscannedtheshelf.Imadeamentalnoteofwhatwasthere.
IcalledGemmaagainandagainthatafternoonasmychestpounded.Sheansweredintheevening.
ItoldherwhatViolethadsaidaboutthepoison.Itoldherabouttheblademissingfrommydrawer.
ItoldherIwasonlylookingoutforherandherfamily.ThatIwasworriedaboutJet.ThatwehadtothinkaboutVioletdifferently.Thatshehadapast.ThatIwasafraidthatsomethingwaswrong—thatsomethingwasgoingtohappenagain.IputmyheadonthetablewhileIwaitedforherspeak.IwassotiredofthinkingaboutViolet.Ididn’twanthertobemyproblemanymore.Myfear.
Gemmawasquiet.Andthenshespokecalmly:
“Shedidn’tpushSam,Blythe.Iknowyoubelieveshedid.Butyou’vemadeitup.Yousawsomethinghappenthatneverdid.Shedidn’tdoit.”
Shehungupthephone.Iheardthekeysinthedoor—hewascomingtostaythenight.IcalledhimintothekitchenandItookmyclothesoff.Wefuckedonthetablewhileheliftedupmylimp,hangingbreaststhathadbeensuckedtotheirdeath,likehewasimaginingwheretheyoncehadbeen.
80.
I’dthoughtaboutgoingbacktothecornerforyears.TheideawouldcometomeaseffortlesslyasthethoughttogoseeamovieonanemptySundayafternoon.Wellthere’salwaysthat—Icoulddothattoday.AndthenI’dtalkmyselfintocleaningthebathroomororganizingthekitchencupboardsinstead.
ThedayI’mspeakingof,though,wasdifferent.Iwasstillsleeplessandmilledaboutthehousewithoutpurpose,unabletodomuchmorethanstareatthings:thesaltshakerthatneededrefilling,thetimeonthestovethatwasstillanhourahead,thepileofjunkmailthatsatinchesawayfromtherecyclingbin.IheardGemma’svoiceoverandover,amuffledecho,likesomeonehadwrappedmyheadinaluminumfoil.ShehadspokentomeasthoughsheknewsomethingIdidn’t.Asthoughshehadbeentherethedayhedied.Howdoyouknowwhathappened?Iwantedtoscreaminthephone.Howcouldyoupossiblyknow?
ButIhavetoadmit,Ibegantodoubtmyselfmoreastimepassed.TheconvictionI’dcarriedforyearswaslosingitsweightsomehow.Iwashavingahardertimeseeingthatdayclearlyinmymind.SometimesIwokeupinthemorninganditwasthefirstthingIdid—searchmymemoryforthereplay.Haditfaded?Wasitfurtherawaythanitwasthedaybefore?
Icouldhavewalked—wedidn’tlivethatfaraway.ButdrivingmadeitfeelasfarawayasIneededittobe.Icircledtheneighborhoodafewtimesandthenparkedmycaroneblockfromwhereithappened.Iclosedmyeyesandleanedbackintotheheadrest.Istayedthereforawhile.
AndthenIwalked.IlookedupfromundermyhoodandsawthesignforJoe’scoffeeshop.Theletterswereaglossynewblackwherethey’doncebeenfadedandchipped.IputmyhandonmychesttoseeifIcouldfeelmyheartbeatthroughmycoat.Eachpumpofbloodfeltlikeaweep.
Iturnedaroundandfacedtheintersection.
Everythingaboutitlookeddifferentthanithadinmymemory.Andyethowdifferentcouldoneintersectionlookfromanother?Thegreycrackedandfadedasphaltwithsofttarlineslikeveins,yellowiridescentpaintmarkingthecrosswalkspeoplemightnotuse.Thestoplightsrockedinthewindandthewalksignchimedasthetrafficrumbledupfrombehindme.
Iscannedthepavement,lookingforamark.Blood.Debris.Andthenrememberedthattimewasreal,thatonethousand,eighthundredandeighty-sevenlong,emptydayshadpassed.Iwaitedforabreakintraffic.Iwalkedontotheroadandcrouchedinthespotwherehehaddied—justleftofcenterintheleft-handlane,afewmetersaheadofthecrosswalk.Iranmyhandovertheasphaltandthenpresseditagainstmycoldcheek.
Ilookedoveratthecurbandimaginedthestrollerrollingoffintotheroad.ThegrooveddipattheedgethatIrememberedsoclearlywasnolongerthere.Theedgeofthecementwassmoothandtippedintothestreet.IcouldseetheelevationfromwhereIcrouched,anditwasn’tasslightasI’dremembered.Iwalkedovertothesidewalkandtookacylinderoflipbalmfrommypocket.IputitonitssideandIwatcheditrollfromthetipofmyboot,slowlyatfirstbutthenwithmorespeed,untilitcametoarestinthemiddleoftheroad.Thelightturnedgreenandthetubebouncedawayunderthebelliesofpassingcars.Amiddle-agedmaninasuitsloweddowntoeyemeashewalkedby.Ilookedawayandstoodup.
Mymindreplayedthesceneagain.Comingoutofthecoffeeshop.Standingonthesidewalk.Holdingtheteainmylefthand.Thehandleofthestrollerinmyrighthand.Touchinghimforthelasttime.Thefeelingofthehotsteamrisinguptomyface.Violetbesideme.Theyankonmyarm.Thescorchonmyskin.Violet’spinkmittensontheblackhandle.ThebackofSam’sheadmovingfurtheraway.Howfastdidhego?Didithavemomentum?Couldithaverolledsofarwithoutapush?Hadshetouchedthathandle?
Iwatchedthesceneplayouteverypossibleway,overandover,rightthereinfrontofme.Itcouldhave.Itcouldhavehappened.
Someonebumpedmyelbowpassingby,andthensomeoneelse,andIsuddenlyfoundmyselfstandingthereinastreamofpeople,theirhandsclutchingtake-outcontainersandcoffees.Ifeltinvisibleamongthesehumanbeingswhohadreallivesandjobsandwentplacesthatmatteredandwereexpectedtoarrivebyotherpeoplewhoneededthem.Fuckyouall,Ithoughtandwantedtoscreamatthem.Mysonisdead!Hediedrighthere!Youwalkbyhereeverydaylikeit’snothing!Iwasangryandexhausted.Iturnedaroundandstaredatthecoffeeshop.
ItwasthelastplaceIhadlookedintoSameye’swhilehewasalive.Everythingaboutitwasdifferentnow.ThroughthewindowIsawthewoodfloorshadbeenreplacedwithwhiteherringboneceramictilesandthewallswereframedwithpanelsofchalkboardpaintwhereplaidwallpaperhadoncebeen.Itriedtorememberwhatthetableshadbeenlikebeforethestainless-steelhigh-tops.Itwasquietforlunchtime—itusedtobesuchabusyplace.
IwalkedinsideandnoticedthedoorchimeVioletandSamhadlovedwasgone.Joewasstillthere,hisbackturnedtowardsmeashefiddledwithanespressomachine.
Itookadeepbreath.“Joe,”Isaid,andhelookedupslowly.Hisshouldersfell.Hecamearoundthecounterandheldhishandsoutformine.Hesqueezedme.
“Ialwayshopedyoucomebackin.”
“Thingslookdifferent,”Isaidlookingaround.
Joerolledhiseyes.“Myson.He’stakingovertheplace—mybackisbadandthere’stoomuchstandingaroundhere.”Wesmiledateachother.“Howareyou?”
Ilookedoutthewindowtotheintersection.
“Whatdoyourememberaboutit?”Iswallowed.Ihadn’tplannedtogointhere,Ihadn’tplannedontalkingtohim.
“Oh,sweetheart.”Hesaidandputhishandonmineagain.Helookedoutthewindowwithme.“Ijustrememberhowdistraughtyouwere.Youwereinshock.Yourdaughterclungtoyourlegandwantedtobeheld,butyoucouldn’tpickherup.Youcouldn’tmove.”
Violethadneverdonethatbefore—shehadneverclungtome,neverturnedtomeforcomfortinthewayotherchildrendidwiththeirmothers.Reaching,wanting
Westoodtogetheratacounteroverlookingthewindowandwatchedthetrafficlightschangeandthecarsgoby.Theskywaswhite.
“Didyouseeithappen?”
Hewinced,butdidn’tturnawayfromthestreet.Hewasthinkingaboutwhattosaytome.Iturnedawayandthensawhimshakehisheadinmyperiphery.
“Didyouseehowthestrollergotthere?”Itriedagainandclosedmyeyes.
“Justoneofthoseterrible,freakaccidents.”
Iopenedmyeyesandlookeddownathishandsfoldedonthecounterbesideme.Hesqueezedthemtogether,likehewasgettingthroughashotofpain.
“I’vethoughtaboutyoualotovertheyears,howyoucouldpossiblymoveonafterthat.”Hiseyesbecameglassy.“I’vealwaysthankedGodyouhadthatlittlegirltolivefor.”
WhenIgothome,thedoorslammedshutinthewindbehindmeandnearlycaughtmyfingers.Isanktothefloorandthrewmykeysagainstthewall.IthoughtofSam,ofhowhisfacewasjuststartingtochangefromthegenericpudgeofababytowhohewouldonedaybe,ofthesmellofmysweetmilkthatwasalwaysinthecreviceofhisneck,ofthelasttugofmynippleinhismouthwhenhewasfinished.Ofthewayhesearchedformyfaceinthedarkwhilehenursed.
Iclosedmyeyesandtriedtofeeltheweightofhisbodyonmylap.Icouldgetthere;Icouldbethere.Themorningtelevisionshowplayinginthebackground,thesteamofthekettlefromthekitchen.ThefaintsoundofViolet’sbarefeetupstairs.Therunningwaterinthebathroomsinkwhileyoushavedforwork.Thefeelofmyunwashedhair.Theascendingcryfromtheotherroom.Thatlife,banalandstifling.Butcomforting.Itwaseverything.I’dletitallgo.
MaybeI’dlethimgo,too.
81.
Therehadbeenhalfabottleofwineconsumed,yes.(IdrankmostnightsaftergoingbacktotheplaceSamdied.)ButI’dbeenthinkingaboutcallingyoufordays.Icurleduponthecouchwhilehesleptupstairs.Onyoursideofthebed.Iwishedhehadn’tstayedthenight.Itwasnearlymidnight.
IhadtalkedmyselfthroughdifferentversionsofwhatIcouldsaytoyou,butnothingfeltright.Ididn’twanttoapologizeforthemotherI’dbeentoher—Iwasn’tsorry.Ididn’twanttosayIwaswrong—Ididn’tknowifIwas.Ijustwantedyoutoknowthatsomethinginsideofmehadchanged.AndIwantedtoseeourdaughtermore.
GemmaansweredyourphonethethirdtimeIcalled.“Iseverythingokay?”
Maybeitis,Iwantedtoreply.Maybeitfinallyis.
ButinsteadIaskedtospeaktoyou.Youwerebesideherinbed,Icouldhearthesheetsmoveasyourolledovertotakethephone.
“Ineedtoseehermore.Iwanttodobetter.”
Iaskedyouaboutthepainting,theoneyoutookfromourbedroomwhenyoumovedout.Ihadn’tplannedtoaskyouaboutthis,Ihadn’teventhoughtaboutitthatnight.ButsuddenlyIwanteditdesperately.Istoodupandpacedtheroomwhileyouletmesitonthelineinsilence.Iimaginedithangingonastarkwhitewallinthehallwayofyourbeautifulnewhome,Gemmatouchingthegoldframegentlywhileshewalkedby,thinkingofherownsmallchildandthewayhetouchedherface.
“Idon’tknowwhereitis.”
82.
IpickedVioletupfromschoolthenextday.Shewassittingaloneonthecoldstepslikeaboulderinawaterfall,childrenboundingdownaroundher.
“Wecandoanythingyouwantthisafternoon,”I’dsaidasshebuckledup.“Youpick.Butwe’regoingwithanewschedule.EveryWednesdayandThursdaynightwithme.”
Iwatchedhertextfuriouslyfromthecornerofmyeye.
“Iwanttogohome,”shesaideventually,lookingoutthewindow.
“Wewill,butlet’sdosomesomethingfunfirst.Whatareyouinthemoodfor?”
“No,Imeanhome.ToGemma.AndDad.”
“Well,you’remydaughter.AndI’myourmother.So,we’regoingtotrytoactlikeit.”
Ipulledintotheparkinglotofagasstationandstoppedthecar.Ididn’tknowwheretotakeher.Shewasturnedtowardsthepassengerdoor,texting,andIrealizedIhadn’tknownshe’dbeengivenaphone.Shewasonlytwelve.
“Whoareyoutexting?”
“MomandDad.”
Ididn’tgiveherareaction—Iknewshewaslookingforone.
InsteadIfilledthecarwithgasanddroveusouttothehighway.
Twohourslaterwestoppedfortake-outatthefirstdrive-throughofftheexitramp.Ididn’tknowshewasvegetariannow—shewouldonlyeatthefries.Sheneveraskedwhereweweregoing,notforthewholetwohours.Insteadsheleanedherarmagainstthewindowandslowlypulledstrandsofherhairthroughherfingers,flatteningthemoutandrunningherhandalongthesilkyribbonlikethebowofaviolin.ThiswassomethingItoohaddoneasagirl.
MyheartfeltsoftwhenIpulledintothelotandtookaticketfromthemachine.Ihadn’tbeenthereinaverylongtime.Igotoutofthecarandwaitedinthecoldforhertojoinme,butshedidn’tmove.Iopenedherdoorandputmyhandonhershoulder.
“There’ssomeoneIwantyoutomeet.”
Shedidn’tsayanythingaswecheckedinatthefrontdesk.IhandedovermyIDandclippedthevisitorpassestoeachofourcoats.Shefollowedmequietlytotheelevatoranddownthehallofthefourthfloor.Thesmellwasstaleandasepticbutforthewaftofurineeverynowandthen.Itcrushedmetobreatheinthatair.Iknockedsoftlyonthedoorofherroom.
“Comein.”
Shesatinanorangeslip-coveredchairwithherlegscrossed,anemptycrosswordonherlap.Thelightsintheroomwereoffandthepeninherhandhadthecapon.Alooselyknittedblankethungaroundhershoulders.Sheopenedhermouthtospeakbutthenjustsighed.She’dforgottenwhatshewantedtosay.Andthen,
“You’rehere!I’vebeenwaitingforyou!”
VioletwatchedasIhuggedhergently.Iturnedonthelampbehindherandsheglancedupatthebulb,surprisedbythelight.IgesturedforViolettositattheendofthebed.
“I’msohappytoseeyou.”ShereachedherhandtomeandIranmythumboverherskin,asthinasricepaperandpatternedwithwaxyspots.HerveinsmovedundermylipsasIgaveherhandakiss.Shesmelledlikepetroleumjelly.
“Youlooksobeautifultoday.”ShespokesoearnestlythatIsuddenlyreallydidfeelbeautiful.Ithankedher.HerlipsweredryandIreachedforthecupofwateronherbedsidetableandofferedittoher.“Nothankyou,dear.Youhavesome.You’realwayssothirsty.Evenasalittlegirl,youwere.”
VioletlookedatmeandIcouldseebyhertwistingmouththatshewasupset.Shewasfeelinguncomfortable,inthisstrangebuildingwiththisstrangestenchandthiswomanshehadnevermetbefore.Sheshiftedonthebedandlookedtothedoor.
“Iwanttointroduceyoutosomeone.ThisisViolet,mydaughter.”Violetlookedquicklytothestrangerinthechairandmumbledahello.
“Oh.She’slovely,isn’tshe?”
“Shecertainlyis.”
“DoyouknowhowIgothere?”sheaskedme.Herfacewasworried.
ItookherhandagainandInodded.“Youweredrivenhereinacar.Youlivednottoofarawayfromhere,inahouseonDowningtonCrescent.Doyouremember?”
“Idon’tremember.”
Anursecameinwithacoveredtrayandputitonthesmallrollingtable.“Dinnertime!”
“Leda,Iwantyoutomeetmydaughter.”Shetuggedatmyhandsandbeamedatthenurse.“Isn’tshebeautiful?”
Violetlookedatmeforthefirsttime.Shestoodupandwalkedtowardsthedoor,herhandsonherelbows.Herchinlowered,andIwonderedifshemightcry.Thenursesmiledatmeandthenturneddownthebed,fluffingthethinpillow.Shedroppedtwocapsulesinafoamcuponthebedsidetableandthenliftedthecoveronthedinnertray.Theroomfilledwiththeawfulsmellofhot,cannedvegetables.Violetturnedawayfromus.
“Oh.I’vegottoeatandgetreadyforbednow.”Sheslowlystoodoutofherchairandtriedtofoldtheblanketthathadbeenonhershoulders.Shewentintothebathroomandshutthedoor.Iarrangedherdinnersettingforherandputhercrosswordbookonthedresser.Violeteyedmequietly.Thetoiletflushedandthenwewatchedhersettleherselfbackinthechair.
“We’llgetgoingthen.”Ileaneddowntokisshercheek.“I’llcomevisityoufortheholidays.HaveyouseenDanielorThomas?Havetheycomebylately?”
“Whoarethey?”
“Yoursons.”I’dlosttouchwiththemlongago.
“Idon’thaveanysons.Ionlyhaveyou.”
Ikissedheragainasshestaredattheknifeandfork,wonderingwhattodowiththem.Iputtheforkinherhandandhelpedherstabagreenbean.Shenoddedandthenbroughtthebeantoherlips.
WegotinthecarandIletitrunforaminute.IwaitedforViolettotakeoutherphoneandstarttexting.Shedidn’t.Insteadshelookedstraightaheadwhilewefoundourwaybacktothehighwayunderthedarksky.Iwonderedifshe’dfallenasleep.Half-wayhomeshefinallyspoketome.
“Whowasthatwoman?Shewasn’tyourmother.Shewasblack.”Hertonewasbiting.LikeIhadbeentryingtofoolher.LikeIhadwantedtomakeherfeelstupidsomehow.
“ShewastheclosestthingIhad.”
“Whydon’tyoufindyourrealmother?”
Ipaused,thinkingabouthowtoanswerhertruthfully.
“BecauseI’mscaredtoknowwhoshebecame.”
Ilookedawayfromtheroadtohershadowedprofile.Sadnesssqueezedmythroat.FortwelveyearsI’dwantedtofindsomethingbetweenusthatwasn’tthere.Shehadcomefromme.Ihadmadeher.Thisbeautifulthingbesideme,Ihadmadeher,andtherewasatimeIhadwantedher,atimeIthoughtshewouldbemyworld.Shelookedlikeawomannow.Therewasfemininewisdomgrowinginhereyesandshewasabouttothrivewithoutme.Shewasabouttochoosealifethatdidnotincludeme.Iwouldbeleftbehind.
1975
Ceciliaknewearlyonshewasn’tmeanttobeamother.Shecouldfeelitinherbonesaswomanhoodsetin.Whenshewouldseeachildwithhishandinhismother’s,dragginghisfeetalongtheground,she’dlooktheotherway.Thiswasaphysicalreactionforher,likewincingwhenthewaterwastoohotfromthefaucet.Asfarasshewasconcerned,shedidn’thavethatthingotherwomendid—shedidn’tfeelnurturingorseethejoyofachubbylittlethigh.Andshecertainlydidn’twanttoseeherselfreflectedinanotherlivingthing.
Herperiodhadcomeeverymonthsinceshewastwelve,likeafaithfulfriendremindingher:Youbleed.Youshed.Youdon’tneedababyinsideofyou.Don’tlistenwhentheworldtellsyouthatyoudo.
Shehaddreamsandfreedom.Butthenshegaveitallup.
Whenthebabymovedinsideofher,sometimesCeciliawonderedifherfeelingswerechanging.Onceshestoodnakedinthemirrorandwatchedthelumpofthebaby’sfootmoveacrossthetopofherstomach,likethearcofacrescentmoon.Shelaughedoutloudandthebabymovedsomemore.Shelaughedsomemore.Theywerehavingamomentoffun,thetwoofthem.
Theysedatedherforthelabor.Thebabydidn’twanttocomeout,sotheycutCeciliathreewaysandusedforcepsthatmadethebaby’sheadlooklikeatriangle.WhenCeciliacameto,thebabywasalreadywrappedinflannelsomewhereinthepatchofnewborns.
“Youhadagirl,”thenursesaidtoher,likeitwasexactlythethingCeciliawantedtohear.
Sebwheeledhertothewindowandknockedontheglasstogetthenurses’attention.
“She’sthatone.”Shepointedrighttothebaby,threerowsin,fourtotheleft.
“Howdoyouknow?”
“Ijustknow.”
Thenursepickedupthebabyandheldherhighforthemtosee.Shewaswide-eyedandstill.Ceciliathoughtshelookedjustlikeherolddoll,Beth-Anne.
Thenurseaskedthroughtheglassifshewantedtonurse.CecilialookedupatSebandaskediftheycouldgooutsideinstead.Hetookheroutthroughthefrontdoorsofthehospitalinherslippersandnightgown,theIVpolerattlingonthecement.HegaveCeciliahercigarettesandshestaredattheparkinglotwhileshesmoked.
“Wecouldgetinthecarnowandgo.Justus.”Ceciliaputoutthecigaretteonherknee.
Sebgrinnedandshookhishead.“Thosepainkillersmustreallybeworking.”Heturnedheraroundtogobackinside.“Comeon.Wehavetopickaname.”
Theytookthebabyhomeandputherinabassinetteonthekitchentableofhisparents’house.Cecilia’smilknevercamein.Thebabygrewfatquicklyonformula,andCeciliathoughtshelookedlikeEtta.Shehardlycriedatall,evenatnightlikeotherbabiesdid.SebsaidtoCecilianearlyeveryday,“Aren’twelucky.”
83.
Herbrushwastangledinmylong,wethair.Mymothersatonthetoiletandpulledstrandafterstrandfromthebristles.Itoldhershecouldcutitout—IwaselevenyearsoldandIwasn’tconcernedyetabouthowIlooked.ButsheinsistedIwouldn’tlikemyhaircutshort.Iwonderedwhyshecaredsomuchaboutthis,butnotmuchelse.Iwasquietwhilesheyankedatmyhead.Theradioplayedinthebackgroundandthestaticcutineveryfewseconds.Istaredatthefadedrainbowsonmynightgown.
“Yourgrandmotherhadshorthair.”
“Doyoulooklikeher?”
“Notreally.Weweresimilarinsomeways,butnotinourlooks.”
“WillIbelikeyouwhenIgrowup?”
Shestoppedpullingatmyhairforamoment.Ireacheduptofeelthetangledbrush,butshepushedmyhandaway.
“Idon’tknow.Ihopenot.”
“Iwanttobeamomtoooneday.”Mymotherstoppedagainandwasquiet.Sheputherhandonmyshoulderandhelditthere.Iarchedmyback—thegentlenessofhertouchfeltstrange.
“Youknow,youdon’thavetobe.Youdon’thavetobeamother.”
“Doyouwishyouweren’tamother?”
“SometimesIwishIwereadifferentkindofperson.”
“Whodoyouwishyouwere?”
“Oh,Idon’tknow.”Shestartedpullingattheknotagain.Staticfilledtheradio,butsheletithiss.“WhenIwasyoungIdreamedofbeingapoet.”
“Whyaren’tyou?”
“Iwasn’tanygood.”Andthensheadded,“Ihaven’twrittenawordsinceIhadyou.”
Thatdidn’tmakeanysensetome—thatmyexistenceintheworldcouldhavetakenpoetryawayfromher.“Youcouldtryagain.”
Shechuckled.“No.It’sallgonefrommenow.”
Shepaused,myhairstillinherhand.Ileanedbackintoherknees.“Youknow,there’salotaboutourselvesthatwecan’tchange—it’sjustthewaywe’reborn.Butsomepartsofusareshapedbywhatwesee.Andhowwe’retreatedbyotherpeople.Howwe’remadetofeel.”Shefinallypulledthebrushfreeandwhiskeditagainstafist-fullofmyhairuntilitwassmooth.Icringedwhileshefinished.ShehandedmethebrushovermyshoulderandIuncrossedmybonylegstostand.
“Blythe?”
“Yes?”Iturnedaroundinthedoorway.
“Idon’twantyoulearningtobelikeme.ButIdon’tknowhowtoteachyoutobeanyonedifferent.”
Sheleftusthenextday.
84.
ThemorningafterwevisitedMrs.Ellington,IheardVioletcallGemmafromthebathroomwhilesherantheshowertomuffleherwords.Ididn’tlingeroutsidetoeavesdrop—Iwenttothekitchenandmadeherbreakfast.Isatacrossfromherwithacupofcoffeeandwatchedhereat.
“What?”Sheliftedherspoonup,annoyed,drippingmilkonthetable.Shehadn’tspokentomesincewewereinthecar.Inoticedathinbrastraponhershoulderpeekoutfromthewideneckofhersweater.
“I’mgladyouhaveGemmainyourlife.IbroughtyoutomeetMrs.EllingtonsoyoucouldseethatIunderstand.Iwantyoutofeellovedbysomeoneyoutrust.Someoneyoucanturnto.Andthatpersondoesn’thavetobeme,ifyoudon’twantittobe.”
Shedroppedthespooninhercerealbowlandthenpushedherchairoutfromthetable,rattlingthedishware.Mycoffeespilled.Icaughtherjustasthefrontdoorwasclosing.
“Wait.Youforgotyourcoat.I’lldriveyou,”Isaid,tryingtoturnheraround.Ihadn’texpectedhertoreactlikethis—IthoughtI’dextendedanolivebranch,amutualunderstanding:IwasnotwhoshewantedandIhadconceded.
“Ofcourseyou’rehappytopawnmeoffonher.I’myourbiggestregret,aren’tI?”
“Youknowthat’snottrue.”
“You’realiar.Youhateme.”Shetriedtopullherarmfromme,butmygripwasstrong.IthoughtofSam.Ofhiscrushedbodyinthestroller.Ofwhathappenedordidn’thappen.Ofthepain.OfhowmuchImissedmybaby.OfhowmuchIhadmissedmymother.Oftheblameandfearanddoubtthathadcrippledmeforyears.Iyankedhercloser,twistingherarmharderthanIshouldhave.AdrenalineshotupmylegsandIjerkedherhardagain,pullingherclosertomyface.I’dneverexperiencedthephysicalrushofhurtingherlikethisbefore.Ipromiseyou.
Irealizedthenhowsatisfiedshelooked.Thecornerofherlipsturnedupslowlyasshewinced.Goahead.Keephurtingme.Leaveamark.Iletgoofher.Andthensheran.
Shewasn’tthereonthestepswhenIwenttogetherafterschool.Iidledthecarandwentintotheofficetoseewhereshewas.Theytoldmeshe’dgonehomesick.Thatyouhadpickedherup.
Itextedyou.Ithoughtwehadanagreementontheschedule.
Youreplied.Idon’tthinkit’sgoingtowork.
Thatnighttherewasasoftknockonthedoor,sosoftthatIalmostdidn’tgetoutofbedtoanswer.Islippedonmyrobeandwalkedcarefullydownthestairsinthedark.Iopenedthedoor.Nobodywasthere.Buttherewasalargebubble-wrappedpackagewithanotetapedtoit.Iopeneditthereonthecoldflooratthefrontdoor.Thepainting.Sam’spainting.ThenotewasfromGemma.
Youdeservetohavethis.It’sbeenhanginginViolet’sroomsinceFoxgaveittoher,butshetookitdownthisafternoon.Theframeiscracked.Andshepuncturedthecanvas.I’msorryforthat.Ididn’tknowhowmuchitmeanttoyou.Please,giveherspace.Ihopeyouunderstand.MerryChristmas.Gemma.
Youhadn’tyetmadeitbacktoyourcar.Iwouldrecognizetheshapeofyouanywhere,theroundofyourshoulders,theliftinyourelbowswhileyouwalked.Ididn’tthinkbeforeIcalledyourname.Youdidn’tthinkbeforeyouturnedaround.Andsotherewewere,staringateachother.Strangers,family.Iwaitedforyoutoturnawaytowardyourcar.Butinsteadyoucameback.Totheporchyourebuilt,tothehomeyouhadloved.Thehomewestillsharedonpaper.Youlookedpastmeanduptowherethetrimaroundthedoorhadspliced,ashardofwoodjuttingoutlikeablade.
“Youshouldgetthatfixed.”
“Thankyou.Forbringingthisback.”Igesturedbehindmetothepainting,half-unwrappedintheentryway.
“ThankGemma.”
Inodded.
“Youcan’tcallmywifeanymore.Youhavetomoveonwithyourlife.Youknowthis,right?Forthegoodofeveryone.”
Iknew.ButIdidn’twanttohearitfromyou.
Youturnedawayfromme,andIthoughtyoumightleavethen.Istaredatthesideofyourface,tryingtodecidewhatIfeltforyounow.Ithadbeensolongsincewe’dbeenneareachother.Youdidn’tfeelrealtome,youfeltlikeacharacterinalifethathadneverbeenmine.Iwantedtoreachforyourchin,totouchyou,toseehowyoufeltbetweenmyfingersnowthatyoulovedsomeoneelse,nowthatyouwereafathertoachildwhowasnotours.
*
“What?”youasked,feelingmyeyesonyou.
Ishookmyhead.Weshookourheadsateachother.Andthenyouclosedyoureyesandyoustartedtochuckle.
“Youknowwhat,Ithoughtofsomethingonthewayoverhere.”Youtookaseatonthetopstairandspoketowardstheroad.Isatnexttoyouandwrappedmyhousecoattight.“TherewasthisthingInevertoldyouabout.”Youchuckledagainandletyourshouldersfall.Ihadnoideawhatyouwouldsay.
“Doyourememberthattime,justafterSamwasborn,whenallofyourniceclothesfromtheclosetdisappeared?Andwecouldn’tfindthemanywhere?”
“Itwasthatcleaningserviceyouhired,thatstupiddiscountplace.”Iscoffed.Iremembered.IthoughtIwasgoingcrazy;allofmyniceblousesandsweatershaddisappearedatsomepoint.Ihadlivedinmyoversizedsweatsformonthsafterhisbirth,soIcouldn’tsayforsurewhenithappened,buttheirdisappearancewasthestrangestthing.WehaddoneatrialwithanewcleaningcompanyintheneighborhoodanditwastheonlypossibleexplanationIcouldthinkof.Iwastootiredandpreoccupiedtocaremuchatthetime.Youtoldmenottoworry,thatwe’dreplaceeverything.
Youhungyourheadandbegantolaugh.“Welloneday—”Yousqueezedthebridgeofyournosebetweenyourfingersandyourshouldersshook.“OnedayIwentinyourclosettogetyouacardiganforyou,and—”Youcouldn’tfinish.Youwereintears.Ihadn’tseenanyonelaughsohardinyears.
“What?Thisisannoying,justtellme!”
“Iopenedyourclosetdoorandeverythingwas…itwasallcutup.”Youcouldbarelyspitthewordsout.Thetearsspilleddownyourface.Youshookyourheadandwheezed.“Thearms,theyhadallbeensnippedandtheshirtswerecropped.Itouchedonethingafteranotherandthought,Whatthehell?”Youwipedyourfacewiththebackofyourhand.“AndthenIlookeddown,andthereVioletwas,hidingunderthebottomsofyourdresses,holdingoutoneofthoseX-ACTOknivesfrommydesk.She’ddoneit.She’djustgonetotownlikeEdwardfuckingScissorhands.SoIthrewtheclothesoutandnevertoldyou.”
Myjawfell.Myclothes.She’dmassacredmywardrobe.WhileIsatdownstairsonthecouchfeedingthebaby,she’dbeenupthereslicingeverynicethingIowned.Andyoucoveredupforher.
“Thatisfuckedup.”ItwasallIcouldthinktosay.Youlookedatmeandlaughedagain,delirious.Youwereinfuriating.Ishookmyheadandcalledyouanidiotundermybreath.Youshouldn’thavefounditfunny.
ButthenIbrokeasmile.Ihadnochoicebuttogiveinandjoinyourlaughter.Itwasabsurd.Youstillhadthatpullonme,thatwayofmakingmewanttobelikeyou.Wehowledlikeapairofolddogsinthenight.Atthethoughtofsuchastrangethingtodo,attheridiculousnessofhidingitfromme.Attheideathataftereverything,wecouldbethere,thatnight,onthecoldporch,together.
“Youshouldhavetoldme.”Iwipedmynoseonmyhousecoatandletthelaughtersettle.
“Iknow.”Youwerecalmbythenandsomethingchangedinyourface.Youlookedmeintheeyesforthefirsttimeinyears.Wesattheretogetherintheheavinessofeverythingwewouldnotsay.Ihadtolookaway.Iclosedmyheavylidsandthoughtofourson.Ourbeautifulson.IthoughtofElijah,theboyfromtheplayground.Ithoughtofthechildrenshebullied.OfthenightsshestaredatSaminthedarkwhileheslept.Ofherdetachment.Oftherazors.Ofthemotherlionshethrewoutthewindowonthewayhomefromthezoo.Ofmymother’ssecretsandhershame.Ofmyexpectations.Ofmydeadeningfears.Ofthingsthatwerenormal,ofthethingsIreadinto.WhatIhadseen.WhatIhadnotseen.Whatyouknew.
Youclearedyourthroatandstoodup.
“Shewasn’talwayseasy.Butshedeservedmorefromyou.”Youlookeddownthestreettowardsyourcarandzippedupyourjacket.Withyourhandsinyourpockets,youtookonestepdownthestairs,awayfromme.“Andyoudeservedmorefromme.”
WhenIcameinthehousetherewasamessageonmyvoicemail.Itwasanolderwoman,shedidn’tsaywhoshewas.Therewasarattletohervoiceandahollowsoundinthebackground.She’dcalledtoletmeknowmymotherhaddiedthatday.Shedidn’tsaywhere,orhow.Shepausedandmuffledthereceiver,interrupted,maybe,bysomeone.Andthensheleftherphonenumber.Thelasttwonumberswerecutoffbythetone—shehadtakentoolongtospeak.
85.
AsshestandsinthewindowofyourhomeonChristmasEve,reachingforthecurtain,Igetoutofmycar,thesepagesinmyhands.IstandinthemiddleoftheroadinthefallingsnowlitfromtheyellowstreetlightandIwatchher.
IwanthertoknowIamsorry.
Violetdropsherarmstoherside.Andthensheliftsherchinandoureyesfindeachother.IthinkIseesoftnessfallinhercheeks.Ithinkshemightputherhandtothewindow,likesheneedsme.Hermother.Iwonder,forafleetingmoment,ifwe’llbeokay.
Shemouthssomething,butIcan’tmakeitout.Iwalkclosertothewindowandshrugmyshoulders,shakemyhead—sayitagain?Iaskher.Sayitagain?Shemouthsthewordsslowlythistime.Andthenshelungesforward.Herhandspushagainstthewindow,likeshewantstobreakthroughtheglass,andsheholdsthemthere.Icanseeherchestrisingandfalling.
Ipushedhim.
Ipushedhim.
ThesearethewordsIhearinmyhead.
“Sayitagain!”ThistimeIshout.I’mdesperate.Butshedoesnotsayitagain.ShenoticesthesepagesIcarryinmyhand.Ilookdownatthemtoo.Welookbacktoeachother,andIcan’tfindthatsoftnessinherfaceanymore.
Yourshadowappearsatthebackoftheroomandshewalksawayfromthewindow,awayfromme.Sheisyours.Thelightsinyourhousegoout.
Ayearandahalflater
Manyseasonshavepassedsinceshe’snoticedhownicethewarmwaftsofearlyJuneairfeelinherlungs.Shestopsoutsideofherhouseandbreathesagain,deepintohersoftbelly,thewayshepracticesattheendofeverysessionwithhertherapist.Shepuffsouttheair,countingone,two,three,andthenfishesforherkeys.
Saturdayafternoonsaremuchlikeanyotherdayoftheweek.Sheplucksthegreenheadsoffaquartofstrawberriesthatshecutsintohalvesandeatsforlunch,slowly,atherkitchentable.Soonshewillbringasmallglassofwaterupstairsintotheroomthathadoncebeenherson’s.Shewillcrossherlegsandthenlowerherselftothemeditationcushionplacedsquarelyinfrontofthewindow.Shewillstretchherbackandthenshewillsitthereintheafternoonlightforthenextforty-fiveminutes,andshewillthinkofnothing.Nothim.Nother.Notthemistakesshehasmadeasamother.Nottheguiltshecarriesforthedamageshehasdone.Notherunbearableloneliness.
No,shewillnotthinkaboutanyofthat.Shehasworkedtoohardtoletitgo.
Iamcapableofmovingbeyondmymistakes.
IamabletohealfromthehurtandpainIhavecaused.
Shewillsaytheseaffirmationsaloudandshewillputherhandstoherchest,andthenshewillflickherhands,shewillreleaseitall.
Whenitistimefordinner,sheclosesherlaptopandshechopsherselfasalad.Sheallowsherselftoputonsomemusic,justthreesongs—someofherjoysarestillmeasured.Buttonightshe’llmovehershoulderseversoslightly,shewilltapherfoot.Sheistrying,andtryinghasbecomeeasier.
Afterdinner,asshedoeseverynight,sheturnsonthelightatthefrontofthehouse.Shedoesthisincaseherdaughterdecidesitistimetofinallycomehome.
Upstairs,shehumsaverseshehadlistenedtointhekitchen.Sheundresses.Thebathfillswithhotwaterandthemirrorsteams.Sheisleaningoverthecounter,wipingtheglass,wantingtoexamineherbareface,topatthelooseskinunderhereyes,whenthephonerings.
Sheisstartledandclutchesatoweltoherbreastslikethereisanintruderinthenextroom.Thephoneglowsfromtheendofherbed.Mydaughter,shethinks.Itcouldbemydaughter,andshefloatsinthathopeforamoment.
Sheslidesherfingeronthescreenandliftsittoherear.Thewomanishysterical.
Thewomanisdesperatelysearchingforwordsitseemsshewillneverfind.Shewalkstotheotherendofherbedroomandthentothecorner,asthoughshe’slookingforbetterreception,asthoughthiswillhelpthewomantospeak.Shehushesintothephoneandasshedoesthis,sherealizeswhoitissheissoothing.Shecloseshereyes.ItisGemma.
“Blythe,”shefinallywhispers.“SomethinghappenedtoJet.”
TableofContents
Cover
TitlePage
Copyright
Epigraph
Chapter1
Chapter2
Chapter3
Chapter4
Chapter5
Chapter6
Chapter7
Chapter8
Chapter9
Chapter10
Chapter11
Chapter12
Chapter13
Chapter14
Chapter15
Chapter16
Chapter17
Chapter18
Chapter19
Chapter20
Chapter21
Chapter22
Chapter23
Chapter24
Chapter25
Chapter26
Chapter27
Chapter28
Chapter29
Chapter30
Chapter31
Chapter32
Chapter33
Chapter34
Chapter35
Chapter36
Chapter37
Chapter38
Chapter39
Chapter40
Chapter41
Chapter42
Chapter43
Chapter44
Chapter45
Chapter46
Chapter47
Chapter48
Chapter49
Chapter50
Chapter51
Chapter52
Chapter53
Chapter54
Chapter55
Chapter56
Chapter57
Chapter58
Chapter59
Chapter60
Chapter61
Chapter62
Chapter63
Chapter64
Chapter65
Chapter66
Chapter67
Chapter68
Chapter69
Chapter70
Chapter71
Chapter72
Chapter73
Chapter74
Chapter75
Chapter76
Chapter77
Chapter78
Chapter79
Chapter80
Chapter81
Chapter82
Chapter83
Chapter84
Chapter85