We Are Not Ourselves(89)

Ed smiled and looked benignly at his menu, as if written in its pages were the answers to diverting but trivial questions.

“Are you happy the year is over?” she asked.

“Very happy,” he said.

She fidgeted with some sugar packets. “So, Ed,” she said, after what seemed like an interminable pause. She tried out a smile. “We saw a nice house. One we liked a lot.”

“You found a house?”

He was looking at her with a strangely blank expression.

“Well, we didn’t find a house, exactly,” she said. “We did see one. It may not be perfect. There’s no saying we can even afford it.”

“You want to move? We can move.”

“What?”

She felt a little light-headed. She put both hands on the table to steady herself. His capitulation was so instantaneous that she had to think it was because the boy was there and they were in a public place; once home, he would give full vent to his displeasure. Another thought gave her greater pause, though: that she actually believed him. It was as if he’d never truly been opposed to the idea in the first place.

Ed turned to Connell. “This is what you want?”

She took a deep breath. Her stomach was in such a knot that she felt she might throw up.

“Very much,” the boy said, with a strange gravity. “I’m ready to leave.”

“You are?” Ed asked.

“Right away.”

“Why?”

“Well,” he said, “I’ve been thinking it over a lot.” She wouldn’t have guessed he’d thought about it once since the day they’d seen the house. “And what I’ve come up with is that I’m starting high school in the fall, and that’s a fresh start for me, and I think we should all get a fresh start.”

The boy had come to her aid. She had no idea where he was getting this poise. Perhaps her dream of having a politician in the family might come true after all. Ed looked to her. She shrugged her shoulders.

“Plus,” Connell added, “the house we found is great. The driveway is wide enough for almost a half-court game.”

She had no need to sell it to Ed when Connell was doing so much of the work for her.

“You want to move?” Ed asked again, as he shoved more bread into his mouth.

Connell nodded.

“Why not?” Ed said. “Let’s move.”

“We don’t have to rush into anything,” she said, disturbed by the quickness of his about-face.

“You found a house, you say?”

“Yes, but—”

“We can move.”

“Really?” Connell asked.

“Yes.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m glad to see you’re open to the idea. We’ll discuss it more later.”

“It’s a fine idea.” His grin was so wide as he buttered a slice of bread that Connell broke into a goofy one of his own.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” she said, but Ed didn’t hear her. “I said, someone’s in a good mood.” The pair of them chomped lustily. Ed signaled for another bowl of bread. When the waiter brought it, Connell ordered another Coke. “Save some room for dinner,” she said, unsure which of them she was addressing. She had ripped a sugar packet open without realizing it; its contents deposited into her lap. She rubbed the crystals until they formed a grainy film on her fingers, but she refused to get up to wash her hands.

“All right,” she said. “Connell wants to move. You want to move. I want to move. Does that mean we’re all in agreement?”

Ed nodded as he slathered butter on a new piece.

“You don’t mind if I go ahead and get some plans in motion. You’re on board.”

“Sure,” he said.

She felt herself growing angry. “Just back up a second,” she said. “Do you not remember saying you didn’t want to move? Do you not remember saying it wasn’t the right time?”

“I know we talked about it,” he said.

“And do you or do you not remember telling me in no uncertain terms that you didn’t want to—you couldn’t—move?”

He was nodding, but once again it wasn’t clear he was actually listening.

“All of a sudden it makes perfect sense to you?”

Her voice had been rising without her permission. People at nearby tables picked up their heads.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t just trying to quiet her down; there was a note of real contrition.

“Hey, Dad!” Connell said. “It’s okay. This is a good thing!” The boy had moved over to put an arm around his father.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to have some of this bread.”

His apologies were making her uncomfortable. “Just tell me one thing,” she said. “What changed your mind? What’s so different today?”

“I just feel good today. I’m so happy to be done! I don’t have to go in there for weeks—months!”

He was almost giddy. Maybe this thing wasn’t depression. Maybe it was manic depression.

Now that the year was over, now that he could look forward to three uninterrupted months, he’d sign off on anything she wanted. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to move; it was that he hadn’t been able to deal with anything extraneous at all. He’d had to spend so much energy managing his depression, his midlife crisis, his students, his research, that formerly ordinary tasks like doing his grades had become insuperable burdens. The strain had caused him to short-circuit. He had lost his mind over a few calculations, some entry of data into a book, some transposition of that data onto a sheet to tape to the wall. He had falsified the record for it, lost sleep over it, screamed at her because of it, cried in her arms about it. All he’d wanted was to be alone to lick his wounds, and his job never let him be alone. As long as he lay on the couch with his eyes closed, shutting out his thoughts with music, the demon couldn’t get to him.