Mrs. Fletcher(78)

“I’m sorry to be so mercenary. What do you think this is about?”

“Our son,” Ted told her. “It’s about what’s best for our son.”

Eve nodded, as if impressed by his superior wisdom.

“Wow,” she said, knowing even as she spoke that she wasn’t helping anyone. “Our son is lucky to have such a devoted father.”

Ted ignored the barb—it was as if she hadn’t even spoken—which was another thing he did that drove her crazy.

“Look,” he said, doing his best Mr. Reasonable. “It’s a big school. Maybe it’s just a bad fit.”

This was a valid point, Eve knew, but that didn’t make it any less irritating.

“Don’t blame me,” she said. “I wasn’t the one—”

“Nobody’s blaming you,” Ted told her. “Jesus. I’m just saying, people don’t always make the right choices in life. That doesn’t mean they have to be stuck with them.”

Eve tried to laugh but nothing came out.

“Do you even hear yourself?” she said, but the question went unanswered.

Ted had shifted his attention to Brendan, who had one hand clamped over his mouth, as if he were about to be sick.

“You okay?” Ted asked. “Are you choking?”

Brendan shook his head and burst into tears.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed through his fingers. “I fucked up.”

Eve couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him cry. At least five years, she thought. Maybe longer. But the sound was instantly familiar, like an old song on the radio. Ted reached across the table and patted him on the arm.

“Take it easy,” he said.

Brendan struggled to catch his breath. “I’m sorry I . . . disappointed you.”

“Hey, hey.” Ted shook his head. “Don’t say that. Nobody’s disappointed.”

Speak for yourself, Eve thought. Ted was staring at her with raised eyebrows, requesting a little support.

“It’s okay,” she said after a moment, reaching out to pat Brendan’s other shoulder. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”

*

The next morning, Brendan filled out the paperwork to formally withdraw from BSU. The day after that they drove to campus and moved him out of his dorm room. Zack wasn’t around to help, didn’t even show up to say goodbye. It didn’t take long to load Brendan’s stuff into a big orange bin, take it down in the elevator, and cram it into the maw of the van. It barely fit, just like at the beginning of the semester—the oscillating fan, the lacrosse stick, the toiletries, the laundry bin, the rolled-up rug, the suitcase and the garbage bags full of clothes. It had all looked so hopeful back in September, an emblem of the future. But now it just looked shabby and depressing, like they’d found a bunch of crap on the sidewalk and decided to take it home.





Somebody Loves Me


Valentine’s Day felt like just another Saturday in winter, which was bad enough in itself. Eve kept herself reasonably busy during the daylight hours—food shopping, laundry (there was so much more to do now that Brendan was home, especially since he’d gotten into CrossFit), bill-paying, a solo afternoon walk around the half-frozen lake. When she got home, she roasted a chicken with fingerling potatoes and brussels sprouts, a delicious, lovingly prepared meal that she ended up eating by herself, because her son had plans he’d forgotten to mention.

“Sorry,” he said. “Thought I told you.”

“Nope.”

“My bad.”

Yeah, she thought. Your bad.

“Who are you going out with?”

“Chris Mancuso,” he said. “I don’t think you know him.”

“Why can’t you eat here and then go out?”

“We’re gonna get pizza and watch the hockey game. Is that a problem?”

“Fine. Do what you want.”

“Jeez, what’s the big deal?” he asked. “When I was away at school, you ate by yourself every night.”

It was true, of course. She’d happily eaten alone in the fall, because that was how it was supposed to be. His absence was part of the necessary and proper order of things. His presence now was the problem—a huge backward step for both of them—along with his uncanny ability to take up more than his share of space in the house while giving so little in return.

“You’re right.” She waved him toward the door. “Go have your fun. Don’t drink and drive.”

“I know, I know,” he said in a weary voice, as if he were a mature adult who could be counted on to make good decisions. “Enjoy your chicken.”

*

She lingered at the table for as long as possible—she owed herself that much—and then dragged her feet on the cleanup, doing her best to stave off that troubling moment when there was nothing left to do, the official beginning of what she already knew would be a melancholy and restless night.

It had been like this all winter long. She found it difficult to relax after dark—couldn’t curl up with a book, or settle down long enough to watch a movie from beginning to end. She was full of nervous energy, a nagging, jittery feeling that there was somewhere she needed to go, something else—something urgent and important—that she needed to do. But that was the catch: there was nowhere to go, and nothing to do.