Other People's Houses(22)

When she and Sara had been planning their wedding, Iris had been struck by how much attention was paid to getting married, and how little to staying married. Entire magazines were devoted to centerpieces and whimsical take-home trinkets, but where were the articles about getting used to the smell of each other’s poop? Where was the advice on how to end an argument about who was sicker when you both caught the same cold, or how to decide which one of you got up at night for the baby, or how to agree to put an old and suffering pet to sleep?

Similarly, when she was pregnant, there was such attention paid to labor and delivery, and so little to the first three months afterward, which made the pain of an episiotomy seem like a walk in the park. Split your vagina like a melon? Sure, but what about taking the first shit afterward? What about ninety nights with two hours of sleep and the argument all couples have in the second week when you realize this fucking baby is Never Leaving and all the help you have is That Useless Person Over There? Let’s get five hundred words on that, motherfucker.

Iris realized her mother was still waiting for an answer. “Because I haven’t found the right moment to bring it up. She seems really happy right now, and I guess I’m scared that if I ask her and she says no that I’m not sure what I would do.”

Her mother made a noise that was hard to describe. A sigh mixed with a click of the tongue and an ageless expression of resignation. “What could you do?”

“Not sure. That’s why I haven’t brought it up.” She poured the hot water over the tea bag, and watched the gossamer pyramid collapse.

Her mother asked, “How’s Frances?”

Iris smiled. “Same as ever. Happy.”

“Did she lose the weight?”

Iris rolled her eyes, but answered her mother anyway. “No, I don’t think so. She doesn’t look any different.” She waited for her mother to comment on how skinny Frances used to be. It was as predictable as sunrise.

“She used to be so skinny, didn’t she?”

“She did, yes. But she had kids.”

“Sure, but we all have kids. You have kids. You’re still skinny.”

Iris walked over to the kitchen table and sat down. Rosco threw himself down next to her. “I was never skinny, Mom. And I only have one child, she has three.”

“I had four. I kept my figure.”

“You’re not being very supportive. That’s your favorite niece you’re talking about.”

“You should hear what I say about my least favorite.” She laughed. “How’s that husband of hers? Still drinking too much?”

“You’re a horrible gossip.”

“If you’re talking about relations it’s not gossip, it’s family history.”

Iris bent to stroke her dog, who never repeated anything about anyone.





Eleven.


As Lili had foreseen, Ava opened her attack before her butt even hit the front seat.

“So, why were you at school?” She wedged her enormous backpack into the passenger floor space, moving her chair back until it caused Lally to squeak.

Frances looked in the rearview. Lally was half asleep, despite the squeak. Milo, Wyatt, and Theo were in the third row, reveling in the extra space because Kate was occupying Lucas’s usual seat. He had been picked up by Bill, whom Frances had only glimpsed in the distance. Dentist appointment, which Bill had alerted Frances to the week before. He was very on top of it, Bill was; maybe Julie had felt unnecessary.

Frances looked across at her daughter, whose face was calm enough. “I just wanted to talk to Jennifer about how you’re doing at school.”

“You’d already talked to me, wasn’t that enough? Jennifer doesn’t know anything.” Her fingers were tapping on the seat belt, little percussive noises that belied her quiet delivery.

“Is there something to know, Ava?” In the rearview she could see Milo’s eyes, watching her. He couldn’t hear very much from back there, but he could read their tone. She dropped her voice, “Maybe we should talk about this once we get home? We could just sit and . . .”

“Chat about how you’re invading my privacy? Sure, let’s grab a cup of tea and talk it through, shall we?” Her daughter turned to face the window and said nothing for the rest of the trip.

Frances sighed. “Yes, let’s have some tea.”

Once they were home and Ava had walked Kate, Theo, and Wyatt down the block to their houses, and Milo had gotten Lally and himself their inevitable bowl of Pirate’s Booty and had sat down with her for their regulation half hour of post-school TV, Frances carried two cups of tea up to Ava’s room.

Ava looked up, apparently surprised to see her mother. “Oh, are we really going to have tea?”

Fortunately, Frances knew she’d just been sitting there waiting to nonchalantly throw out that line, in the hopes of getting first blood. No dice.

“Yeah, I thought it would be a good idea.” Frances held up the tea. “But if you don’t want to, it’s fine.” She looked around the room at the early teenage mix of old horse posters and new rock star posters (similar hair styles), the blend of dolls and books and makeup. She understood why parents who lost their children kept their rooms just as they were: Every single thing in this room meant something. Either it meant something to her or it simply meant something to her because it meant something to Ava.