Other People's Houses(38)

You grew up in a family, you left that family and then, life permitting, you built your own family using much of the same material. She would hear herself saying things to her children her mother had said to her, re-creating moments she hadn’t even realized she’d treasured at the time. She did Christmas stockings the same way her parents had. The birthday child got to pick whatever meal they wanted. The tooth fairy left a silver half-dollar, inflation be damned. You give them the best eighteen years of your life, if you can, and you think about their health and happiness and choices and future and then they become adults and all that effort becomes a single line in their life story: My mother made lunch for me every morning. Or, My dad was away a lot. Or, Yeah, my parents divorced, but it was cool.

Frances had friends whose child, as a baby, had spent weeks in intensive care recovering from heart surgery, whose brief life had hung very much in the balance. Her friend would have slit her own throat to give that child life; she would have done anything at all to make it better. She’d cried and prayed and clutched her husband’s hand in terror, and that whole experience would be related by her daughter as: Yeah, funny story, I had heart surgery before I was even a year old! Crazy, right? Frances remembered sitting with Ava as a baby, nursing at 2:00 a.m., looking down at her milk-drunk child and suddenly understanding that her mother had loved her like this, and that she loved her daughter more than her daughter would ever love her, and that was how it was supposed to be. You’re supposed to walk away with only the very occasional backward glance, and only appreciate years later, as you hold your own child, how painful that was for your parents. As Vonnegut so elegantly said: “So it goes.”

Bill came into the kitchen while Milo finished the book he was reading. Frances looked sad, which was unusual for her. But then she saw him and her face changed, smiling away whatever inner concerns she’d been contemplating.

“He’s a nice boy, Milo.” Bill smiled back at her, shaking his head at the offer of coffee. “I wish Lucas had a brother.”

“He’s welcome to borrow mine,” said Ava, who was sitting at the kitchen table doing her homework. The dogs thumped their tails on the ground, hearing her voice.

Bill looked at Frances and smiled. “Thanks for being so helpful, Frances. I needed to stay at that meeting.”

“Of course.” Frances smiled. “What are friends for? He’s very easy company, and he and Lally get on so well. It’s our pleasure.” She wanted suddenly to ask him where Julie was, but then Milo finished the book and the moment was gone.

Bill carried his son across the street, the little head nestled into the curve of his neck, and wished his wife wasn’t so far away. They tried to Skype to say good night. “Maybe she was out, Lucas, or maybe she was already asleep. Tomorrow morning, for sure.”

Bill put Lucas to bed, ate a ham sandwich standing over the sink in the kitchen, and went to bed himself. Maybe tomorrow morning would be better.





Seventeen.


The next morning Anne watched Frances drive her kids away up the street then turned and went back into her house. Walking only a little way into the kitchen she picked up her phone and jabbed at it.

Hey.

No answer, no little dots letting her know he was writing her back. Anne got herself a second cup of coffee, listened to the silence of the house. Charlie had left for work, the kids were gone, she was queen of her domain. She looked at the phone . . . dots. Then his words appeared, and she could see the familiar planes of his face as he thought of her.

Hey, you.

What the fuck were you thinking yesterday?

Sorry. I have to talk to you.

No. It’s over, please leave me alone.

I need to talk to you.

Stop, Richard. It’s over.

No. You can’t end it over text, we’re not teenagers.

I can, and I did. No more, Richard. I don’t want to hurt my family. I’m blocking your number.

No, I love you.

You don’t. Don’t contact me again.

Then she ended the conversation and put down her phone. Her face was wet with tears, unexpectedly, and she put her face in her cupped palms and wept. With grief because she would miss him, with fear because he wouldn’t go away, and with relief because it had to be done and she had done it.

Then she heard a sound in the kitchen and looked up. Charlie was holding the iPad in a trembling hand, and his face was almost green it was so white.

“What the fuck, Anne?”

She looked at him. “I thought you left for work.”

He shook his head.

“I didn’t know you were here.”

He frowned. “Are you suggesting you’re cheating on me because I don’t go to work when you expect me to?”

“I’m not cheating on you.” Her voice was firm, despite the hot tears still dampening her palms, mixed now with cold sweat. She should have blocked Richard the other night when the world had nearly ended. Instead, she’d forgotten and now it really was ending.

“Yes, you are.” Charlie waved the iPad. “I just watched your entire conversation with Richard, someone you previously claimed not to know. How long has this been going on?”

The iPad started ringing. Charlie looked at it. “He’s calling you.”

Anne opened her mouth to say she’d blocked his number, but of course she hadn’t yet. Only in her head and heart, not in the real world.