Other People's Houses(52)

“Wow, that sounds . . . delusional and painful.” Would a third cookie lead directly to diabetes, or was it OK?

“Yeah,” replied her mother, dryly. “I think it’s generally understood that outliving your child is horrible.”

“And now?”

“Still horrible. But bearable, because time really does, as they say, heal all wounds. It’s also easier because none of my friends have kids at home, either. The first few years it hurt so much because of this constantly nagging sense I was forgetting something, then I’d remember he was gone and there was nothing I could do. And the other mothers in his grade knew it, too, and I knew that every time they saw me dropping you off they remembered Alex and felt sorry for me and guilty for being glad it was me and not them. Did you ever have those dreams where you forget you have a child?”

Frances shuddered. “Oh my God, not as much as I used to, but when the kids were babies I’d have them all the time. I’d dream I’d left the car seat on top of the car and driven off, or that I’d forgotten they existed and they’d been at home for days without anyone feeding them, and I’d rush home and they’d be crying and dirty and hungry, or not there at all because someone had taken them away from me. It was horrible. I still get them from time to time, but not so much.”

“Well, it was like that, but I was awake. That pit-of-the-stomach-panic feeling, combined with a terrible physical pain and emptiness. I’d forget for a second or two, then it would come slamming back and knock the wind out of me. Your father and I didn’t talk about him for nearly a decade. I think we each thought it would kill the other, just the act of physically shaping his name with our mouths.”

“How is Dad?”

Her mom laughed. “He’s addicted to meth and having an affair with a forty-year-old.”

“No! You’re joking.”

“Yes, I’m joking. He’s fine, he’s working on a book, he’s teaching, he’s happy. He has a cough that won’t go away, and in the middle of the night I think it’s cancer. But hopefully not.”

“Has he seen a doctor?”

“No. He just tells me not to worry, so I don’t.”

Lally came in, wearing a swimsuit and bunny ears. “Who are you talking to?”

“Grandma.”

Lally took the phone. “Hey, Gramma. Did you watch the show?”

A pause.

“No, just her.”

Another pause.

“Yes, but . . .”

And another.

“I don’t know.” Lally handed the phone back to her mother and rolled her eyes. “Gramma doesn’t get Littlest Pet Shop.” She walked away, then stopped. “Can I have some chocolate milk?” Frances nodded, and pointed to the fridge. Lally wandered over and hung on the big door with all her weight. It suddenly swung open, nearly knocking her over. Never not funny. Frances started to ask about the swimsuit, but remembered in time there was no point. She turned back to the phone.

“What don’t you get about Littlest Pet Shop?”

“So many things,” her mother replied. “Why would someone leave a chameleon at a pet boarding service? Do all those animals belong to people who’ve just abandoned them? Do they have lives outside the pet shop? Is Blythe the only one who can talk to them, and why is her head so big? Who looks after her while her dad is away flying airplanes? Is the old lady who runs the shop on drugs? Why do those rich twins who are so funny go to a public school, and not a fancy private one?”

“Wow, you do have a lot of questions. I had no idea.”

“Don’t you watch it?”

“Not if I can help it. However, I like the idea of you sitting in your nice Riverside Drive apartment, watching Littlest Pet Shop, taking notes.”

Her mother laughed. “I like to talk to Lally about these things, although she was no help just then.”

Frances’s mind jumped back. “So, tomorrow is thirty years? Is that possible?”

“Not only possible, but inevitable.”

“Is it hard every year?”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t get easier?”

“Yes, it’s easier, but if something starts out as the most difficult thing in the world and then gets progressively easier each year, it’s still pretty hard at the end, right?”

“I guess so. I hope I never find out.”

“Me, too.”

“I’m so sorry, Mom.” Frances drank her tea, and watched Jack the dog rolling in a patch of sunlight in the garden. Hopefully it was just sunlight. “I see him in Milo, you know. Milo has his hair, and his ears.”

“He does? Send me a picture.” There was a murmuring in the background. “Your dad is here, do you want to say hi?” More murmuring. “No, wait, he says we have to go. We have tickets to something.”

“OK, Mom. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Frances. Kiss everyone for me.”

“I will.” She hung up and sat and looked at the phone until Ava came in and asked about dinner. She surprised her daughter by pulling her onto her lap and hugging her, very tightly. After a moment, Ava relaxed, and for a blissful minute they just sat there, together.

Then they parted and Frances stood to get dinner ready.