Other People's Houses(63)
That achieved, she fed the dogs and, while the coffee machine did its work, swept off the counters, closed all the drawers and doors, stepped in cold pee of some kind, swore, put down layers of paper towels, put half-and-half into a cup and wrote half-and-half on the shopping list. Then she put the pee-soaked paper towels in the trash, washed her hands, and couldn’t find anything to dry them on. She used the nearest dog, wrote paper towels on the shopping list, and poured her coffee.
It can only get better from here, she prayed, and headed back upstairs, with her coffee, to wake Ava. She made it far enough into Ava’s room to open a single curtain before getting yelled at, inarticulately. Ava was not a morning person, so Frances had created a system of repeated, darting attacks not dissimilar to poking a bear with a stick. First step, curtains. Second step, lamp. Third step, insertion of cup of tea. Usually that did it. It was in no way guaranteed, and every morning was Russian roulette—optimal outcomes were sulky silence or grudging conversation, less optimal would be full-on screaming and door slamming. It was really a great way to start each day, and Frances was beginning to understand why parents were so relieved when their kids left for college.
She went back down to get hot chocolate for the other two, feeling momentarily grateful for nonteenage children. Milo and Lally both woke up like little buds unfurling, smiling and reaching for their mom. She gave them each their hot chocolate, and went back downstairs to fetch Ava’s tea, pausing on the way to run in and turn on a lamp. She was yelled at again, this time with discernable words. It was working.
After she’d delivered the tea (this time just muttering from under the duvet, which was progress), Frances went to get dressed herself. She took her time, flipping through the racks in her walk-in closet, spinning her shoe tower, and steaming her face to open her pores and maximize the effectiveness of her skin regime. None of that was true: She pulled on the same pair of jeans she’d had on the day before and the hooded sweatshirt she found under them. Look, if they hadn’t wanted to be worn a second day they would have run away, but instead they just lay there overnight, asking for it.
She leaned over Michael who, like his daughter, was not a morning person. “Hey there . . . coffee?”
“Go away, woman. It’s the middle of the night!” Her husband groaned, sticking his head under his pillow and reaching behind himself to try and bat her away.
“It’s after seven.”
“No.”
“Yes.” Frances patted the pillow where she thought his head must be, but he just shuddered. He’d explained to her once that he and Ava slept more deeply than other people and that, for them, waking up was physically painful. He’d said, “You know that bit in science-fiction films where the crew of the spaceship wakes up from hypersleep and they’re all throwing up and shivering?” She’d nodded, but frowned skeptically. “Well, it’s like that for us.”
“Every morning you wake up feeling like you’ve been traveling through space for several years in a state of suspended animation?”
“Yes. And with a feeling of terrible dread, like you’ve woken us up to go investigate a distress beacon from some alien planet or abandoned spaceship.” He’d looked pretty serious. “It’s terrible.”
Nonetheless, Frances had continued to wake them up, but she did try to do it gently and with caffeine in hand. When she got downstairs again Milo was already dressed and sitting on the sofa, eating Cheerios and watching SpongeBob. No one ever really saw him get dressed anymore, it was so quick. If you passed his room at the right time you might hear a zipper, or the whoosh of a sweatshirt passing over his head, but that was it. Then he’d make his way downstairs and get his own breakfast—Frances wasn’t sure he was her child at all.
Taking Michael his coffee, she checked on Ava and found her half dressed, hunting through her drawers for some specific pair of socks that were almost certainly not where she was looking for them. Frances backed out before she could get blamed, and went to help Lally.
Lally wasn’t a morning person, either, but in a different way. She woke up filled with joy that another day had presented itself for her amusement, and would wander about naked for a long time if you let her, playing with her toys and singing to herself. It was charming, but it was also deeply irritating when you needed to be somewhere, like school. And she resisted clothing as if she were a cat you were trying to get into a wet suit: Not only did she not like the garment itself, she was convinced putting it on was only the beginning of her problems. However, Frances wheedled and cajoled and then threatened and bribed, and eventually she was dressed.
Frances looked at her watch. Fifteen minutes until departure. She went and checked on Michael, who was sitting up in bed looking like a baby chick who’d just gotten coldcocked with a cricket bat. Wide eyes. Staring. Sheet marks. He looked at her and asked why the dog was wet. She explained. He nodded, cupping his balls under the sheet in case someone ran through and tried to take them. It could happen.
OK, time to make lunches. Peanut butter and jelly for Lally, cheese for Milo (this year, second grade was a no-nut classroom). Frances threw in individual Tupperware containers of cherry tomatoes, secure in the knowledge she and they would meet again that evening. It was the same with the banana, but half the time she was making lunches for the teachers, imagining them looking into the lunchbox and nodding approvingly at her appropriate and healthy choices, and ignoring the Jell-O and the chocolate chip granola bars—which were the only things that ever got eaten.