Adult Assembly Required, page 12
“Wow,” said Maggie, looking over her glasses at the younger woman, “that’s quite the swimsuit.”
“Uh, it’s Polly’s,” replied Laura, heading toward the house quickly, trying not to catch anyone’s eye.
“It doesn’t look like that on me,” said Polly nonchalantly. “I’d need to work out much more than I do.” She laughed. “Or at all.” She looked over at Bob, who was staring after Laura with a fairly obvious expression of astonishment on his face. “Weren’t you going in, too, Bob?”
“Yes,” he said, “yes, I was.” He started after Laura, who’d reached the gate and was nearly out of sight. “Wait for me.”
Once they were both gone, Polly turned to the others and grinned.
“I’ll open the betting at two to one in favor of them hooking up by the end of the summer.”
Everyone started reaching for their wallets.
* * *
• • •
Laura went directly to her room and quickly changed into sweats. The suit had made her feel self-conscious and exposed, so now she reached for big, soft, and baggy. Returning to the kitchen, she found Bob standing at the sink, measuring sugar.
“Are you cooking?” she asked, and he turned and smiled at her. She looked warmer and more comfortable than she had at the pool, and while he wasn’t likely to forget what she looked like with fewer clothes on, he could see she felt better like this.
He turned back to the sink. “No, I’m making nectar for the hummingbird feeders. Maggie keeps several by the pool, and I noticed they were empty.” He finished with the sugar, and added warm water, stirring to dissolve the crystals. “I should probably have brought them, too, to clean them, but . . .” He shrugged. “Not the sharpest knife in the drawer.”
Laura frowned. “Because you forgot the feeders? That’s a little harsh.”
He said nothing, just lifted the glass jug he was filling in order to check it was clear. Then he smiled at her and said, “Are you going back out?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Can I help with the feeders?”
“Sure,” he said. “I already made another jug. Can you carry that one?”
They made their way back to the pool, where the others were sitting and arguing about sushi.
“It’s not real wasabi,” Asher was saying. “It’s horseradish dyed green. Real wasabi is a horse of a different color.”
“Not green?” asked Polly, who was watching him closely while also trying not to watch him closely.
Bob and Laura passed the group, and Laura missed Asher’s answer. They went over to the first feeder, which was on the far side of the pool, and Laura watched Bob reach up easily to take the feeder out of the tree where it hung. Normally she was the one who reached for the high shelves, was called to fetch the rarely used glassware or unusual ingredient. The rest of her family was bemused by her height, a throwback to some earlier, more robust ancestor. Her mother was five four in heels—not that she wore heels—and her dad would only have hit six feet if he stood on a step stool.
Bob said, “Could you open this up and check it isn’t completely disgusting inside?” He went over to gather the others, each a blown-glass globe with flecks and streaks of color. Laura looked around for a hose, spotted one, and went to wash out the feeder. Soon he joined her, and together they cleaned the feeders, refilled them, and hung them back up.
They stood together, waiting to see if a bird would appear.
“I swear I see the same one every time,” said Bob, “but that’s probably not true.”
“It could be,” replied Laura. “They’re very territorial.” She turned her head at a whir, and spotted one. “Hey, that’s an Anna’s, they’re pretty much only found on this coast.” She pulled out her phone. “I have to show my dad . . .” She raised it to take a shot, but the bird immediately zoomed away. “Huh, I guess that one was shy.”
Bob was looking at her curiously. “You’re a bird nerd?”
She laughed and nodded. “Kind of. I mean, yes, of course, who doesn’t like birds? But actually my dad is a bona fide hummingbird expert. He’s written books on them.” The tiny bird reappeared, and she managed to take a quick photo. She paused, sending the text, then looked up at Bob. “Thanks for letting me help.”
He was surprised. “Of course, thanks for helping.”
She turned and went to join the others, asking if there was any sushi left or had they eaten every roll. Bob watched her go, coiling the hose and hanging it back up. Then he pondered the hummingbirds for a while, until he felt ready to look at Laura again.
SEVENTEEN
Much later that evening Laura was in her room, scrolling through her phone mindlessly, when she thought she heard whimpering from the garden. She paused, and listened carefully.
Yes. Definitely a dog complaining persistently about something.
She got up and went out to the kitchen. The French doors to the garden were closed, and framed in the lower right pane was Daisy’s face. If she’d had a wristwatch, she would have been tapping it.
“Oh, Daisy!” said Laura apologetically. She opened the door and Daisy trundled over the stoop, not pausing to say thanks or anything, beetling through the kitchen toward the hall, where she ran into the feet of Bob, who had rounded the corner.
“I thought I heard you,” he said to her, then looked up and smiled at Laura. “Thanks for letting her in.”
“I think I could hear her more clearly from my room,” replied Laura. “I don’t know how long she was out there.”
“Too long, apparently,” said Bob as Daisy pushed past him and headed down the hall. After a moment they both heard the thumps and claw rattles that meant she was hopping up the stairs. Bob smiled. “And now she’s punishing me by spending the night with Polly.”
Laura smiled and stretched, looking at the wall clock. It was earlier than she’d thought, a little after nine.
Bob looked at her. “Wanna shoot some hoops?”
Laura thought about it, then nodded. “I’m getting tired, but sure, why not?”
“Great,” said Bob, gesturing for her to precede him through the door. “Maybe I have a chance then.”
“I said I was tired,” said Laura, “not too tired to win.”
Bob laughed and led the way around the side of the house. There, behind the gate that could be seen from the street, was the carport area. The covered driveway made a perfect court for the hoop on the side of the house.
“What’s good about this hoop,” said Bob, scouting around for a ball under the various pots and hedges, “is that it’s my room behind it, so hitting the wall doesn’t bother anyone but me.”
Laura looked up at a window above. “And whose room is that?”
“Upstairs bathroom,” replied Bob. “Maggie put the hoop up when her kids were teenagers, and gave the location a lot of thought.” He found a ball and bounced it a few times to test it. “She’s no dummy, that one.”
Laura shook her head. “She’s really nice, I like her a lot.”
“Me too,” said Bob, stretching his shoulders and lofting the ball into the hoop. “One to me.”
Laura was already moving, catching the ball as it fell and scoring easily, all in one movement. “And one to me,” she said, catching and bouncing the ball, spinning around and evading Bob’s attempted interception. Another throw. “That’s two.”
Bob shouldered her out of the way and got the ball this time, then stopped. “Shit, sorry, didn’t mean to knock you.”
“Oh, please,” said Laura, snatching the ball and dodging away from him, pushing him aside and making another basket. “Three to me. You’re being polite to make up for your poor defensive skills.”
“I see,” said Bob, giving her a more serious shove and stealing the ball as it came down. “Fine, gloves off.”
For another twenty minutes they played pretty hard, pushing each other out of the way and getting happily sweaty. The trash talk continued, but slowly died away as they got breathless. Eventually Bob caught the ball and stopped, bending at the waist and holding up one hand.
“You win,” he said. “I’m confident enough to admit you’re a far better player than I am. I may have a slight height advantage, but you are twice as fast.” He wandered over to the wall and slid down it, sitting at the bottom with his legs folded in front of him. “Did you play on a team?”
Laura nodded. “Wait, I’m going to get water. Want some?”
“Yeah, thanks.” Then, as she walked away, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes. He’d just gotten his ass kicked.
Laura came back with two tall glasses of water. She lowered herself onto the ground next to him and they sat there in silence, cooling down.
“That was fun,” she said eventually.
“If you find getting your ass kicked fun,” he agreed, still with his eyes closed.
She grinned and finished her water. “You’re pretty good,” she said. “More athletic than you look.”
He turned his head and frowned at her. “Are you saying I’m out of shape?”
She turned to face him, and grinned. “Gotcha.” She laughed. “I need more water, you coming in?” She got to her feet and turned, holding out her hand. “Need a lift?”
He reached up and took her hand, pushing up as she pulled, which resulted in a pretty substantial overshoot on her part. He crashed into her and they both stumbled.
“We’re strong, but klutzy,” said Laura, giggling.
“Fast, but uncoordinated,” agreed Bob, letting go of her hand, which he abruptly realized he was still holding. For a few seconds they smiled at each other, acknowledging for the first time they found each other attractive. It was all there in the smile, but had also been there from the beginning, and they knew it.
Laura turned and headed into the house, Bob close behind.
After gulping more water, Laura washed her glass and reached for Bob’s. He grabbed a dish towel and picked up her glass to dry it, arguing with himself internally before speaking.
“Hey, you remember I said I go help my old teacher on the weekends sometimes?”
She nodded, handing him the second glass. “Yeah, doing people’s gardens.”
“Uh-huh. Well, the one this weekend is a bird and butterfly garden. I thought maybe you might like to come, you know, being a bird fan. And butterflies, probably.”
She nodded easily. “I’ve got nothing against butterflies, it’s true.”
He felt himself starting to go red again, and turned away, adding, “You probably already have plans.”
“No,” said Laura. “I think that would be fun. This Saturday?”
He nodded.
“Great,” she said. “I’d love to. We didn’t have a real garden at home, you know, being in an apartment.”
He looked shyly at her. “It might be hard work, it’ll be hot.”
She frowned. “Are you suggesting I’m not strong enough for hard work?”
He grinned back. “Gotcha.”
She laughed, and flicked water at him. Then she turned and walked away, saying good night as she did so. It was only after Bob realized that (a) he was standing there grinning like an idiot and (b) he’d almost dried a hole in the second glass that he put it away and went to bed himself.
EIGHTEEN
The next day Laura spent the morning studying at the library and then met with a temping agency. The woman there alternated between encouragement and pessimism—I expect we can find something, although, you know, the market’s pretty tight right now, plus you can only do part time, but I’m sure it will be fine, probably—and by the time the meeting was over, Laura wasn’t entirely sure how she felt. She also didn’t know how much time she was going to have once grad school started up, so all in all she headed home feeling perplexed. At least she had plans for the evening, going to Nina Hill’s place for the trivia discussion. Maybe a nap first? She liked Nina a lot but she was . . . a lot.
She walked into the kitchen, and there, as if by magic, but really only by the United States Postal Service, she found a large cardboard box on the kitchen table. Maggie was sitting next to it, sipping a cup of tea.
“This came for you,” said Maggie, tapping the box. “I’ve exercised extreme self-control and only shaken it once or twice. I was hoping it was full of puppies.”
“Why would someone send me a box of puppies?” Laura tipped her head to one side. “Is it even legal to mail puppies? I hope not.”
Maggie shrugged. “No reason. I’m always hoping for puppies.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” said Laura. “My grandmother told me my mom sent me a box of clothes, and this is probably it.”
“Does she think you’ve been walking around in a feed sack since the fire?” Maggie shook back her bangles and charm bracelets. There were a lot of them, and while they were as heavy as shackles, Maggie used them more as percussion instruments. Attitude is everything.
“My mother despairs of me,” said Laura lightly.
“Oh,” said Maggie, “that’s unfortunate.” She looked with interest at the box, instead of asking the questions she wanted to. Timing is also important.
Laura examined the box. Her mother had printed her name and address very carefully, and the sight of her handwriting made Laura’s tummy clench with longing for home. Shopping lists, notes to teachers, reminders in her lunch box . . . she’d seen that handwriting a million times, its careful cursive perfectly formed and unassailably legible. Her mother viewed life in black and white; information was right or wrong, feelings were justified or not, decisions were good or bad. Laura longed for that certainty because her brain felt like a kid’s kaleidoscope, one colorful emotion shifting and bleeding into another, the only constant being flux. But at the same time her mother’s way was often a very narrow path, and exploration was not encouraged.
Fetching scissors, Laura opened the box and started by pulling out a note. She opened it, saw her mother had started with, Laura, don’t forget to . . . , and put it to one side.
“I’ll read that later,” she said to Maggie. Or maybe never.
The first thing she pulled out of the box was a skirt, an item of clothing she only rarely wore. Laura sighed and held it up.
“She lives in a dreamworld where I dress like Strawberry Shortcake.” She reached into the box again. This time it was a pair of jeans, and Laura looked surprised.
“Wait, no, I take it all back. I thought I’d brought these and they’d burned. I love these jeans.” She hugged them briefly and turned back to the box with more enthusiasm.
Maggie spoke. “Mother-daughter stuff is very complex.”
Laura’s eyes met hers and she nodded without comment. Maggie watched the young woman pulling out a pair of pajamas she was clearly happy to see, a pair of shoes she’d apparently been hoping never to see again, half a dozen pairs of socks, a flannel nightgown with rabbits on it, and finally, at the bottom of the box, a giant oversized hoodie. Laura paused.
“Huh,” she said, eventually reaching in and pulling it out. Stuyvesant High School, the transferred decal wearing very thin. Laura laughed softly. “I think I wore this every single day junior and senior years, my mom was sick of the sight of it. I can’t believe she sent it.”
Maggie looked curious. “Why didn’t you bring it with you?”
Laura carefully folded the sweatshirt, giving it a surreptitious squeeze with her fingers. “Well, high school was a long time ago, it’s not like I wore it that much in college.” She shrugged. “Not even sure that girl exists anymore, she didn’t stand up for herself very much.”
There was a pause, then Maggie said, “Well, I doubt you can blame the sweatshirt for that.”
“Good point,” Laura said. “It was probably only doing its best.”
Maggie nodded. “Do you think you stand up for yourself more now, then?”
Laura started to answer, then remembered Maggie was a therapist. She heard her mother’s voice loud and clear: People with mental and emotional problems need to get busy and stop indulging themselves. Everyone has problems, Laura, people can’t just roll over and give up. Even as a teenager Laura was sure her mother was wrong about this, but arguing with her was pointless. When Laura had fallen apart after the accident, her mother had struggled for weeks to find a physical cause for her constant crying and panic attacks, and in the end had to accept that some things simply couldn’t be reasoned away or ignored to death. But she hadn’t liked it, and she’d argued Laura out of seeing a therapist.
“They’re not even PhDs,” she’d scoffed. “Psychotherapy isn’t real science.”
Now, sitting in a kitchen thousands of miles away from home and fully free of her mother’s influence, Laura wanted to talk to Maggie about how she felt but could feel old habits dying hard. Nobody wants to hear you whining. Pull it together. Luckily, there was one thing Laura’s mother had been right about: Psychotherapy isn’t simply a science. It’s also an art, and Maggie could read Laura’s closed face like an open book.
“So,” she said, getting up to make tea and not eye contact, “what do you think of Los Angeles so far?” She filled the kettle and kept talking. “Apart from your apartment building catching fire, which could have happened anywhere.” She smiled at Laura, and lobbed an easy opening. “You’ve had a challenging couple of years, right?”
Laura shrugged. “I guess.”
Maggie shook her head. “For most people, a major car accident, a cross-country move, graduating college, a broken engagement, a house fire—these are once-in-a-decade or even lifetime events.” Her tone was remarkably cheery, as if she were discussing the weather. “You’ve had all of those in the last couple of years.”
Laura unconsciously shook her head. “It’s fine.”
“Great,” said Maggie, watching the kettle. “So, what happened with Bob the other day?”
“Uh, it’s Polly’s,” replied Laura, heading toward the house quickly, trying not to catch anyone’s eye.
“It doesn’t look like that on me,” said Polly nonchalantly. “I’d need to work out much more than I do.” She laughed. “Or at all.” She looked over at Bob, who was staring after Laura with a fairly obvious expression of astonishment on his face. “Weren’t you going in, too, Bob?”
“Yes,” he said, “yes, I was.” He started after Laura, who’d reached the gate and was nearly out of sight. “Wait for me.”
Once they were both gone, Polly turned to the others and grinned.
“I’ll open the betting at two to one in favor of them hooking up by the end of the summer.”
Everyone started reaching for their wallets.
* * *
• • •
Laura went directly to her room and quickly changed into sweats. The suit had made her feel self-conscious and exposed, so now she reached for big, soft, and baggy. Returning to the kitchen, she found Bob standing at the sink, measuring sugar.
“Are you cooking?” she asked, and he turned and smiled at her. She looked warmer and more comfortable than she had at the pool, and while he wasn’t likely to forget what she looked like with fewer clothes on, he could see she felt better like this.
He turned back to the sink. “No, I’m making nectar for the hummingbird feeders. Maggie keeps several by the pool, and I noticed they were empty.” He finished with the sugar, and added warm water, stirring to dissolve the crystals. “I should probably have brought them, too, to clean them, but . . .” He shrugged. “Not the sharpest knife in the drawer.”
Laura frowned. “Because you forgot the feeders? That’s a little harsh.”
He said nothing, just lifted the glass jug he was filling in order to check it was clear. Then he smiled at her and said, “Are you going back out?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Can I help with the feeders?”
“Sure,” he said. “I already made another jug. Can you carry that one?”
They made their way back to the pool, where the others were sitting and arguing about sushi.
“It’s not real wasabi,” Asher was saying. “It’s horseradish dyed green. Real wasabi is a horse of a different color.”
“Not green?” asked Polly, who was watching him closely while also trying not to watch him closely.
Bob and Laura passed the group, and Laura missed Asher’s answer. They went over to the first feeder, which was on the far side of the pool, and Laura watched Bob reach up easily to take the feeder out of the tree where it hung. Normally she was the one who reached for the high shelves, was called to fetch the rarely used glassware or unusual ingredient. The rest of her family was bemused by her height, a throwback to some earlier, more robust ancestor. Her mother was five four in heels—not that she wore heels—and her dad would only have hit six feet if he stood on a step stool.
Bob said, “Could you open this up and check it isn’t completely disgusting inside?” He went over to gather the others, each a blown-glass globe with flecks and streaks of color. Laura looked around for a hose, spotted one, and went to wash out the feeder. Soon he joined her, and together they cleaned the feeders, refilled them, and hung them back up.
They stood together, waiting to see if a bird would appear.
“I swear I see the same one every time,” said Bob, “but that’s probably not true.”
“It could be,” replied Laura. “They’re very territorial.” She turned her head at a whir, and spotted one. “Hey, that’s an Anna’s, they’re pretty much only found on this coast.” She pulled out her phone. “I have to show my dad . . .” She raised it to take a shot, but the bird immediately zoomed away. “Huh, I guess that one was shy.”
Bob was looking at her curiously. “You’re a bird nerd?”
She laughed and nodded. “Kind of. I mean, yes, of course, who doesn’t like birds? But actually my dad is a bona fide hummingbird expert. He’s written books on them.” The tiny bird reappeared, and she managed to take a quick photo. She paused, sending the text, then looked up at Bob. “Thanks for letting me help.”
He was surprised. “Of course, thanks for helping.”
She turned and went to join the others, asking if there was any sushi left or had they eaten every roll. Bob watched her go, coiling the hose and hanging it back up. Then he pondered the hummingbirds for a while, until he felt ready to look at Laura again.
SEVENTEEN
Much later that evening Laura was in her room, scrolling through her phone mindlessly, when she thought she heard whimpering from the garden. She paused, and listened carefully.
Yes. Definitely a dog complaining persistently about something.
She got up and went out to the kitchen. The French doors to the garden were closed, and framed in the lower right pane was Daisy’s face. If she’d had a wristwatch, she would have been tapping it.
“Oh, Daisy!” said Laura apologetically. She opened the door and Daisy trundled over the stoop, not pausing to say thanks or anything, beetling through the kitchen toward the hall, where she ran into the feet of Bob, who had rounded the corner.
“I thought I heard you,” he said to her, then looked up and smiled at Laura. “Thanks for letting her in.”
“I think I could hear her more clearly from my room,” replied Laura. “I don’t know how long she was out there.”
“Too long, apparently,” said Bob as Daisy pushed past him and headed down the hall. After a moment they both heard the thumps and claw rattles that meant she was hopping up the stairs. Bob smiled. “And now she’s punishing me by spending the night with Polly.”
Laura smiled and stretched, looking at the wall clock. It was earlier than she’d thought, a little after nine.
Bob looked at her. “Wanna shoot some hoops?”
Laura thought about it, then nodded. “I’m getting tired, but sure, why not?”
“Great,” said Bob, gesturing for her to precede him through the door. “Maybe I have a chance then.”
“I said I was tired,” said Laura, “not too tired to win.”
Bob laughed and led the way around the side of the house. There, behind the gate that could be seen from the street, was the carport area. The covered driveway made a perfect court for the hoop on the side of the house.
“What’s good about this hoop,” said Bob, scouting around for a ball under the various pots and hedges, “is that it’s my room behind it, so hitting the wall doesn’t bother anyone but me.”
Laura looked up at a window above. “And whose room is that?”
“Upstairs bathroom,” replied Bob. “Maggie put the hoop up when her kids were teenagers, and gave the location a lot of thought.” He found a ball and bounced it a few times to test it. “She’s no dummy, that one.”
Laura shook her head. “She’s really nice, I like her a lot.”
“Me too,” said Bob, stretching his shoulders and lofting the ball into the hoop. “One to me.”
Laura was already moving, catching the ball as it fell and scoring easily, all in one movement. “And one to me,” she said, catching and bouncing the ball, spinning around and evading Bob’s attempted interception. Another throw. “That’s two.”
Bob shouldered her out of the way and got the ball this time, then stopped. “Shit, sorry, didn’t mean to knock you.”
“Oh, please,” said Laura, snatching the ball and dodging away from him, pushing him aside and making another basket. “Three to me. You’re being polite to make up for your poor defensive skills.”
“I see,” said Bob, giving her a more serious shove and stealing the ball as it came down. “Fine, gloves off.”
For another twenty minutes they played pretty hard, pushing each other out of the way and getting happily sweaty. The trash talk continued, but slowly died away as they got breathless. Eventually Bob caught the ball and stopped, bending at the waist and holding up one hand.
“You win,” he said. “I’m confident enough to admit you’re a far better player than I am. I may have a slight height advantage, but you are twice as fast.” He wandered over to the wall and slid down it, sitting at the bottom with his legs folded in front of him. “Did you play on a team?”
Laura nodded. “Wait, I’m going to get water. Want some?”
“Yeah, thanks.” Then, as she walked away, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes. He’d just gotten his ass kicked.
Laura came back with two tall glasses of water. She lowered herself onto the ground next to him and they sat there in silence, cooling down.
“That was fun,” she said eventually.
“If you find getting your ass kicked fun,” he agreed, still with his eyes closed.
She grinned and finished her water. “You’re pretty good,” she said. “More athletic than you look.”
He turned his head and frowned at her. “Are you saying I’m out of shape?”
She turned to face him, and grinned. “Gotcha.” She laughed. “I need more water, you coming in?” She got to her feet and turned, holding out her hand. “Need a lift?”
He reached up and took her hand, pushing up as she pulled, which resulted in a pretty substantial overshoot on her part. He crashed into her and they both stumbled.
“We’re strong, but klutzy,” said Laura, giggling.
“Fast, but uncoordinated,” agreed Bob, letting go of her hand, which he abruptly realized he was still holding. For a few seconds they smiled at each other, acknowledging for the first time they found each other attractive. It was all there in the smile, but had also been there from the beginning, and they knew it.
Laura turned and headed into the house, Bob close behind.
After gulping more water, Laura washed her glass and reached for Bob’s. He grabbed a dish towel and picked up her glass to dry it, arguing with himself internally before speaking.
“Hey, you remember I said I go help my old teacher on the weekends sometimes?”
She nodded, handing him the second glass. “Yeah, doing people’s gardens.”
“Uh-huh. Well, the one this weekend is a bird and butterfly garden. I thought maybe you might like to come, you know, being a bird fan. And butterflies, probably.”
She nodded easily. “I’ve got nothing against butterflies, it’s true.”
He felt himself starting to go red again, and turned away, adding, “You probably already have plans.”
“No,” said Laura. “I think that would be fun. This Saturday?”
He nodded.
“Great,” she said. “I’d love to. We didn’t have a real garden at home, you know, being in an apartment.”
He looked shyly at her. “It might be hard work, it’ll be hot.”
She frowned. “Are you suggesting I’m not strong enough for hard work?”
He grinned back. “Gotcha.”
She laughed, and flicked water at him. Then she turned and walked away, saying good night as she did so. It was only after Bob realized that (a) he was standing there grinning like an idiot and (b) he’d almost dried a hole in the second glass that he put it away and went to bed himself.
EIGHTEEN
The next day Laura spent the morning studying at the library and then met with a temping agency. The woman there alternated between encouragement and pessimism—I expect we can find something, although, you know, the market’s pretty tight right now, plus you can only do part time, but I’m sure it will be fine, probably—and by the time the meeting was over, Laura wasn’t entirely sure how she felt. She also didn’t know how much time she was going to have once grad school started up, so all in all she headed home feeling perplexed. At least she had plans for the evening, going to Nina Hill’s place for the trivia discussion. Maybe a nap first? She liked Nina a lot but she was . . . a lot.
She walked into the kitchen, and there, as if by magic, but really only by the United States Postal Service, she found a large cardboard box on the kitchen table. Maggie was sitting next to it, sipping a cup of tea.
“This came for you,” said Maggie, tapping the box. “I’ve exercised extreme self-control and only shaken it once or twice. I was hoping it was full of puppies.”
“Why would someone send me a box of puppies?” Laura tipped her head to one side. “Is it even legal to mail puppies? I hope not.”
Maggie shrugged. “No reason. I’m always hoping for puppies.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” said Laura. “My grandmother told me my mom sent me a box of clothes, and this is probably it.”
“Does she think you’ve been walking around in a feed sack since the fire?” Maggie shook back her bangles and charm bracelets. There were a lot of them, and while they were as heavy as shackles, Maggie used them more as percussion instruments. Attitude is everything.
“My mother despairs of me,” said Laura lightly.
“Oh,” said Maggie, “that’s unfortunate.” She looked with interest at the box, instead of asking the questions she wanted to. Timing is also important.
Laura examined the box. Her mother had printed her name and address very carefully, and the sight of her handwriting made Laura’s tummy clench with longing for home. Shopping lists, notes to teachers, reminders in her lunch box . . . she’d seen that handwriting a million times, its careful cursive perfectly formed and unassailably legible. Her mother viewed life in black and white; information was right or wrong, feelings were justified or not, decisions were good or bad. Laura longed for that certainty because her brain felt like a kid’s kaleidoscope, one colorful emotion shifting and bleeding into another, the only constant being flux. But at the same time her mother’s way was often a very narrow path, and exploration was not encouraged.
Fetching scissors, Laura opened the box and started by pulling out a note. She opened it, saw her mother had started with, Laura, don’t forget to . . . , and put it to one side.
“I’ll read that later,” she said to Maggie. Or maybe never.
The first thing she pulled out of the box was a skirt, an item of clothing she only rarely wore. Laura sighed and held it up.
“She lives in a dreamworld where I dress like Strawberry Shortcake.” She reached into the box again. This time it was a pair of jeans, and Laura looked surprised.
“Wait, no, I take it all back. I thought I’d brought these and they’d burned. I love these jeans.” She hugged them briefly and turned back to the box with more enthusiasm.
Maggie spoke. “Mother-daughter stuff is very complex.”
Laura’s eyes met hers and she nodded without comment. Maggie watched the young woman pulling out a pair of pajamas she was clearly happy to see, a pair of shoes she’d apparently been hoping never to see again, half a dozen pairs of socks, a flannel nightgown with rabbits on it, and finally, at the bottom of the box, a giant oversized hoodie. Laura paused.
“Huh,” she said, eventually reaching in and pulling it out. Stuyvesant High School, the transferred decal wearing very thin. Laura laughed softly. “I think I wore this every single day junior and senior years, my mom was sick of the sight of it. I can’t believe she sent it.”
Maggie looked curious. “Why didn’t you bring it with you?”
Laura carefully folded the sweatshirt, giving it a surreptitious squeeze with her fingers. “Well, high school was a long time ago, it’s not like I wore it that much in college.” She shrugged. “Not even sure that girl exists anymore, she didn’t stand up for herself very much.”
There was a pause, then Maggie said, “Well, I doubt you can blame the sweatshirt for that.”
“Good point,” Laura said. “It was probably only doing its best.”
Maggie nodded. “Do you think you stand up for yourself more now, then?”
Laura started to answer, then remembered Maggie was a therapist. She heard her mother’s voice loud and clear: People with mental and emotional problems need to get busy and stop indulging themselves. Everyone has problems, Laura, people can’t just roll over and give up. Even as a teenager Laura was sure her mother was wrong about this, but arguing with her was pointless. When Laura had fallen apart after the accident, her mother had struggled for weeks to find a physical cause for her constant crying and panic attacks, and in the end had to accept that some things simply couldn’t be reasoned away or ignored to death. But she hadn’t liked it, and she’d argued Laura out of seeing a therapist.
“They’re not even PhDs,” she’d scoffed. “Psychotherapy isn’t real science.”
Now, sitting in a kitchen thousands of miles away from home and fully free of her mother’s influence, Laura wanted to talk to Maggie about how she felt but could feel old habits dying hard. Nobody wants to hear you whining. Pull it together. Luckily, there was one thing Laura’s mother had been right about: Psychotherapy isn’t simply a science. It’s also an art, and Maggie could read Laura’s closed face like an open book.
“So,” she said, getting up to make tea and not eye contact, “what do you think of Los Angeles so far?” She filled the kettle and kept talking. “Apart from your apartment building catching fire, which could have happened anywhere.” She smiled at Laura, and lobbed an easy opening. “You’ve had a challenging couple of years, right?”
Laura shrugged. “I guess.”
Maggie shook her head. “For most people, a major car accident, a cross-country move, graduating college, a broken engagement, a house fire—these are once-in-a-decade or even lifetime events.” Her tone was remarkably cheery, as if she were discussing the weather. “You’ve had all of those in the last couple of years.”
Laura unconsciously shook her head. “It’s fine.”
“Great,” said Maggie, watching the kettle. “So, what happened with Bob the other day?”
