Other People's Houses, page 17
“Nothing much.”
“I heard your neighbor has been sleeping around. Is that such a normal occurrence it’s not worth mentioning?” Her mother laughed, and Frances heard the click of a kettle being turned on. She could see the kettle in her mind, see the kitchen counters with their countless red jars and mugs, a little color being what her mother loved. Anything red. Made her very easy to shop for.
“How on earth do you know that?” Frances took a sip of tea, debated whether she wanted a cookie enough to get up for it.
“Ava told me.”
Frances was surprised. “When did you speak to Ava?”
Her mother laughed again. Clearly, she was in a good mood. Or maybe she was as high as a kite, who knew? “Yesterday. We talk on Skype, you know. You should look into this Internet thing. I think it’s going to catch on.”
“Funny. That’s nice. I hadn’t realized you two were in touch so much.” Her tea was sweet enough without a cookie.
“It’s not that much, maybe once or twice a week. She likes to talk, I like to listen, it’s good.” Her mom sighed suddenly. “I wish I had listened to you more, when you were her age. I have no memories of that time at all. I’m sorry.”
Frances raised her eyebrows. “That’s OK, Mom. It was a hard time, right? Because of Alex. I don’t know how you kept going, honestly.”
“Is that why you called?”
“What?”
“Tomorrow is the anniversary, you know. I thought maybe that was what you were calling about.”
Frances got up and grabbed the cookie jar, which was shaped like an elephant. “No. Or at least, I don’t think so. Maybe on some level I remembered, but I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“He’d be the same age as Michael, you know.”
She bit into a cookie, which truly was delicious. “Yeah, I know. Their birthdays are even close.”
“Little May babies. Both Taurus, strong and calm. I think about Alex all the time, do you?”
A second cookie. “I do. I think about what a great uncle he would have been. I think about the cousins the kids might have had, the nieces and nephews, the grandkids. Of course, he might have married someone we didn’t like, there’s always that chance. Like that girl across the street.”
“Isabel? She ended up marrying a proctologist from Long Island.”
“Serves her right.”
“Who knows, maybe she and Alex would have been happy together. When you lose a child, you lose the life they would have had, too. Right? Don’t you look at the kids and wonder what kind of adults they’re going to be, who they’re going to marry, that kind of thing?” Her mother’s voice faded in and out as she bustled around her kitchen, all those miles away.
Frances laughed ruefully. “Mostly I just try to make it through the day alive, but sure, sometimes I think about the future. Mostly trying to imagine what life will be like once they’ve moved out and I finally have enough storage space.”
Her mom sighed. “I used to pretend Alex was just away, you know. Sometimes when it got too hard, I would just decide he was at camp and I would write him letters in my head, or imagine him climbing on ropes and riding horses and having a wonderful time. I would tell myself it was good I hadn’t heard from him in so long, it meant he was busy and happy.”
“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.
Twenty-three.
It was late, easily past ten, as Charlie walked slowly upstairs to bed. He paused, hearing a noise. Then he turned at the top of the stairs and went into Theo’s room.
“Daddy?”
Charlie sat on his son’s bed, his weight tipping the child slightly toward him. Theo completed the small fall, curling around his dad and resting his head near Charlie’s legs. In public this boy was slightly standoffish, but in private he had always been a cuddle bug. Charlie rested his hand on Theo’s head, smoothing back his hair.
“Yes, buddy? Can’t you sleep? It’s really late, and you have school in the morning.”
“I know.” Such a small voice.
“What’s up?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You promise you won’t get mad?”
Charlie nodded, and meant it. “I promise. Ask whatever you like, but then you should go to sleep.”
The little boy nodded. A beam of moonlight slid through a gap in his dinosaur curtains and illuminated one ear. Charlie looked at where he assumed his son’s eyes were, trying not to notice the similarity between Theo’s ear and his mom’s.
“Why isn’t Mom living here anymore? What really happened? Someone at school said she cheated on you.”
“Who said that?”
“I don’t remember,” lied Theo.
Charlie sighed. “Well, I’m afraid that’s kind of true. Your mom met someone else she liked more than me.”
There was a silence.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Charlie shrugged. “It’s hard to explain, chief. You know when you’ve had a toy a very long time and you get something new? For a while that new toy is so much better than the old one, right? It’s exciting, it’s shiny, it does new things . . .” He trailed off, wondering if Richard had done new things with Anne, things he’d never tried. Maybe he just had new jokes. Maybe he went to the gym more. Or at all. Maybe he loved different things about her than Charlie had loved. Still loved.
Theo wasn’t satisfied. “Yeah, I get that. But some toys are so good you never stop liking them, right?”
“Like?”
“Like Rotten Corner.” Rotten Corner was the name he’d given a piece of baby blanket he’d carried around since he was a toddler. “Does your blankie have a name?” Anne had asked, as he’d sat on her lap, sucking his thumb and curling and uncurling the piece of baby blanket, its blue and red stripes still bright from the hospital. He’d told her it was called Rotten Corner, two words she’d had no idea he even knew, and clearly the name had stuck. Now RC, as it was more familiarly known, was a pale piece of blanket about a foot square, all the color washed out, but the magic still intact. It was folded under Theo’s pillow now, just in case.
“Yeah, some things are like that.”
“You’re like that for me, Dad.” Theo reached as far as he could around his father and moved his head onto his dad’s lap. “I won’t ever want a newer dad.”
Charlie felt his throat tighten. What if Anne ended up marrying this asshole? What if he tried to be a dad to Charlie’s kids? For a moment he felt light-headed with a mix of anger and fear, then he unclenched his fist and spoke softly.
“Buddy, no one could love you and your sister more than I do. And your mom loves you both just as much as she ever did. The problems we’re having are between us, just grown-up stuff. It doesn’t mean anything about you guys, OK?”
Theo turned his head and looked up at his father. The moonbeam was now falling on the back of his neck, and Charlie could see the bones of his upper spine sticking up against his pajama top. “If she loves us so much,” he said in a voice as pale as a whisper, “she wouldn’t want to play with anyone else. We’d be like Rotten Corner, the best forever. The best because it’s old, not new.” He started to cry a little, and tried to cover it, pushing his voice through the lump in his throat so he’d seem tougher than his dad might think. “A new one might be shiny, but it wouldn’t know anything. RC knows everything about me, it’s been everywhere. Why doesn’t Mom care about that?” His hand tightened on Charlie’s leg. “Is she going to have new kids, too?”
From down the hall Kate cried out, and Charlie was saved from answering a question he didn’t have an answer to.
“Let me go see what’s up with Kate, OK? I’ll come back in a minute.”
Theo watched his father go, and reached under his pillow.
Kate had had a bad dream, and wanted to sleep with Charlie. He picked her up, her head already lolling on his shoulder and carried her into his bedroom. He had no idea nighttimes were so active in the house; he’d always been the one who slept through. After placing her on Anne’s side and covering her up, he sighed and went back to Theo’s room. His son was sleeping, too, his cheek pressed against the damp piece of blanket he loved so much.
Charlie went back to bed and lay there for an hour or two, wondering if Anne was going to have new children.
Twenty-four.
AYSO, which stood for something Frances could never accurately remember, and which was also described as peewee soccer, was Frances’s least favorite thing in the world. She also felt pretty strongly about eggplant, but she fucking hated little kids’ soccer. It started in the fall, which in L.A. is still really hot, and involved several painful rites of passage. When she and Michael had been considering a third child she had said out loud, No, wait, we’d have to do soccer again . . .
For some reason it was a blight that hit every family hard. It started with the application form, which was only slightly less detailed than the forms for getting into one of the city’s charter schools, which were currently heading the field of Forms That Are Complicated Beyond Belief. Then there was the day, which started at some ungodly hour like seven on a Saturday, when the teams got picked. You’d see groups of experienced parents herding their kids together as swiftly as greyhounds rounding a track corner; while other, less experienced parents ended up wandering around with wobbly chinned kids looking for a group that “had room.” Shockingly painful, especially when your kid ended up in a little clump of other kids whose parents didn’t understand the process. It was the sporting version of the Island of Misfit Toys, and if you think five-year-olds haven’t seen that movie, you’re drunk. Then there was Team Parent and Snack Mom and Volunteer Coach, all positions that went to parents who’d just gotten off the turnip truck, soccer-ly speaking.
She personally hated Team Parent, but Coach was also a disaster. She’d seen world-famous directors in bright jerseys made of nonbreathing material reduced almost to tears by the challenge of getting a dozen six-year-old boys to run in the same direction. Get a thousand horses to come over a hill at once, sure; get precious actors to emote on cue, no problem; wrangle a set of producers who don’t understand the importance of using real butterflies, damn the cost, all in a day’s work. But stand in the blazing October sunshine getting Tarquin, Samson, Argo and Aero (twins) to stop kicking the ball at one another’s heads, impossible. Snack Parent sucked ass, too: She once saw a mom who published a well-known mommy blog about finding the joy in every moment, handing out Tic Tacs from the bottom of her purse as the postgame snack. Thank God the bottle of Xanax was in her other bag.
On this Saturday Frances had drawn the short straw because Michael had some work thing he “needed” to do. She was marginally bitter as she stood on the sidelines being grateful she wasn’t Snack Mom this time, when she heard her name being called. She turned and smiled, while inside her head she said, Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. She braced herself.
Shelly was a mom in Milo’s class, and Frances hated and feared her in equal measure. She was a “cool mom” on the surface. Casual shoes that cost a fortune, leggings on toned legs under vintage kaftans, jewelry personalized with her many children’s names, a commitment to veganism and alternative medicine, a firm belief in the joy of a childhood lived free of electronics and sugar, and a tendency to gossip about other parents with the rapier knife of a trained assassin. She specialized in concern, and as she got closer, Frances could see the small eyebrow furrow that indicated she was about to ask about Anne Porter.
“Frances, how are you?” Shelly cooed, embracing Frances and, as always, making her feel momentarily guilty for doubting this woman’s good intentions. “How are the kids?” She turned and looked at Lally, who was running in the wrong direction, but grinning like an idiot. “Lally looks like she’s having a good time.” She kept watching as the referee came over and turned Lally around, sending her heading in the right direction without apparently realizing she’d been turned. “And that’s all that matters really, right?”
“Of course,” said Frances, correctly reading the implied comment on Lally’s lack of athletic coordination. Shelly’s kids were naturally good at lots of things, which, to be fair, was hardly their fault. Otter and Persimmon, both girls, and Gin and Arable, boys. Shelly liked to question gender-normative naming conventions because, as she had memorably put it at one early birthday party, names carry such weight in our society. Frances often wondered how much weight being named after a water mammal, a fruit, a clear alcohol, and a farming term carried, but as the kids themselves were very nice and easygoing, she’d never posed the question.
“I heard the news about Anne Porter, it’s terrible.” Shelly looked at the ground, almost conjuring a tear, and radiating Genuine Concern. She looked up in time to catch Frances’s raised eyebrow, and added, “Not that I know her very well, of course. Not like you.”
