Susan hates the way his mother talks to them, as though they are wrong by default. As though it’s her duty to introduce them, quickly, to the stiff propriety of adulthood. It’s not right; wonder should be prolonged for as long as possible.Be quiet, Melinda tells them,stop making a mess. His mother cares little whether they can understand or comply. She is concerned with their behavior, the outer layers of them, not the people they are becoming. Not the miracle of their existence.
“Don’t start,” he said.
“I’m just saying—”
“I’m serious, Susan.”
She knows that he is overwhelmed, that he is staring down a week of reasoning with the unreasonable. He lacks the intuitive strategies for keeping them occupied, for calming one while handling the other. He does not want her opinions on top of her absence.
“Where did you put the kitten book?”
“It should be in the usual place.”
“What’s the usual place?”
“The drawer, just under the lamp.”
I’ve unsteadied him, she thought, listening to him rummage around the house. Everything between them was dislocated.
“I can’t find it.”
“Haven’t you memorized it?”
“There once were three mischievous kittens. And they had fur coats. And they all decided to go the hell to bed, the end.”
He was trying to land the joke, but both of them could hear his frustration and neither knew what to say. She had made him feel unwanted and there would be no fixing it other than the old contrition. It irritated her.I don’t even love him, she thought, and the thought was sofrightening that she shut it away in a box. If it was true, she didn’t want it to be true.
When she turns off the television, the room regains its composition. The far window, the innards of her suitcase strewn across the spare bed, the sad wooden desk clutching tomorrow’s script. A loneliness wells up inside her.
Exhale. Let yourself imagine it. The children, here, a small house in Montebello, orange trees in the back garden. Bath time and bedtime every night, their slippery bodies, contagious giggles, the sleepy weight of them. A man.
When she reaches out for the phone, a soft, familiar voice answers.
“Are you awake?” she asks. “Can we go for a drive?”
2012
Orson is driving far on the arm of the Cape, past the shingled settlements that cluster around penny-candy shops, the sunny habitat of an endangered species.
He’s hardly touched this coast since that night, Susie’s funeral. Mostly he remembers a great distance between himself and everyone else. He remembers thinking about leaving America entirely, going home and working on an oil rig or God knows what, anything not to be around those people, their unbearable conversations about the next series, the next big thing. But then came this serious little version of Susie like a sign, telling him to get on with it. And here she is now, sitting next to him, bare feet up on the dashboard, eyes hidden behind big sunglasses. He still can’t get over it.
“So how does it feel?” he asks. “Being here.”
She wrinkles her nose. “It’s strange.”
“Has it changed?”
“No. I don’t know. Maybe just me.”
I love you.When she said it the first time, it fucking terrified him. If the world found out, if they ruined her, he would never be able to forgive himself. The age gap, Susie, how many vile headlines have tormented his imagination? “Like Mother Like Daughter; He’s Got a Type!” How could it be worth it? Happily, they have burrowed into their private world. But it cannot last forever.
“Was the flight okay?” he asks.
“Dreamy. Thanks. Yours?”
“Well, there was this very cute girl two rows behind me.”
“Did you get her number?”
