“Small things,” Sebastian is saying. “I remember her coming home. Bath time. She used to let us brush out her hair. Sometimes we would pray before bed.”
“Really? She was always going on about how your father didn’t like that sort of thing.”
“Well, I remember it anyway.”
“He’s got a better memory than me, Orson, it’s really not very fair.”
She can hear the boldness in her voice. A moment is arriving that she will not be able to return from. My God, if she can just know, then it will be over, the doubting. She can move on. One way or the other.
“We used to talk about you at home, Orson,” she says. She pours herself another, fuller glass of wine. “Growing up.”
“Really. Good things, I hope.”
“You know, Sebastian has this theory that you slept with my mom.” She leans on it like a punch line, like it’s absurd. No one is laughing.
“Right.”
“Or at least he used to be obsessed with it.”
“And where did this come from?”
“Some tabloid.”
A long moment. She never expected it to sound so ridiculous out loud. She looks to her brother:Well?
But Orson is looking only at her. “And is that something you think?”
“Obviously not.”
“But you were putting off telling me about it.”
“I was just a teenager,” Sebastian says quickly. “You know. It was all a part of trying to imagine her life. Just. Abstract.”
Orson nods solemnly, his eyes unmoving.
“Well, lest there be any doubt, that never happened.” He pauses for her response, but she cannot speak. “Capiche?” he says.
Embarrassment flares through her body, her cheeks, and when at last he looks away, he does not look at her again. Conversation meanders loosely through the end of their drinks, and then Orson suggests he should be getting to bed, that he is off again in the early morning. When they leave, he stiffens against the brush of her hand.
1994
Susan has packed bags for the twins, a week’s worth of clothes, toothbrushes, and a few key toys: picture books, Sebastian’s blanket. Hidden them in the trunk of her car. It will be a long drive, but they can stop off in Chicago for a night. She will take them first thing in the morning, when Al leaves for work. He won’t hear if they put up a fuss. He won’t be able to stop her.
“Mom, where is Silky?”
“I’m sure it will turn up, sweet one.”
“I looked, I can’t find it.”
“Come on, buddy,” says Al. “Let’s check where you might have left it.”
This is deranged, she thinks as she watches her husband tenderly turning over pillows on both children’s beds, looking for Sebastian’s blanket. She should have grabbed it last, she should have known better, and now she’s drawn attention to what she’s doing. Al prepares to check the laundry basket and she saysI think it’s in the dryer, andI’ll bring it to you when you’re sleeping, and her husband is scooping up their little boy.
How can she possibly take them without letting him say goodbye?
When she had come home last Saturday, he looked almost shocked to see her. The house was messier than usual, the children’s toys everywhere in multiple rooms, pots piling up in the sink. He was wearing the T-shirt he wore when all of the others were in the wash.
“I thought I was going to have to come out and get you,” he said.
