No one speaks.
She looks at Margo, Anne, then me. “What? You know I want that. I’ve always wanted it.”
“I’ve explained legal contracts,” I say and grab the depleted pasta platter.
“That doesn’t mean it can’t be my dream.”
I hand her the platter. “Kitchen,” I instruct, and once Anne ushers her there, I collect unused silverware.
“Don’t be angry with her,” Margo says, holding the dirty dishes while I return the silver to its drawer.
“I’m not. I’m just surprised she said it in front of you all.”
“Us all? Anne and me? We’re family. You’ve told us she wants that.”
“I know.” My anger fades. I close the drawer. “It’s a touchy point for me. Evokes guilt.” And isn’t that hypocritical? Here am I, desperate to learn the identity of my biological father, and I deprive my daughter of it?
“Want to talk about that?” Margo asks.
“Not really.” After scooping up dirty linen, I follow her into the kitchen.
“Can we still play?” Joy asks, meaningAm I forgiven?
“Absolutely.” I dump the linen on a chair and rub my hands on my shorts. “What’s next?”
“Forbidden desire.”
“Forbidden desire?”Anne echoes, sounding alarmed. I actuallythink her alarm is real. She’s afraid of being laughed at. Or of saying something about being a mother.
Putting a hand on her arm, I look at Joy and clarify, “You mean, like what do we want that we can never, ever have in real life?” When Joy nods, I tell Anne, “We can do this.” I broaden my gaze. “I want a PhD in Art History.”
“Seriously?” Margo asks.
Anne answers with a sigh. “It’s in character. She’s the artsy one.”
But Joy, my too-insightful daughter, has taken it one step further. She understands that if I weren’t a mother, I’d have had other choices, and, stricken, says, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I ask. To hug her would give credence to what she is thinking, so I simply touch her cheek. “It’s forbidden, because I chose to be a photographer long before you were born. I love my work. I would not love being at school again. In another life, though, I’d teach fine art.”
“Dad would approve,” Anne says. “He always thought photography was a faux art.”
“Christ, Anne,” Margo scolds.
“What? It’s true.”
Joy redeems herself by cutting in. “Your turn, Margo. What’s yours?”
“Forbidden desire?” She takes her time crossing to the sink, searching for rubber gloves in the under-cabinet, pulling them on. Then she turns and holds up a hot pink finger. “Once, just once, I want to sing with Bradley Cooper.”
“Well,that’sa good one,” says Anne. “You can’t sing.”
“None of us can,” I point out and break intoHappy Birthdayto prove it. Joy covers her ears, but I’m smiling at the memory it brings. “If we celebrated a birthday anywhere but home, people around us would laugh. We were awful.”
“Still are,” Margo says, “but that’s the point of this truth. It’s something I know I can’t have, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want it. Okay, smarty pants,” she goads Anne, “what’s yours?”
Smarty pants.If that isn’t a flash from the past, I don’t know what is. It was Margo’s favorite epithet, used as many times on me as on Anne, and with the same goading now as then. But this isn’t the time to goad. Anne is too sensitive. I can’t believe Margo doesn’t see that.
Anne continues to spoon leftovers into plastic containers—to spoon them slowly and with great care. I’m starting to wonder whether she’s too threatened to confess her forbidden desire, when she raises her eyes. They land hard on Margo. “I want a week alone with Mom.”
