“Don’t worry. We will.” Diana kisses Phoebe’s forehead. “You and Bear Bear start your homework while I figure out what we’re eating. You get to work, too, Duncan.”
Mollified by the prospect of food, Phoebe heads to the table, dragging Bear Bear by the ear, his furry bottom bouncing on the floor. Bear Bear has been Phoebe’s great joy since her third birthday, when she opened a pink polka dot box from Diana’s parents to find him inside. Diana still remembers Phoebe kissing his turquoise nose with delight, whispering, “Bear Bear.” If Diana doesn’t watch closely, Phoebe will smuggle him to school in her backpack, sticky with the remains of her breakfast.
Duncan grabs the laptop from the counter, where it sits on a pile of unopened mail, newspapers bound for the recycling bin, and notices from the kids’ schools that are probably important. “Can I use the computer? I have to research the Supreme Court for history class.” Before, the computer was Tom’s, but now Diana and the kids share the device. She keeps it in the kitchen, instead of across the house in what was Tom’s office. Diana needs everyone to be close by, in the same room.
“Yes, but no video games.”
“Mom,” he groans. That one word has endless meanings, and in this instance, she knows Duncan hopes to convey his frustration with her rules. He tells her all the time that none of his friends have parents as strict as her, but she won’t relent. She’s extra cautious about everything related to her kids. She’d be a different mother if Tom were still alive. More lenient, probably. And not so insecure.
As Duncan passes by on his way to join Phoebe at the table, his hand lightly grazes Diana’s shoulder, and she smiles. When he was little, Duncan would never leave a room without kissing or hugging her. That stopped for a few months when he turned ten, much to Diana’s regret. Then Tom died, and everything changed. Now, Duncan is always aware of where she is in the house, always touching her as he walks by, as if to ensure she’s still there.
“Mama, I forgot. Lakshmi sent home food for us,” Phoebe says. “She said it was Daddy’s favorite. I brought it home from my playdate with Mira. It’s by the back door.”
Lakshmi, Diana’s close friend and Mira’s mother, has cooked for Diana and her kids once a week for months now; it’s one of the ways she looks out for them. Often the meals are the Indian dishes Lakshmi makes for her own family—dal, biryani, sambar—but sometimes, she cooks food that reminds her of Tom.
After putting away Phoebe’s coat and boots in the foyer closet, Diana brings Lakshmi’s dish into the kitchen, peeking under the foil to find homemade macaroni and cheese.Definitely Tom’s favorite,she thinks, placing the dish on the counter.
“I still don’t know how to spell ‘blizzard,’” Phoebe says, her voice vibrating up toward a full-fledged whine. “Can’t one of you tell me?”
“As we already discussed, you have to get the dictionary,” Diana says, opening the refrigerator to assess what else they have for dinner. She pushes aside the milk—still good, amazingly—and finds her mother’s fruit salad. A bag of baby carrots in the back of the crisper will work, too.
Phoebe sighs dramatically but gets up, stealing a carrot as she skips by.
Diana closes the refrigerator and eyes the time capsule. She should have let the kids open the envelope and get this over with. Whatever is inside—probably some old photographs—won’t be that upsetting, right?
Eager for a distraction, she checks her phone and finds texts from her family.How far did you get on your run?her sister, Andrea, asks, her message peppered with sneaker emojis.Don’t forget to replenish your electrolytes!Diana’s mother’s text is no different in its sentiment:I hope you made time for that jog, sweetheart. You’ll be grateful you prioritized your health and well-being.
To Diana’s sister and mother, exercise is a sign Diana hasn’t fallen back into the debilitating grief that eclipsed her after Tom’s death, atime when she couldn’t take care of Duncan and Phoebe, pay her bills, or remember to eat. The darkest of those days are behind her, Diana believes, but she isn’t sure her family is ready to let go of being the ones who hold her together.
Phoebe returns to the kitchen, lugging the dictionary. “It’s onez, right, Mama?”
“Look it up, Phoebe,” Diana says, sticking her phone into her pocket. “Mac and cheese good with you for dinner, Duncan?”
Duncan doesn’t answer, keeping his eyes on his homework and acting as if she isn’t there. The mood swings of adolescence: One moment Duncan is affectionate and responsible, the next, grumpy and sullen, communicating only in grunts or eye rolls.The teenage years are going to be long,she thinks.
As soon as Diana places the mac and cheese in the oven to reheat, Phoebe looks up from her homework. “Nowis it time to open the time capsule?”
Diana picks up the envelope and lets its crisp edges slide across her palm. Her focus compresses, as if she’s looking at the time capsule through a telescope. Everything around her blurs. She’s not interested in seeing what’s inside. In fact, she’s scared by the pain this innocent assignment of Duncan’s might dredge up. She’d rather shred the time capsule into small pieces and throw it into the trash than remember. She can feel her hands twitch in anticipation, imagining the sensation of ripping the envelope apart.
But Duncan and Phoebe want this, and her children’s needs come before her own, so Diana closes her eyes and counts to ten, using the circular breathing both the parenting and grief books suggest for tough situations.
“Mom?” Duncan asks, his fingers paused over the computer keyboard.
Diana opens her eyes and reluctantly walks over to the table, where she hands the envelope to Phoebe. “All yours, honey.”
Once Diana is seated, Phoebe glances from her brother to her mother and arches an eyebrow, a trait she’s inherited from Vivian, Diana’s mother. In a flash, an adult Phoebe is before them, time jumping ahead too quickly.
“Come on, open it,” Duncan says, shoving their homework off to the side.
Phoebe flips over the time capsule. It’s unsealed, with only a silver metal clasp holding the flap in place. She hunches over, her tongue sticking out and her feet swinging, as she urges up one arm of the clasp. Her movements are methodical, and Diana’s anxiety grows.
The second arm opens, and Phoebe looks up, triumphant. She unfolds the flap and removes a piece of cream-colored construction paper. Shaking her head, Phoebe examines the drawing. “You can tell I was really little when I made this. I’m a much better artist now.” She hands the paper to Diana and helps Duncan remove the other items from the envelope.
Looking at Phoebe’s drawing kick-starts the muscle that pulls memories from where they live in Diana’s brain, hidden under all the loss and sadness. Out of shape and abandoned, the muscle struggles to locate the night they assembled the time capsule, four years earlier. The memory is there but fragmented, like a puzzle missing several pieces.
Diana remembers Duncan coming home from school with the time-capsule assignment, adamant they put it together that night. No waiting for the weekend, when they would’ve had more time; he wanted the Leap Day time capsule completed on Leap Day.
Tom joined them for dinner, the first time in weeks. Still dressed in his good gray suit from court, his tie askew, and the sleeves of his blue oxford shirt rolled up to the elbows, he looked tired, with hollows under his eyes like half-moons. Diana remembers rubbing his back and feeling the knots in his muscles, the stress from the day not yet released.
