“I’m learning Greek so I can read Socrates in the OG.” Of course he is. OfcourseHenry is learning Greek so he can read Socrates in the OG.
“But I need you,” she says. She allows a little wheedle into her voice.
“You don’t need me. You’ll be fine. Mom and Dad must be happy to have you home.”
“They’re grudgingly happy,” she says. “Reluctantly happy.”
Henry says something to Ava Sam can’t hear, then he returns to the conversation and says, “Nah. I’m sure they’re legitimately very happy. You’re the Prodigal Daughter, returned. The Golden Child.”
If she were drinking anything she would have spit it out. “I’mthe Golden Child? Uh-uh. No way, Henry.You’rethe Golden Child.”
“Ah, no. Samuel.” He used to call her that to annoy her, and in fact it used to annoy her, but now she’s old and mature, so she lets it go, maybe even likes it. “Definitely, definitely,most definitely,you are the Golden Child.”
There’s something in Henry’s voice—what? It’s as close as Henry ever gets to bitterness, and coming from anyone else it would probably roll right off Sam’s skin like water off wax, but it’s Henry, and so it stings.
It’s two or three days later that Sam wakes in her childhood bedroom to a gentle tapping at the door. She opens one eye, then the other. A voracious June sunlight is blasting through the curtains, and she can tell by the way it’s hitting the foot of her bed that it’s at least midmorning.
She doesn’t answer.
Again comes the tapping. Taptaptap. Taptaptap. Obviously it’s her mom—who else would it be?
Sam covers her face with her pillow and asks the pillow, “What?”
“Honey? Are you okay in there?”
“I’m sleeping!”
“Okay.” A pause. “I was just wondering about breakfast.”
“What about it?”
“Well, if it’s happening. For you. It’s almost eleven. I had a yogurt but I could make waffles...?”
Sam hears a scratching and snuffling too. These are the sounds, she’s sure, of the rescue dog her mom is currently fostering. Kona. He came with the name, but he’s not from Hawaii, so who knows. Amy fosters rescue dogs in the summers, caring for them until they find their “furever home” (her mom’s phrase; her mom loves a pun).
“Hello? Sammy? You in there?”
After nearly a year of no parenting whatsoever, Sam feels her mom’s attention focused on her like a laser. Yes, it has been wonderful to see her parents. Yes, her mom made Sam’s favorite dinner last night, eggplant parmesan, pappardelle noodles on the side and marinara sauce from Arturo Joe’s, and that had been wonderful too, superbly satisfying. In the TikTok house nobody ate real, nourishing food, unless they were trying to make something for content. They subsisted on Twizzlers, or vodka and Red Bull and Cheez-Its, or nothing at all. Waffles actually sound good, now that she thinks about it. She can’t believe how hungry she is, even after all that pasta.
“Why aren’t you at school?” she asks her pillow.
“It’s Saturday, silly!”
“It’s Saturday?” This means Sam has been here for almost a week. How is that possible? Where has a whole week gone?
“It is. Next week I have four full days, a half day on Friday, then, boom. Another school year done.”
Sam lifts the pillow from her face so that she can say, “That’s great.”
“I know. I’m so ready for this school year to be over. You can’t see me through the door, but I’m doing a happy dance.”
Please don’tactuallybe doing a happy dance, thinks Sam. She watches the knob turning, and the door opens. In comes Kona. He sits expectantly, even politely, next to Sam’s bed, maybe waiting for an invitation. She goes back under the pillow.
Her mom follows right behind Kona; she can feel this, even though she can’t see the entrance. At one time—truly, it’s nearly impossible for Sam to believe this—her mom had roamed the streets around New York University, writing plays, presumably wearing clothing that was more interesting than her current Loft teaching wardrobe, which she accessorizes with dramatically unmatching pieces from the local farmers market. Amy’s Saturday outfit, she sees, when she once again removes the pillow, is evenworse than her teaching outfits: gray sweatpants with a Middlebury seal on the hip, an Old Navy T-shirt. Sam’s mom is pretty, with curly hair that’s reddish brown, and a decent body for an old person, but gosh, it’s like she’s trying her hardest not to let anyone know.
Kona whines. He’s not getting on the bed. Sam and Kona have no relationship, and she’s not about to get attached to a dog that could be leaving any minute.
“So, waffles?” Amy asks. “Yes or no?”
