“I noticed,” says Mae. “But look at Steve Martin. And Robert De Niro.”
“They have a kid together?” asks Natalie.
Jordan can’t tell if she’s serious. “No, dummy. They each became fathers at an unusually late age.”
“I might have a hundred kids,” says Natalie. “With my age-appropriate husband.” She has momentarily forgotten about her fatigue from earlier in the day.
“Really?” says Mae.
“Well, maybe not a hundred,” she concedes. “Maybe four. Or five.”
“Five!” says Jordan. “Geez. What about overpopulation?”
Natalie goes on. “I love being pregnant. I pity men that they don’t get to see what it’s like, you know? Our bodies are amazing. They can do so much.”
“Have fun with that,” says Jordan, even though she loves her nieces and nephews with such fervor that she’d eat her own hand if they needed her to.
Natalie puts her Dixie Cup on the night table. If she doesn’t change the subject away from Kara and her thoughts away from Austin and the article, she’s going to lose it. She turns to face Jordan and sticks out her foot, tapping Jordan’s elbow with it. “I know you saw her.”
“Who?” says Mae.
“Simone,” says Natalie. “Running along the beach. You didn’t think I saw you, but I saw you see.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Jordan.
“Yes, you do,” says Natalie. “Do I need to tickle you until you admit it?” (Jordan went through a phase in her preteen years where the merest suggestion of this would send her into a panic.)
“No,” says Jordan. “You do not need to tickle me. And, gross, get your dirty foot off my arm.”
Natalie’s foot is not actually gross or dirty; like everything about Natalie, thinks Mae, it’s well tended to, matched to her aesthetic,camera-ready. Pumiced and moisturized. Currently her toenails are painted baby blue, the same color as that fantastic range, and her fingernails match. How does Natalie have time for this? There are days when Mae, who has zero children, no husband, and nobody expecting cast-iron skillet biscuits from scratch, feels like the world is asking too much to expect her to brush her teeth twice a day.
Mae closes her eyes and tries to drown out her sisters’ voices, even though she’s also reveling in them.
“I’m out of wine,” says Jordan in her bossy big-sister voice. She lifts her Dixie Cup above her head like the Statue of Liberty hoisting the flame. “Who has the bottle?”
“You do,” says Mae.
Natalie laughs. “The wine is gone. You drank it all, you psycho alcoholic.”
Is now the time? wonders Mae. Is now the time to open up to her sisters, to tell them they must stop the sale at all costs, to confess that she needs to live here for a little while, until she sorts things out? Until she catches her breath, or maybe, who knows, forever?
“I will say that I kind of see Dad’s point,” says Jordan. She knows this is a controversial statement, but it’s also true.
“About what?” say Natalie and Mae together.
“About cleaning out the garage storage room.” She takes a deep breath. “Selling the house.”
“Youwhat?”
Jordan shrugs. “He refuses to hire a property manager. He’s never here. We’re never here. All of those repairs in the next few years—it’s a lot. This house is old! Whatever isn’t failing now is going to fail in the near future!”
“That,” says Natalie, “is the most coldhearted of all of the coldhearted things you’ve ever said.”
Now is not the time to bring up her situation, thinks Mae. Now is the time to be an adult, to train the dog she has committed her week to, to get to bed early and stay mostly sober and hydrated so she can wake up and be a productive member of the family tomorrow and the day after and the day after that. To bring the sunshine, the way they are expecting her to, have always expected her to.
“Right, Mae?” demands Natalie. “You’re not saying anything, but you agree, right?”
Mae wants to say so many things, things that would take the conversation in a whole different direction. What she really wants to say issee me, know me, help me.
