Ballet trained you to obey orders. Your job was to become your teacher’s vision. Nobody wanted a dancer with opinions.
“We should go to New Zealand,” said Jules. “A vacation. All of us—together.”
New Zealand? It was useless. Ridiculous. A big expensive itinerary that led them right back to this horrible place.
The doctor had said:We call it conduct disorder with callous and unemotional traits. I’m sorry.
“That’s your surprise,” said Jules. He alighted from the car and walked into their house, already calling someone about something with his Bluetooth headset.
In this moment, Whitney wondered if Jules’s remote aloofness, his inability to be won, was not a positive characteristic but rather a symptom of a disease. The same disease, maybe, that their daughter had just been diagnosed with—it ran in families, the doctor had said.
Roma, Whitney saw clearly, washerproblem. Jules would never take action to help.
This burden was Whitney’s alone. But what could she possibly do?
—
THE TRIP WAS Awrite-off. Many of Whitney’s clients were interested in New Zealand—it was where they wanted to bewhen the upcoming apocalypse hit. The idea (and they all had the same idea) was to be as far as possible from the U.S., but also in a place that was just like the U.S. They wanted ski mountains and beaches, but none of the starving hordes. These people were…Whitney didn’t want to saycold and calculating,but honestly, they were cold and calculating. They could compartmentalize. Perhaps they were like Roma, truly.
Jules bought first-class tickets. They sat in a row: Jules, Whitney, Roma, and Xavier. They hadn’t been on the plane for ten minutes when Xavier cried out, “What theheck,Roma!”
Roma didn’t move. Her pearl-colored headphones covered her ears and her eyes were closed. Whitney had always admired her daughter’s eyelashes—they were long and lush, unlike Whitney’s. When Roma’s eyes were closed, Whitney could pretend things were different. It was like a drug, this lovely forgetting. She’d imagined so many futures for her girl, so many adventures for the two of them together.
As a little girl, Roma had slept next to Whitney every night, Jules banished to the guest room. Roma would fall asleep before Whitney, her two “stuffies” gathered close to her heart, her face flushed pink. Whitney would read for a while longer, then turn out the light and put her nose to Roma’s hair, inhaling. Roma smelled like ice cream melted in the sun: faintly buttery, sweet, a bit tangy. Whitney would cradle her head, touch her nose to Roma’s. Roma had once been hers.
—
THE AIR NEW ZEALANDflight attendant smiled at the Brownson family and continued down the aisle. The twins were twelve and looked angelic. As soon as she was out of earshot, Xavier, said, “Roma pinched me.”
“Honey,” said Whitney.
“Look!” he insisted, showing Whitney his thigh, where a purple welt bloomed. Whitney’s stomach went sour.
“Jules,” said Whitney. He was also pretending to be asleep.
“Hm?” said Jules, opening one eye.
“Roma pinched him.”
“Dad, look!” said Xavier. It was there—it was a fact. A painful-looking bruise on his fair skin.
Jules stared at his son’s leg. “Well,” he said, finally. “Roma’s asleep.”
“Dad…” said Xavier.
“I don’t know,” said Jules.
“Come on, Dad! You think I did this to myself?”
“Settle down, all of you.” Jules closed his eyes again. Xavier looked at Whitney.
“Sweetheart,” she said, her voice pleading.
“It hurts, Mom,” said Xavier. He swallowed. “She did this,” he said. The defiance in Xavier’s eyes faded slowly when Whitney didn’t answer, but it did fade.
“Would anyone like a drink?” said the stewardess, on her way back down the aisle. Xavier shook his head and turned away.
“I’ll take some champagne,” said Jules. His hand on Whitney’s knee was warm.
