WAKE UP, JESSICA.
Mom is more beautiful than she has been in ages this morning.
What, Mom?
We’re going on an adventure.
Mom strokes Jessica’s hair. The morning sun is flooding into the apartment through the open blinds. Jessica raises her head from the pillow. Her little brother is already up, rubbing his eyes groggily next to his own bed. Dad is standing in the doorway, looking worried. Maybe mad. Jessica has seen that look on Dad’s face a lot lately.
It’s Saturday.
Mom is speaking again. Jessica isn’t sure what Mom means. They don’t usually go on adventures on Saturday mornings. At most they play in the pool with Dad. Lately Mom has spent more time at work than at home.
Chop-chop, get dressed now.
Mom is still stroking her hair. Her fingers graze Jessica’s earlobe, sending a warm shiver down Jessica’s neck. Mom is smiling, but there’s something strange about her expression. Mom is an actor; Jessica has seen her on television lots of times. She has learned that Mom’s job is to pretend to be someone else. Sometimes at a theater, sometimes on television or in movies. Mom is so good at it that there are times when Jessica doesn’t even recognize her on TV.
Jessica asked Mom once how she knows how to act like she’s sad. You have to think about something sad, Mom said.
Mom gets up from the edge of the bed and walks away. She passes Dad standing at the doorway, but they don’t look at each other. It’s as if they are invisible to each other. Now Jessica sees that there’s a suitcase at the door. Dad comes over, hands folded across his chest, and sits down.
Jessie and Toffe. Everything’s going to be fine.
Dad’s smile is sad, but it’s a lot more real than Mom’s. It’s as if, of the two of them, Dad is the better actor.
You come over here too.
Her brother clumsily pulls on a black Ghostbusters sweatshirt and trundles over to Jessica’s bed.
Dad looks at both of them, one at a time, and pulls them in to him. Inhales their scent.
Why are you crying?
For a moment, Dad just sniffles, but then he wipes his nose on the sleeve of his black sweater.
Daddy has to go away for a little while.
Why?
Mom and I decided that would be best.
Jessica feels an enormous pressure in her chest, and she takes Dad by the wrist. She knows things aren’t OK. The enormous house has been too quiet for too long. The night before, she and Toffe stayed up late and listened to the shouting and slamming that carried through the walls, and Jessica thought: Finally the silence is over. Finally something is happening. But now that Dad’s saying he’s leaving, Jessica shuts her eyes and wishes the house were still quiet. She’d do anything if everything could stay the way it’s always been.
Come on, now. Let’s get a bite to eat at the airport.
THE MEMORY OF a six-year-old is selective. From this vantage point, it’s impossible for Jessica to guess what happened over the next few minutes. Were the conversations in the car and the words that carried to the backseat real or imagined? Were they something she has used to try to fill the gaps in her memory?
But there are some things she remembers vividly. Like her brother’s fingers wrapped around her own.
And Mom’s dark eyes in the rearview mirror.