Nine.
Driving away from school, Frances called Michael, putting the call on speaker.
“Sup, dog?” His voice always cheered her up.
“Do you have five minutes to chat?” She slowed to let an extremely slow old lady cross the street, causing the person behind her to honk his horn. She raised her hand in front of her driver’s mirror, the middle finger extended. What was she supposed to do, run the woman down? We’re all getting old, asshole, she thought, it won’t be long before it’s you shuffling along and peeing anxiously into your adult diapers because some dick, who isn’t brave enough to chivy you face-to-face, is happy to lean on his horn. Fuck you, asshole. The guy honked again and she rolled down the window and extended her other hand: tipped up palm, emphatic point at old person, middle finger. Frances knew that mime documentary she’d watched would come in handy one day. She tried to focus on her husband.
“Yup, as long as it’s five minutes. I have a meeting at ten.” He sounded busy, but relaxed, which was pretty much his default state.
Frances looked at her watch, nine forty-five. “OK. I went to school to talk to Jennifer the counselor.”
Michael laughed. “And now you want to become a cheerleader?”
“Ava said the same thing. What is with you people?” The lady had reached the other side, and stood there panting. Frances wondered what she thought about, whether she paid any attention to the world around her or just focused on making it across street after street. She suddenly hated the young guy behind her and then, as he pulled past her and honked angrily one last time, saw he was a middle-aged woman like herself.
“Ava was there, too? Why didn’t you have me come?” He sounded slightly less amused.
“No, she wasn’t there at the meeting. I ran into her in the hallway.”
“Busted! Was she mad?”
“Not really, although she was wearing makeup that she hadn’t been wearing when I dropped her off half an hour earlier.” Frances wondered why this even mattered to her, why she was even mentioning it. Sometimes she was critical for no real reason she could discern, and didn’t like it in herself. If it had been conscious she could stop herself from doing it, but it seemed to come from nowhere. She’d heard somewhere that a sad portion of your thoughts are just society’s opinions, disguised as inner monologue. A depressing thought, or was that just society telling you it was a depressing thought? She was getting a headache.
“Well, so? She is fourteen. A little makeup is a rebellion I can handle.” Michael sounded a little defensive. He paused and then said, “Unless we’re talking full drag queen.”
“No, eyeliner and lipstick. Michael, that is not the point. The point is that she’s dropped all her extracurriculars, without telling us.”
“School paper?”
“No, she quit. And orchestra. And animation club, which, to be honest, I didn’t know she was doing, so the fact that she isn’t doing it anymore isn’t really a thing for me, although it’s a bit sad.” Frances heard voices in the background, and felt her husband getting distracted. “Are you listening?”
“No,” he said honestly, “Jason just came in and I have to go. Can you call me later? Let’s talk about it before we talk to Ava, OK? She is allowed to have control over her own schedule, you know.” As was often the case, there was a warning note in his voice. When Frances had an issue with Ava, Michael often took Ava’s side, protective of his child, which always irritated Frances. They were both on Ava’s side, after all. But Michael wouldn’t hear a word of criticism of his precious firstborn, or, indeed, any of the kids. He was their huntsman, and Frances was apparently the old lady with the apple. It pissed her off, and she felt her temper rising a little.
“Sure. I’m sure whatever you’re doing is more important than the kids.” Now, why was she baiting him? He was at work, after all.
There was a pause. Michael had known her for twenty years, and proved it by replying, “Don’t get stressed out about this, Frank. It’s probably nothing, and we’ll get to the bottom of it without World War Three, OK?” He covered the phone and spoke to the guy in his office, then returned to her. “Go eat something, OK, you sound hungry. I’ll talk to you soon.”
They hung up, and Frances felt the usual combination of mollified and itchy for an argument. Sometimes one of them would pick a fight and the other one would be up for it, but more often one of them would get pissy and the other one would aikido that shit immediately. She guessed that was the benefit of marriage, that you could tell what was real and what was just low blood sugar. So fucking irritating.
Heading aimlessly home, pondering what to do about Ava, and how to approach it—unavoidable now that they had run into each other—the phone rang.
“Hey!”
“Hey!” It was her friend, Lili. Frances smiled, happy to hear the voice of someone who was completely on her side. Someone with whom she could bitch unfairly about her husband. Honestly, he could find a cure for cancer and Lili would agree that he really should have washed out all those petri dishes.
“Where are you?” Lili always sounded relaxed, regardless of what was going on. She was just one of those people who seemed to take things in her stride. Maybe she was a wreck inside, but on the outside she was the very definition of chill.
“Driving home.”
“I’m in your neighborhood. Do you want to have coffee? I have about an hour to kill, and I couldn’t think of anyone better to kill it with.”
Frances took a right. “You mean no one else answered their phone?”
“No,” Lili said. “You were the first. You had the advantage of proximity. I would have had to call Anne Porter next, so I’m glad you picked up. I like her, but she always makes me feel underdressed. Usual place?”
“Yeah, see you in ten.”
Well, there you go. One minute it all seemed bleak and vexing, and the next you were going to have coffee. Thank God for friends. And caffeine.
The usual place was one of those Belgian chain cafés that always made Frances feel chic and European. She walked to the back room and immediately spotted Lili. Her friend was very pretty, not that she seemed to notice. She waved enthusiastically, and Frances half ran over to give her a hug.
“Dude, I was so glad to hear your voice!” Frances settled down and ordered a latte and a chocolate croissant.
“Oh yeah? Why?” Lili grinned. “Not that I don’t want you to be happy to hear from me, but what’s up?”
The croissant arrived and Frances took a bite. “Nothing, of course. How are the kids?”
Lili had two daughters, the eldest of whom was in the same fourth grade class as Milo. “Well, Annabel is fine, although I’m starting to see a little Mean Girl action from the other kids. Clare is as chirpy as usual, although I can see her becoming more . . . I don’t know . . . normal.”
Frances shook her head. “I think you’re misreading. That kid is never going to be normal.” Lili’s younger daughter was a riot. “Who’s being mean to Annabel?”
Lili shrugged. “They seem to take turns. It’s all about little groups and who’s your friend and who isn’t.” She shuddered. “It’s hideous.” She took a sip of coffee. “But, anyway, tell me about your whatever it is.”
Frances looked around the room. There were at least two familiar faces there, which wasn’t surprising. She came in maybe three times a week, and often saw the same people. They weren’t at the point of knowing each other’s names, but should they be caught in a zombie apocalypse or something they would naturally clump together. They nodded at each other, they would even nod at each other outside of the café context; it was only a matter of time before one of them would step forward, stick out a hand, and introduce themselves. Maybe it would even be Frances.
“Hey, Earth calling.” Lili’s tone was wry. “You’re drifting off. Are you drinking? Is that it? Are you hammered right now?”
Frances laughed. “No, but I have noticed my mind wanders a lot. Does yours?”
Lili nodded. “All the time. The other day it went to the zoo without me.”
Frances made a face at her. “I’m a little worried about Ava. Her grades are dropping and I just found out she quit a load of extracurriculars without telling me.” She shrugged. “I’m used to being consulted, but maybe I’ve been laid off without even realizing it.”
“A kind of ‘once I was the student, now I am the master’ kind of thing?” There was a pause, and Lili grinned. “Sorry, it all goes back to Star Wars for me, you know that.”
“Yeah,” said Frances. “But it is kind of like that. Like when you’re teaching them to ride a bike and you’re running along behind and then suddenly you feel them get it, and they glide away and that’s something you’ll never get to do again.”
Lili gestured to the waitress, who came over. “Can I get another chocolate croissant? And another latte. Thanks.” The waitress looked at Frances, who shook her head. Lili continued, “But you want her to be independent, right? You want her to make decisions for herself.”
“Of course. She’s fourteen, it’s time for her to do it. I just didn’t think she would take over so suddenly and completely. I’m worried that there’s something going on, and now I don’t know how to bring it up.” She told Lili about running into Ava at school. Lili frowned at her.
“Well, it doesn’t sound like you’ll need to bring it up. She’ll give you the third degree the minute she gets out of school.” She smiled at the waitress, and took a bite of her second croissant. “Jesus, why do they make these things so delicious while at the same time offering kale salad and green smoothies? How am I supposed to pick that over this?” She paused and reached across the table, brushing at something on Frances’s arm. “You have a . . . mark . . . on your arm. Doodling on yourself again?”
Frances looked at where she was pointing and smiled. “I never told you that story?” Lili raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “That’s where my brother stabbed me in the arm.”
“Uh, no, I’m pretty sure you never mentioned that. I didn’t even know you had a brother.”
“I don’t really have him anymore. He died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” Frances looked at the tiny blue-gray dot on her inner arm. “He was younger than me and I was supposed to be helping him with his homework. He was being his usual pain-in-the-ass self and procrastinating using every trick in the book, including sharpening his pencil to the point where the lead was longer than the wood, do you know what I mean?”
Lili nodded. “Sure.”
“And I kept bugging him and getting more and more impatient and eventually he stabbed me in the arm with his pencil.”
“Seems a little harsh.”
“Worse still, the lead was so long it just stuck there, standing straight up, as a single drop of blood oozed out and ran down onto the kitchen table. It wasn’t really painful, but it was visually pretty impressive.”
“What did he do?”
“Howled and begged me not to tell Mom.”
“And did you?”
“Of course. And the lead broke off in my arm and left this mark which, now that I look at it closely, is starting to fade.” She touched it with her finger, her skin totally smooth and soft on her inner arm. “He died a few years after that, but I always think of him when I see this.” An image of her brother gazing in horror at the blood jumped into her head and she smiled. She looked up at Lili and wanted to change the subject. “Hey, I heard you’re dating someone, is that true?” Lili had lost her husband in a car crash. Frances knew that, but she didn’t know much more than that. It had happened before they had met, when the kids were very small, she thought. All these losses, all in the past, but still present every day.
Lili made a face. “I guess so. I don’t know. Yes, I am. I think. Not really.”
Frances laughed. “Well, I’m glad we cleared that up.”
“It’s really early, it just started over the summer. I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“What’s his name? Tell me details.”
Lili sighed. “His name is Edward. He’s Dutch.”
“Is he stoned all the time?”
“No. Nor does he wear clogs. He’s a gardening teacher. I find him very, very attractive, but I just don’t know. The kids like him.”
“Well, that’s good.” Clearly Lili didn’t want to talk about this. “What else is new?”
“Lots, for once. I went freelance, I think my sister is going to get married, and the dog has worms.”
“Again?”
It was eleven when they left the café, and it felt as if they’d solved the world’s problems, if not their own. Frances considered what she could get done in the hour, and eventually went to the grocery store. Default setting: grocery shopping.
Frances and Iris had once spent an entire afternoon planning out three months’ worth of meals so that they could be sensible about shopping, and not spend so much money on food. It didn’t seem right that they had cupboards full of cans and freezers full of food yet never knew what to make for dinner. Yes, a first world problem, but still, a problem. Having made these extensive meal plans they both felt fantastically free to think about more important and useful things than groceries, but fell off the wagon about three weeks into it.
Why was it so fucking hard to be consistent about anything? Literature and popular culture were full of montages of people sticking to things, working out every day, practicing in leg warmers, carrying around railroad ties, clambering over obstacles . . . yet consistently sticking to a meal plan was apparently beyond her. Drenched in self-loathing, Frances pushed the cart around the store, hating herself for picking up Oreos rather than baking from scratch, for choosing Honey Nut Cheerios rather than plain because plain was over once her kids tasted honey nut, for buying wasteful and doubtless polluting tampons instead of wearing some kind of weird internal plastic cup thing. She threw in a big container of salad then immediately took it out. It would just rot in the fridge and when she threw it away she would feel guilty for the waste of the food itself and for the wasted labor of the poor underpaid fucker who’d picked it. It was all very well educating oneself about the trials and problems of the world, but it then became impossible to just blindly go on. At some point she’d decided to swallow the red pill and the rabbit hole just got deeper and deeper.
She decided to roast a chicken for dinner, then stood over the chicken section for two minutes, trying to decide whether a vegetarian-fed chicken was better than an all-natural chicken. How could a chicken not be all natural? Artificial hips? The butcher counter guy appeared next to her.
“Which of these chickens had a better life, do you think?” she asked, one hundred percent confident he was going to think she was a fucking idiot.
Silently he took pity on her, and pointed at one marked “humanely raised.” She picked it up, and smiled gratefully at him.
“It’s more expensive,” he said.
“That’s OK,” she replied. “I’m paying more so I don’t feel guilty.”
He turned and walked away, presumably so she wouldn’t see him rolling his eyes. He probably couldn’t even be bothered to do that. Frances looked at the chicken which, humanely raised or not, was still dead.
She occasionally went vegetarian for a while, usually because she’d unintentionally watched part of some hideous documentary about factory farming, but she found it shamefully hard to stick to. Instead she subscribed to the “one bad day” theory of meat consumption: As natural a life as possible, filled with open skies, fresh grass, friends and respect, and then one really bad day you were killed, as humanely as possible. She realized and recognized that this was utterly crap on her part. She loved animals so much, and would cry at those documentaries and genuinely feel grief, but it would fade. Was she callous, lame, or just lacking in imagination?
Then she headed back to the vegetable section, looking for potatoes that had been grown in earth that was free from pollutants but which retained their beneficial bacteria, or whatever the hell it was she was supposed to care about these days. Fuck the microbiome, she thought, I can barely balance my checkbook, let alone my invisible flora.
She got home, piled the bags on the counter, checked the message light (nothing), the dishwasher (needed emptying), the trash bags (needed changing), let the dogs out (needed to pee), and then started unloading. As usual, she had bought several of something she already had several of, and forgotten to buy several things she had none of. You would think after four-plus decades on the planet she’d be able to remember the difference between a kitchen roll and a toilet roll, but she invariably had none of one and enough of the other for a nuclear winter. She also tended to either have four tons of pasta or half a packet of elbows, three tins of anchovies or artichoke hearts or capers—none of which she used very much—and no tuna at all, which she used once or twice a week. She would run out of coffee filters one painful morning then keep buying them every time she went to the store, until eventually she had four large boxes and finally understood that she Had Enough. Then she’d assume she had enough of them forever, would stop buying them completely, and would eventually run out again at the worst possible moment. Why was this so hard?
Walking out of the kitchen she looked at her house as if seeing it in a catalog, and decided if it were a catalog it would be called House Hopeless. There were drifts of clutter in every corner, like sticks and leaves in the edges and eddies of a stream. Half-finished craft activities. Library books that had become so overdue it would have been cheaper to buy them in the first place. Invitations to parties that had taken place three years prior. Then, of course, there were the epic Pinterest fails of an actual life: a mantelpiece where she’d attempted a “curation” of photos and keepsakes, which for three days had been photo ready but then had been overtaken by school forms and Fisher-Price Little People and the registration sticker for Michael’s car, which didn’t need to go on for another month and would be every single place she looked until she actually needed it, at which point it would have fallen into a crevice in the earth’s crust and be lost forever. And everywhere, everywhere, single socks and dog hair.
Oh well.