Twenty-eight.
Yet another day dawned bright and clear. Sometimes Frances looked through the curtains and suspected Mother Nature of phoning it in. Really? Sun and blue skies again? Birds sang, flowers waved their frilly skirts and wafted perfume into the noses of homeless and hypocrite alike, and Frances hoped today would be less exhausting than yesterday.
She scratched her boob and farted thoughtfully, which unfortunately alerted the dogs that she was awake and available to feed them. Jack stepped on her stomach in his enthusiasm and she cursed, struggling to sit up with a comic level of arm flailing. Life was full of such inelegant moments, and Frances felt she had far more than her fair share of them. She made it to standing without snapping a bone, and headed to the bathroom.
She’d gained three pounds. How was that even possible? It couldn’t have been that third slice of banana bread. Or the ice cream. She stepped off the scale and decided it must be sabotage by a foreign power. They were clearly after her, there was no other satisfactory explanation.
She headed downstairs, followed by the dogs who’d put on tap shoes, judging by the shocking noise. She stood in the kitchen doorway and thought for a moment they’d been robbed: Every drawer and cupboard door was open, packaging was scattered on the counter, a half-empty milk carton stood insultingly close to the apparently locked refrigerator. Surely it hadn’t been this bad the night before? Ava must have been up in the night, making herself a snack. Coffee, let’s just get to the coffee, people. Face reality in ten minutes.
Frances pulled the jug from the coffee machine, dumped the old grounds in the trash, and went to fill the jug with fresh water. It didn’t start well. She inserted the faucet into the wide sleeve of her dressing gown and filled that instead of the jug, an experience that was so much less pleasant than you might think. She rolled up her dripping sleeve and tried again.
That achieved, she fed the dogs and, while the coffee machine did its work, swept off the counters, closed all the drawers and doors, stepped in cold pee of some kind, swore, put down layers of paper towels, put half-and-half into a cup and wrote half-and-half on the shopping list. Then she put the pee-soaked paper towels in the trash, washed her hands, and couldn’t find anything to dry them on. She used the nearest dog, wrote paper towels on the shopping list, and poured her coffee.
It can only get better from here, she prayed, and headed back upstairs, with her coffee, to wake Ava. She made it far enough into Ava’s room to open a single curtain before getting yelled at, inarticulately. Ava was not a morning person, so Frances had created a system of repeated, darting attacks not dissimilar to poking a bear with a stick. First step, curtains. Second step, lamp. Third step, insertion of cup of tea. Usually that did it. It was in no way guaranteed, and every morning was Russian roulette—optimal outcomes were sulky silence or grudging conversation, less optimal would be full-on screaming and door slamming. It was really a great way to start each day, and Frances was beginning to understand why parents were so relieved when their kids left for college.
She went back down to get hot chocolate for the other two, feeling momentarily grateful for nonteenage children. Milo and Lally both woke up like little buds unfurling, smiling and reaching for their mom. She gave them each their hot chocolate, and went back downstairs to fetch Ava’s tea, pausing on the way to run in and turn on a lamp. She was yelled at again, this time with discernable words. It was working.
After she’d delivered the tea (this time just muttering from under the duvet, which was progress), Frances went to get dressed herself. She took her time, flipping through the racks in her walk-in closet, spinning her shoe tower, and steaming her face to open her pores and maximize the effectiveness of her skin regime. None of that was true: She pulled on the same pair of jeans she’d had on the day before and the hooded sweatshirt she found under them. Look, if they hadn’t wanted to be worn a second day they would have run away, but instead they just lay there overnight, asking for it.
She leaned over Michael who, like his daughter, was not a morning person. “Hey there . . . coffee?”
“Go away, woman. It’s the middle of the night!” Her husband groaned, sticking his head under his pillow and reaching behind himself to try and bat her away.
“It’s after seven.”
“No.”
“Yes.” Frances patted the pillow where she thought his head must be, but he just shuddered. He’d explained to her once that he and Ava slept more deeply than other people and that, for them, waking up was physically painful. He’d said, “You know that bit in science-fiction films where the crew of the spaceship wakes up from hypersleep and they’re all throwing up and shivering?” She’d nodded, but frowned skeptically. “Well, it’s like that for us.”
“Every morning you wake up feeling like you’ve been traveling through space for several years in a state of suspended animation?”
“Yes. And with a feeling of terrible dread, like you’ve woken us up to go investigate a distress beacon from some alien planet or abandoned spaceship.” He’d looked pretty serious. “It’s terrible.”
Nonetheless, Frances had continued to wake them up, but she did try to do it gently and with caffeine in hand. When she got downstairs again Milo was already dressed and sitting on the sofa, eating Cheerios and watching SpongeBob. No one ever really saw him get dressed anymore, it was so quick. If you passed his room at the right time you might hear a zipper, or the whoosh of a sweatshirt passing over his head, but that was it. Then he’d make his way downstairs and get his own breakfast—Frances wasn’t sure he was her child at all.
Taking Michael his coffee, she checked on Ava and found her half dressed, hunting through her drawers for some specific pair of socks that were almost certainly not where she was looking for them. Frances backed out before she could get blamed, and went to help Lally.
Lally wasn’t a morning person, either, but in a different way. She woke up filled with joy that another day had presented itself for her amusement, and would wander about naked for a long time if you let her, playing with her toys and singing to herself. It was charming, but it was also deeply irritating when you needed to be somewhere, like school. And she resisted clothing as if she were a cat you were trying to get into a wet suit: Not only did she not like the garment itself, she was convinced putting it on was only the beginning of her problems. However, Frances wheedled and cajoled and then threatened and bribed, and eventually she was dressed.
Frances looked at her watch. Fifteen minutes until departure. She went and checked on Michael, who was sitting up in bed looking like a baby chick who’d just gotten coldcocked with a cricket bat. Wide eyes. Staring. Sheet marks. He looked at her and asked why the dog was wet. She explained. He nodded, cupping his balls under the sheet in case someone ran through and tried to take them. It could happen.
OK, time to make lunches. Peanut butter and jelly for Lally, cheese for Milo (this year, second grade was a no-nut classroom). Frances threw in individual Tupperware containers of cherry tomatoes, secure in the knowledge she and they would meet again that evening. It was the same with the banana, but half the time she was making lunches for the teachers, imagining them looking into the lunchbox and nodding approvingly at her appropriate and healthy choices, and ignoring the Jell-O and the chocolate chip granola bars—which were the only things that ever got eaten.
Ava appeared. She was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt that read: “Feminism is the radical notion that women are human beings” and Frances clucked her tongue at it. Ava frowned.
“Go back upstairs and change. That is in no way dress code, and you know it.”
“Because of what it says?”
“No,” Frances said. “Because it shows your shoulders.” Ava opened her mouth to argue, but Frances help up her hand. “I know. It’s bullshit, it’s patriarchal overreach, it prioritizes the primacy of the male gaze over the individual right to self-expression, and it’s a kick-ass T-shirt. I get all that, but last time they made you put on a Justin Bieber oversize hoodie and someone posted it on Instagram and you were miserable.”
Twenty minutes later they all left the house. Kate and Theo were ready, standing outside the house with comb marks in their hair. Charlie was clearly Bringing Order to Chaos, the poor sod. Then came Wyatt, who was holding a piece of toast in one hand and his shoes in the other. Then finally Lucas, who was carrying a plastic bag of Cheerios. Frances realized it was just the inner bag from the box of cereal, which she admired as an efficient choice.
Right then. Time for school.
At recess Kate was cornered by some of the other girls in her class.
“Hey, is it true your mom left?”
Kate frowned and looked around. There were four of them, all of them girls she’d known since kindergarten. Alison, Jemma, Becky, and the other one whose name she could never remember. She nodded, but then shrugged.
“I guess so. She’s not living at our house right now. She’s coming back soon.”
Alison shook her head. “She’s not coming back.” Alison was one of those kids who was always very definite in their opinions. Often wrong, but always definite.
“Yes, she is,” Kate said, no wishy-washy kid herself. “They said they’re having a problem right now. When that’s over she’ll come back.”
Alison sighed. “My dad was supposed to come back, but he didn’t. And Leo’s mother went away and was supposed to come back and didn’t. They always say they’re coming back, but it’s not true.”
“Maybe this time it’s true.”
Another sigh. Ah, the innocence of youth. “No. It never is. Maybe you can go and live with her instead? That happens a lot, right?” She looked around for support. One of the other girls, Jemma, piped up.
“My mom lives in a much nicer house than she did when we were all in the same place. She said now that she doesn’t need to pay for my dad she can afford a better place. I have a cat at her house. And a bike.”
Kate considered this. Jemma had more details. “But when I stay with my dad he lets me stay up late and watch TV with him on the sofa, and then I get to sleep in his bed.”
“Where does he sleep?”
“On the sofa. I guess he likes it.”
“Why can’t you both sleep in the bed?”
Jemma shrugged. “It’s not big enough. It’s just a regular bed, like I have at home. Not a big parents bed.”
“Where is your mom living?”
A ball came flying toward them, but Becky deftly returned it, displaying the superior reflexes of a seven-year-old. A clump of boys scattered as the ball plowed through them, like pigeons evading a toddler. One of them hurled insults at the girls for no reason, and Becky flipped him the bird.
“I don’t know where she is,” Kate realized suddenly, a feeling of panic starting in her tummy.
The bell rang for the end of recess, and the girls turned to go inside. Suddenly Becky put her arm around Kate and hugged her. “Don’t worry, Kate, everything will be fine. Hardly any of the kids in school have both parents at the same time. It’s not that big a deal.”
It felt like a big deal to Kate, but she smiled anyway.
That night at dinner, Lally was incredibly bent out of shape. She wanted a different plate. A different spoon. A different pasta shape. Frances tried to convince her they all tasted the same, but Lally considered that a ludicrous argument and Michael unhelpfully agreed with her.
“I think the thicker shapes, the penne, the rigatoni, the farfalle . . . they definitely taste different from the thinner ones.”
“Like what?”
Ava chimed in. “Spaghetti and angel hair.”
“No.” Frances felt pretty strongly about this. “They taste different because of the way in which the sauce interacts with them.”
“Is interact the right verb? I think of pasta as pretty passive, I’ll be honest.”
“Yes, Michael. It takes both pasta and sauce to make a taste, otherwise we would just eat them on their own.”
“But I do want to eat them on their own.” Lally felt this conversation was getting away from her. “I just want spaghetti with butter and cheese.”
“But you like meat sauce.”
“No. I’ve never liked it.”
This was a lie, but suddenly Frances didn’t care anymore. She put a fresh pan of water on to boil, and gave Lally a bowl of strawberries in the meantime.
Milo had been steadily eating during this whole exchange, and now pushed his plate away. “I’m done, is there dessert?”
Frances nodded. “There’s ice cream in the freezer, like always. But you can’t have it until everyone is done eating, like always.”
Milo sighed. “May I be excused?”
Frances sighed back. “You can’t just stay here with your family for more than the time it takes to eat? Maybe we have exciting news.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“OK then. I have homework to do.”
Frances nodded and her son got up and headed out, putting his plate down for the dogs as he did so. There was only the faintest smear of sauce left on it, but the dogs took their pre-rinse responsibilities seriously, and became worried if you didn’t put your plate down. Apparently, they lived in fear of being replaced by, what, a running faucet?
“I have news,” said Lally, around a strawberry.
“Oh yeah?” asked Ava, who was in a relatively good mood for once.
“Yeah. Treasure is getting a puppy.” She turned to her mom. “We should get a puppy.”
“No puppy,” Michael said, automatically.
But Lally was insistent. “Jack and Diane are old now, we should get them a puppy.”
“That’s not how it works,” explained her father. “They won’t look after the puppy, your mom would look after the puppy, and she’s got enough to do right now.”
“No, I would help . . .”
“Lally, I really have my hands full enough, OK?” Frances said, maybe a little more sharply than she’d intended.
Lally looked at her mom, and suddenly subsided. “OK.”
There was a short silence.
“That’s it?” Ava couldn’t keep it in. “You’re just giving up?” She reached over to her sister and felt her forehead. “She’s not hot.”
“I don’t want a puppy, it’s OK.”
Frances frowned. It was most unlike Lally to stop bugging them this quickly. There had to be something deeper at work.
“I don’t want to make Mommy mad.”
Michael looked over at the stove. “I think her water is boiling.”
Frances got up to put the pasta on.
“It’s fine, Mom, I can eat the penne.” The four-year-old started eating her pasta, which was now sitting cold in front of her.
“It’s not a problem, Lal, honestly.” Michael reached across the table and touched her arm. “Mom’s already making spaghetti.”
But Lally was upset about something, and her chin was wobbling, even as it was getting covered in spaghetti sauce. Suddenly Ava spoke, her connection with her baby sister helping her put the pieces together faster than the rest of the family.
“She won’t leave, Lally. It’s not that big a deal. Mom’s not going anywhere.”
Michael looked at Frances, who had just dropped a handful of spaghetti into the water and was about to stir it to stop it from clumping. The spoon was in the air.
Lally started crying, putting down her fork and wiping her face.
“But she might.”
“She won’t.” Ava was firm. “Good luck getting her to leave just by asking for a puppy or a different dinner. I’ve been driving her mad for my entire life, and she’s still sticking around.”
Lally sniffed and looked at her big sister. “Really?”
“Really. Honestly, I’ve been terrible. You’re a rank amateur compared to me.”
Milo had wandered in during this, having heard the commotion from the other room. “Plus,” he added, “what about that time I set fire to the curtains in the front room?”
Lally’s eyes grew round. She hadn’t been alive for that one, but it was part of family lore. It was alternately referred to as The Curtain Incident or That Time the Dog Saved Our Lives. Jack had been a lone dog at that point, and a heroic one at that.
“If she didn’t leave over an actual fire, then she isn’t going to leave over pasta.”
Lally looked trustingly at Milo and nodded. But then her face clouded. “But Kate and Theo didn’t do anything at all and their mom left.”
Michael cleared his throat. His turn. “Well, Anne left for reasons to do with her, not because of Kate and Theo. Mommies and daddies never leave because of something their kids did, or at least, only very, very, very rarely.” He got up and came around to Lally’s side of the table. He knelt down next to her, and turned her little face to look at him. “Listen to me, Alexandra. There is nothing, NOTHING, you could do that would make your mom or me leave you, do you understand? We have been a family for a long, long time and we’re going to be following you around the grocery store when you’re at college, got it?”
“That’s creepy,” said Ava. “You’d better not do that to me.”
“I’m not promising anything.”
Finally, Lally got up the nerve to look at Frances. “Are you going away?”
Frances was stirring the pasta, letting Michael and the kids sort this one out in their inimitable way. Her heart was breaking for her baby, but she kept her outside calm and measured, nothing to panic about. She smiled at Lally and shook her head. “No, baby. Your dad is right, there is nothing you can do to get rid of me. You’re stuck with me forever, I’m afraid.”
“Seriously,” said Ava. “She’s like a genetic disorder.”
“Or a birthmark,” added Milo, turning to head back to his homework, this crisis having been averted.
“Or termites,” concluded Michael. “You might not always be able to see them, but they’re nearly always there.”
Frances threw a piece of spaghetti at the ceiling, where it stuck next to the one that had been there since before Lally was born. She waited, but it stayed.