Pippa stood at the threshold of the door to the bedroom and watched the children down the hall in the kitchen. They were sitting across from each other on stools, elbows on the counter, speaking softly, so as not to wake her. Grace was weeping, shaking her head. Ben was talking, looking out the window. He was telling her about Moira, Pippa was sure of it. To think they had once been inside her, those two people. She picked up the canvas bag at her feet and walked down the hall. She couldn’t remember when she had packed such a light bag. Ben and Grace looked up at her.
‘Hi, Mommy,’ Grace said softly.
‘Hello, my darling,’ Pippa said.
‘What’s the bag for?’ Ben asked.
‘I’m going on a little trip,’ Pippa said.
‘A trip?’
‘Yes I – I was wondering if you would mind – just go through the house and take whatever you want, then call these movers here.’ She took a card from a drawer. ‘They’ll pack up the rest and take it to Goodwill.’ The kids were watching her carefully. ‘I left a check for them on the desk in my room. I don’t want any of it,’ she said.
‘What about the memorial service?’ Ben asked. Pippa hooked the Rolodex with her index finger and let it swing there. ‘Pick a date and invite everyone on here. Except for Moira. Or invite Moira. What the hell.’
‘Mom. You’re actually leaving right now?’ Ben was looking at her with a mix of disbelief and concern.
‘Sweetheart. Your father was about to run off with a woman I cooked for practically every other night over the past four years. I gave her advice on her love life, listened to her endless, egomaniacal complaining until I thought my head would explode, and then it turns out she’s crying about my husband. I am not organizing his memorial service. I mean, I’ll come to it. I’m just not buying the flowers.’ Righteous outrage felt exhilarating and unfamiliar. Pippa took a breath and saw that Grace was staring at her with a trace of a smile, something dawning. Could it be – admiration? Just then, Chris’s truck drove up.
Ben stood and went to the window. ‘Who is that guy?’ he asked, turning.
‘My friend,’ Pippa said.
‘Your friend? What is going on here?’
‘I’m sort of … hitching a ride,’ Pippa said.
Ben put his head in his hands.
‘I’m not driving off into the sunset, sweetheart,’ Pippa said. ‘I’m just … seeing what happens next.’
‘I don’t believe this,’ Ben said.
Grace turned to him. ‘She gave us half her life,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think she deserves a vacation?’
*
Filtered through the dusty glass, the landscape looks smeared and faint, like a yellowing photograph. I roll my window down and watch the picture go vivid: flat, sandy land the color of rust; great, hulking slabs of brick red cliffs against the deep blue sky. I am skimming over pure planet, cut loose again. I glance over at him staring ahead into the clear distance as he drives. I feel as though he is driving me across a bridge of rock and sand. I don’t know what is on the other side. I see little towns along the way. As I pass each one, I wonder, Could I live here? I try to imagine my other life, the one I left, but it is evaporating from my mind. I can remember images – Herb, the house in Marigold Village, my favorite vegetable knife – but they are bloodless and unreal. I will go back, of course. Ben, Grace, the memorial service. But I feel an unfamiliar story unfurling in me. I have no idea how it will go, I don’t know who I will be in it. I am filled with fear and happiness.