On July 5, she was too sick to rise from bed. She’d called in to work, leaving Nina a message on voice mail, saying that the flu had returned with a vengeance and, if she was lucky, she would be in at noon. But even by nine she knew there would be no way. She could barely make it to the bathroom. Agnes was at work and Box was downstairs in his study. She heard him early in the afternoon, banging around in the kitchen making lunch, but he didn’t come up to check on her. She needed ice water and Advil. She had to wait until five thirty for Agnes. She also asked Agnes for her cell phone, and Agnes gave her a confused look. The landline was right next to Dabney’s bed.
But Agnes brought the water and the medicine and Dabney’s cell phone—and a piece of buttered toast, which Dabney couldn’t eat.
“Thank you,” Dabney whispered.
“Oh, Mommy,” Agnes said.
That night, Box did not come up to bed, and Dabney supposed he was either angry or ashamed, but she couldn’t predict which. She had a dream that Clendenin and Elizabeth Jennings were playing mah-jongg on a wooden raft at Steps Beach, and the raft was engulfed in a miasma of rosy pink. Clen and Elizabeth Jennings a perfect match?
She woke up and thought, No!
July 6, sick. Dabney heard classical music downstairs, but Box did not appear.
Her cell phone remained silent. She wanted Clen to text, but maybe he was angry with her, too, or he was ashamed, or he was besotted with Elizabeth Jennings. Maybe both Box and Clen would forsake her. They would abandon her, as her mother had.
Dabney’s father had done a wonderful job in raising her, but it was fair to say that there had always been a part of Dabney that had felt unloved.
July 7, sick. Agnes stayed home from work; Dabney tried to protest but forming the sentence was too difficult. Then Agnes explained, “It’s raining, Mom. Pouring rain. Camp is canceled today.”
The sound of the rain against the window was comforting.
Dabney heard Agnes’s voice from downstairs. “Daddy, she’s really bad. Should we take her to the hospital?”
Box said, “Give her one more day.”
One more day, Dabney thought.
How was he getting clean clothes? she wondered. And what were he and Agnes eating?
At midnight, a text from Clen: Tell me when I can see you.
On the morning of July 8, Dabney woke up feeling like a flat, empty version of herself, but she was well enough to shower and go downstairs for a bowl of shredded wheat.
Box was at the table with his black coffee and the Wall Street Journal. He looked at her over the top of the paper. “You feel better?”
She nodded.
He nodded. He said, “I have to go to Washington tomorrow. I’ll be back on Friday.”
Dabney thought, Washington. Back Friday.
Dabney made it to work by noon.