What Remains True Page 18

  Sam crosses the office and looks at me, puzzled. I shrug.

  “He couldn’t wait,” I say.

  “I’ve got ten whole peanut butter eggs for you, Daddy,” Jonah says, still suspended in Sam’s arms.

  “Ten?” Sam asks, feigning incredulity.

  “I found forty-seven! And I get to keep Marco. Oh, this is Marco.”

  “Nice to meet you, Marco,” Sam says.

  “He says it’s nice to meet you, too,” Jonah tells Sam.

  Sam kisses my cheek. Awkwardly. I know I haven’t been here in a while, but Sam’s demeanor feels stilted.

  “Sorry about tonight,” he says, and I realize he feels bad about working late on a Friday.

  “It’s no problem. We’ll do it another night. Ruth’s always available, as you know.”

  Sam puts Jonah down, and he immediately reaches into the bag, pulls out eggs one by one, inspects their wrappers, and sets aside the peanut butters. I check my watch.

  “Okay, my guy, we have to go. We have to pick up your sister.”

  “Can’t be late for Eden,” Jonah says. “Or she’ll make Mommy pay.”

  Sam and I exchange a look, then both of us chuckle. He kisses me again, chastely, on the cheek. “See you later?”

  I nod. “I’ll save you some of Ruth’s lasagna.” I feel his eyes on me the whole way out.

  FORTY-TWO

  RUTH

  The lasagna took an hour to make.

  I watched a couple of recorded shows on my TiVo while I waited for the sausage to defrost but realized I wasn’t really paying attention; my mind was wandering and I needed an active occupation. So I decided to urge the sausage along in the microwave. The corners cooked too much, but I cut them away and went about the task of putting the lasagna together.

  Judd Stevens has taken up space in my thoughts, which is only marginally better than me fixating on Charlie and his new family. I try to banish Judd, but I can’t. I don’t want to think about tomorrow night and our shared bottle of wine. And yet, as I lift the pasta sheets from the boiling water, I find myself dreaming up possible scenarios. One, we could sit side by side on his couch, our wineglasses on the coffee table, my mouth frozen as I desperately attempt to come up with something fascinating to say, him working to mask his embarrassment at having ever thought it was a good idea to invite me down. Two, we could sit across from each other at his dining room table, the wine—delicious, of course—a lubricant for easy conversation and meaningful glances that will pave the way to his bedroom. Three, I could cancel and thereby nullify both of the above possibilities.

  Number three is the most likely scenario, and the one I would ordinarily choose. But a part of me craves scenario number two. I haven’t been with a man since Charlie. I have my physical challenges, obviously. And I have my trust issues concerning men. But I am also a woman, with needs and desires and . . . oh, God, to be intimate with someone again. To lie in someone’s arms, to be held, to be touched and kissed and adored. I proclaim to anyone listening—my sister, mostly—that I don’t want that, I don’t need that, I’m fine without it. But I’m not.

  I place the long pasta strips along the bottom of the greased pan, then sprinkle ricotta, mozzarella, the crumbled sausage, and my homemade marinara. The process is meditative. I am anal-retentive about it. Can’t leave any holes. Must have all the ingredients evenly parsed. It takes a while. I think of Judd. I think of the lasagna I tell myself I’m making for me, but really it’s for Judd, if I keep our date. Does he even eat lasagna? Maybe he’s gluten-free. Maybe he’s a vegetarian or a vegan.

  What the hell am I doing?

  On the second lasagna, the one for me, or for Judd, I haven’t decided yet, my knuckles start to seize, then my hands. I’ve already taken my pill this morning, and the sudden pain in my extremities surprises me.

  I walk on shaky legs to my bathroom and open the medicine cabinet. I pull out the ibuprofen, open the lid with trembling hands, and shake three gelcaps onto my palm. I pop them into my mouth, return the bottle to the cupboard, and bend over the sink, where I cup my hand under the tap and sip enough water to swallow the pills.

  I should cancel tomorrow night. What would a healthy, vibrant, attractive middle-aged widower want with a pathetic sack like me?

  I stand and close the medicine cabinet, then gaze at my reflection in the mirror, trying to be objective about what I see. I am not unattractive, not for a middle-aged woman. Although I have crows’-feet in the corners of my eyes and lines that pull down at the corners of my mouth and a crease across the middle of my neck—all signs of my age—I still have high cheekbones and only one chin. My eyes are a striking blue, and the skin of my eyelids has yet to start a downward journey. My lips are still full, not chapped thanks to the nonpetroleum jelly I put on every night. My hair has gone very gray, but I could take care of that with a trip to the drugstore, should I choose to do so.

  I watch my reflection as I reach up and place my hand under my right breast. I’ve had no children, have never endured the voracious suckling of a babe. My breasts are not those of a twenty-two-year-old, firm with nipples pointing skyward, but neither are they the bosoms of a mother thrice over, tired and sagging and deflated by time and an infant’s unquenchable thirst. They are breasts a man could still revere. I think of Judd, downstairs, and red splotches appear on my cheeks.

  Charlie loved my breasts, paid homage to them regularly, told me they were spectacular. Until he didn’t. Until he found another pair that could provide milk, breasts that were attached to a uterus that could manage a fertilized egg.

  I continuously tell myself that Charlie deserves to be happy. My therapist is helping me along with that mantra. But he also tells me that I deserve to be happy, too.

  I deserve to have my breasts revered. I deserve to enjoy a glass of Château Lafite Rothschild with an attractive widower. I just wish I knew whether or not I could actually handle it.

  I splash cold water on my face. The ibuprofen has yet to take effect. My hands feel like claws, my fingers like cylinders of lead.

  The apartment around me feels like a cell, the walls closing in.

  I hurry to the kitchen, fumble through my purse for my cell. I swipe the screen to bring the thing to life, then click on my texts and swipe at Rachel’s name. I type without much thought or contemplation.

  I know it’s early, but is it okay if I head over now?

  I rest my arms on my minuscule Formica counter, counting in my head as the seconds tick by. On forty, I get a reply. Just heading to school to pick up Eden. Come any time. Use your key if we’re not there yet.

  I sigh with relief. Saved again. I need to see Rachel and her children. I know they will ground me, as they always do. Maybe I’ll mention Judd to my sister. She’ll tell me to go for it—I know she will. Maybe that’s exactly what I’m looking for. A nudge. A cheerleader.

  Permission.

  I wrap the first lasagna in loose foil; the second, I wrap tighter and place on the top shelf of my freezer. I wonder where that lasagna will land. But I don’t give it much more thought. I grab the first pan, sling my purse over my shoulder, and head for the door.

  FORTY-THREE

  SHADOW

  I’m alone. The humans are all gone. My mistress left . . . I don’t know when or how long ago, but the house is empty and I don’t like it. I am a Good Boy and I like to protect my humans, Little Male and Little Female and my master and mistress. But I can’t protect them when they’re not here.

  I go to the front window and look out. I don’t see the cat. But I can smell it. I watch the outside for a while, waiting to see the cat. It doesn’t come out from wherever it’s hiding. Sometimes my little humans play the hiding game with me. Little Male will throw the ball into my yard from the door, then run away with Little Female. Then I run into the house and look for them. They don’t hide upstairs, because they know I’m not allowed up there. Sometimes they hide behind the couch or in the little room with the coats and the shoes or under
the table in the back room. I always find them, because I can smell them wherever they go. And when I do, they smile and laugh and pet me and tell me I’m a Smart Boy. I don’t know what smart means, but I know it’s like good, because they look happy like when they say “Good Boy.”

  The cat is still not anywhere I can see it. I pad to the food-smelling room and sniff the ground. Maybe one of my humans dropped something. I think I already checked, but I can’t remember, so I check again. But I don’t find anything.

  I wander over to my bed in the food-smelling room and lie down. My eyes start to close. Then I hear it. My ears go up, and the fur on my back straightens. From outside, there is a loud mewling sound that I know is coming from the cat. I stand up and run to the front window. And there it is again, only now, it’s on the sidewalk right in front of me, staring at me through the window. I press a paw against the glass, then I’m up on my back legs with both paws on the front window and I’m barking and barking and I can’t stop, I won’t stop, I couldn’t stop, not even if my humans were here telling me, “No, Shadow!”

  The cat walks on its short legs to the grass, not looking at me. It wanders around for a while, pawing at the grass, then it turns so that it can see me, crouches, and starts to make.

  I hear the whine deep in my throat, and I let it out and it sounds like a howl. The cat is making on grass that I’m not allowed to make on. I paw and paw the window, barking, whining, pawing—I need to break through the glass so that I can get the cat.

  I hear Dark Female’s car before I see it. It stops next to the sidewalk, creaks and shudders, then goes still. Dark Female gets out, and I hear the hollow car-door slam. The cat runs away and crosses the wide dark strip. It sits on the sidewalk and starts to lick its back.

  I lower my front paws to the ground, because I know if Dark Female sees me against the window, she will call me Bad Boy with her mad-looking face. She goes to the back of the car and pulls something out. I sniff the air and smell something, very faint but good smelling. As Dark Female comes closer to my house, my tail wags. I don’t make it wag—it just does.

  I hear the key in the front door, then the door opens and Dark Female walks in carrying something in her hands that is definitely food. I know it’s not for me, but my tail wags and wags just the same. Dark Female tries to close the door with her foot.

  “Hi, Shadow,” she says. She isn’t smiling or happy sounding, but she doesn’t have mad face, either, so I trot over to her. She can’t pet me because of the thing she’s holding, but Dark Female never pets me. “Good boy,” she says, but her voice sounds flat and tired, not like when my humans say it.

  She walks toward the food-smelling room just as the front door starts to roll open. I see outside, to where I’m not allowed unless my humans have me tied to the long rope. And outside, across the dark strip, is the cat. I take a few steps past the door, knowing I’m being a Bad Boy, but I can’t help it. I chuff. The cat’s ears jerk in my direction, then flatten on its head, like it knows there’s nothing between us now, no window to keep me in, to keep me from getting the cat. It snarls and scurries away and I start to run, but before I can get down the stairs to the walkway, I feel my collar tighten on my neck.

  “No, Shadow! Bad boy!” Dark Female is holding my collar. I know I could pull away from her—her hand isn’t strong like my neck. But I don’t like her calling me Bad Boy, even though going out of the front door is a Bad Boy thing. I chuff and snort and whine at the cat, then I let Dark Female lead me back into the house.

  She closes the door and lets go of me, then looks down at me with mad face. She says something I don’t understand, but her mad face is getting less and less. She turns and walks toward the food-smelling room, and I follow her. Maybe something will drop out of the thing she was carrying. That wouldn’t be as good as getting the cat. But pretty good.

  FORTY-FOUR

  JONAH

  I never noticed before, but Marco has strips of Velcro on his paws, just like my sneakers from when I was in preschool. I learned to tie my shoes over summer vacation and Mommy and Daddy were real proud. Eden taught me. She spent every morning showing me how, first with both the ties being bunny ears and then just one of the ties being a bunny ear and the other tie kind of looping around the bunny ear and pulling through. I like how she was all patient with me and didn’t get all mad when I couldn’t do it.

  Anyway, Marco has Velcro on his paws so you can wrap him around your neck and stick his two paws together and he’ll hang on you like he’s giving you a hug. I have him hanging around my neck as I climb down from the car. It’s good because I can hold my egg bag with one hand and my backpack with the other.

  Eden isn’t very talky right now—she’s kind of got a frown on her face and every time Mommy asks her a question, she only answers with like one word or something. Eden is a great sister, but sometimes she can be grumpy, like now. She didn’t even smile or anything when I told her how many cookies-and-cream eggs I got. She just kind of gave a little snort, like Shadow does sometimes, and looked out the window at the street.

  Sometimes when she’s grumpy, it makes me grumpy, too. But not today. Because I won the spring egg hunt and I got to take home Marco, and nobody and nothing could make me grumpy today.

  Auntie Ruth’s car is on the street in front of our house, and I’m kind of excited because Mommy said Auntie Ruth was bringing over lasagna and I really like Auntie Ruth’s lasagna. Eden got all mad and said it was the first night of vacation and it’s supposed to be family night and where’s Daddy? And Mommy said it’s still family night ’cause Auntie Ruth is family, and Daddy has to work late and that happens sometimes.

  I’m a little bit sad that Daddy’s not going to be home, but I gave him his eggs for his working-late night, so he’ll be okay. I’m going to give Auntie Ruth all of my Butterfinger eggs ’cause I know she likes ’em—at least, I think so. I think it’s really nice of her to bring over lasagna, so I want to do something nice for her, and even though I like the Butterfinger eggs really a lot, I like the other ones, too, and I don’t mind giving the Butterfingers to her.

  Mommy gets out of the car, then helps me out of my seat and I follow her up the path. She stops kind of all of a sudden and I bump into the back of her legs. She’s looking at the grass and I think maybe she sees a bug, but when I look where she’s looking I see a poop instead.

  Mommy looks down at me and scrunches her nose. “Cat poop.”

  I nod and we both look over at the sidewalk. Gigi, the big fluffy kitty from across the street, is sitting on the edge of the grass, her tail going back and forth. I know she’s a cat, and cats aren’t like people, but Gigi looks like she’s grinning or something, like she knows she did a bad thing but she’s happy about it. I feel the corners of my mouth twitch, ’cause it’s kind of funny, but I don’t let myself smile.

  Mommy blows air out real loud. “I’ll get it in a minute.”

  Eden kind of stomp-stomps past us up to the house, and Mommy follows her. I look at Gigi, and she slowly walks over to me and rubs her side against my leg. It tickles real bad, but also feels nice and soft. I bend down and pet her, but then I hear Shadow start barking his head off.

  “Don’t let Shadow out!” Mommy shouts to Eden, then she runs up to the house and grabs the door before Shadow can sneak outside. “Come on, Jonah. Let’s go.”

  Mommy goes inside and shuts the door so Shadow can’t get out. I look down at Gigi.

  “You shouldn’t make poops on our lawn, Gigi,” I tell the kitty, but I know she doesn’t understand what I said, and even if she did, I don’t think she’d care too much. “If Shadow gets out, he’ll eat you.” She meows at me, all lazy and stuff, like she’s not afraid of a big old dog. Then she scampers away from me and trots across the street, back to her own yard.

  I go inside just as Eden is stomp-stomp-stomping up the stairs. Mommy calls her and tells her to say hi to Auntie Ruth, and Eden does that snorting thing again but comes back down the stairs so she won’t
get in trouble.

  Shadow runs over to me just as I drop my backpack on the floor. He starts sniffing me, and at first I think he wants the eggs, but then I realize he’s sniffing Gigi the cat, and maybe Marco, too, ’cause I guess Marco has lots of smells on him since he’s been going home with kindergartners for like years and must have picked up a ton of different smells from all the kids and their houses and pets and stuff. I pat Shadow on the head, then follow Mommy and Eden into the kitchen.

  “Hi, Auntie Ruth,” Eden says, still frowning, and I hope Auntie Ruth doesn’t think Eden’s frowny because she’s here. I want to say something like, “Don’t worry, Eden was frowning like that the whole way home in the car.” But I don’t. Instead, I give Auntie Ruth a hug and let her pat my back like she usually does, and then I tell her I won the egg hunt.

  “Well, well,” she says, smiling big at me. “Congratulations. Jonah, master of the spring egg hunt. And who do we have here?” She’s looking at Marco, and I kind of stand up straight ’cause I’m kind of proud of myself.

  “This is Marco,” I tell her. “He gets to stay with us the whole vacation!”

  “Isn’t that something?” Auntie Ruth says, and I can tell she’s excited, too, not just pretending to be. “Nice to meet you, Marco.”

  I look up at my auntie. She’s holding one hand in the other and kind of rubbing her fingers. Her knuckles look kind of puffy, like when I fell off my bike on my knee and it blew up like a balloon.

  “If you want, Auntie Ruth, you can take him home with you for a couple nights. So you won’t be lonely.”

  Auntie Ruth’s eyes go all wide and start getting shimmery and stuff, and behind her, Mommy makes a worried face.

  “That was a stupid thing to say, Jonah,” Eden says.

  “Eden,” Mommy says in her stern voice.

  I feel like I’ve done a dumb-dumb thing, but I don’t know what it is. Mommy looks upset and Eden looks cross and Auntie Ruth looks like she’s going to start crying. Then she bends her knees and puts them on the floor so her face is right there with mine. Her lips are kind of white, like it hurts her to go down on the floor, but she does it anyway. She takes my hand, the one that isn’t holding the bag of eggs, and looks at me really hard.