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Authors: Marisa de los Santos
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reunion, ten year. It’s in two weeks.”
Patrick smiled at her. “Ten year, huh? I forget what a baby you are.”
“Oh, come on. You’re five years older than I am, which is nothing.” Five years wasn’t nothing really, not necessarily, but Pen had never felt the age difference between them. Most of the time, she felt as though she were the one who was older.
“Hey, you think you’ll run into Cat? It’s been ages, right?”
Pen hesitated, then told him about the e-mail. He’d known what Cat had meant to her. It might give him some extra incentive to persuade Tanya to take Augusta for another weekend. Tanya liked Augusta, never failed to make her feel welcome, but she was fiercely protective of “family time” on weekends. On weekdays, too. She and Patrick both made a point of being home by 5:30 and ruthlessly screened incoming phone calls in the evenings. A couple of years ago, Tanya had asked Pen not to call, unless Augusta had a “life-threatening emergency.” Wincing at the phrase “life-threatening” appearing in the same sentence with her daughter’s name, Pen had quickly agreed.
“I think it’ll be fine,” said Patrick. “I’ll talk to Tanya. But I hope that Will guy won’t show up.”
“Oh, Patrick.”
“Seriously. I’ve heard enough about his temper to think you’re not safe around a guy like that.”
It was ridiculous, this protective posturing, this misplaced, leftover, and far too easy chivalry. When Pen had met Patrick, Cat and Will were newly gone, and Pen was still reeling, her sadness still fresh and shot through with anger. She’d told Patrick too much, probably, and he had fixated on Will in a way that she’d briefly found touching, but that made no sense. Not safe with Will. Will? With whom had she ever been safer?
“He never directed any of that stuff at me. He wouldn’t in a million years. You know I’ve told you that.”
“I’m not so sure. Sorry, but I just don’t think he’s trustworthy.”
What about you? You walked out on me and our newborn baby. You gave up custody of her because your wife made you. How trustworthy are you? Pen felt like saying these things, but mostly only because they were true, only to defend Will. She wasn’t really bitter anymore, not bitter-bitter, a fact that still surprised her.
“He probably won’t be there, anyway,” said Pen, although she knew that if Cat had written to him, too, he probably would be. Not probably. She didn’t know who Will had become in the past six years, but if he was now a person who could turn down a cry for help from an old friend, Pen would eat her hat.
“It’s been a long time. Do you still think about them? I mean, more than once in a while? Do you miss them?” said Patrick.
Lobster eater, thought Pen, shaking her head, lobster eater, lobster eater, lobster eater .
“Not really,” she said.
C HAPTER S IX
T HE LITTLE BOY IN C OUNTING B ACK TO L IAM TURNS INTO A monster when he’s angry. The monster is huge and gloriously ugly, toothy as a shark, carpeted with spiky slime-green hair, sporting bat wings, stegosaurus plates down his back, and a head that is an amalgamation of buffalo, werewolf, and Gila monster. When a man walking in front of Liam and his mother down a city street unwraps his sandwich and throws the wrapper on the ground, the monster erupts into thundering life, charging down the sidewalk—clunking into innocent bystanders along the way—and confronting the man with a roar that shakes the buildings around them, shattering the window of a bakery storefront, toppling the cakes. Then the monster stomps on the man’s foot. The man is hopping and stunned. The people on the sidewalk are appalled and rubbing their elbows and heads and other places the monster has bumped. The mother’s head is drooping, her hand over her eyes, and in this gesture and in the wilt of her shoulders, there is a profound discouragement, a near hopelessness that tells the reader that this is not
Patrick smiled at her. “Ten year, huh? I forget what a baby you are.”
“Oh, come on. You’re five years older than I am, which is nothing.” Five years wasn’t nothing really, not necessarily, but Pen had never felt the age difference between them. Most of the time, she felt as though she were the one who was older.
“Hey, you think you’ll run into Cat? It’s been ages, right?”
Pen hesitated, then told him about the e-mail. He’d known what Cat had meant to her. It might give him some extra incentive to persuade Tanya to take Augusta for another weekend. Tanya liked Augusta, never failed to make her feel welcome, but she was fiercely protective of “family time” on weekends. On weekdays, too. She and Patrick both made a point of being home by 5:30 and ruthlessly screened incoming phone calls in the evenings. A couple of years ago, Tanya had asked Pen not to call, unless Augusta had a “life-threatening emergency.” Wincing at the phrase “life-threatening” appearing in the same sentence with her daughter’s name, Pen had quickly agreed.
“I think it’ll be fine,” said Patrick. “I’ll talk to Tanya. But I hope that Will guy won’t show up.”
“Oh, Patrick.”
“Seriously. I’ve heard enough about his temper to think you’re not safe around a guy like that.”
It was ridiculous, this protective posturing, this misplaced, leftover, and far too easy chivalry. When Pen had met Patrick, Cat and Will were newly gone, and Pen was still reeling, her sadness still fresh and shot through with anger. She’d told Patrick too much, probably, and he had fixated on Will in a way that she’d briefly found touching, but that made no sense. Not safe with Will. Will? With whom had she ever been safer?
“He never directed any of that stuff at me. He wouldn’t in a million years. You know I’ve told you that.”
“I’m not so sure. Sorry, but I just don’t think he’s trustworthy.”
What about you? You walked out on me and our newborn baby. You gave up custody of her because your wife made you. How trustworthy are you? Pen felt like saying these things, but mostly only because they were true, only to defend Will. She wasn’t really bitter anymore, not bitter-bitter, a fact that still surprised her.
“He probably won’t be there, anyway,” said Pen, although she knew that if Cat had written to him, too, he probably would be. Not probably. She didn’t know who Will had become in the past six years, but if he was now a person who could turn down a cry for help from an old friend, Pen would eat her hat.
“It’s been a long time. Do you still think about them? I mean, more than once in a while? Do you miss them?” said Patrick.
Lobster eater, thought Pen, shaking her head, lobster eater, lobster eater, lobster eater .
“Not really,” she said.
C HAPTER S IX
T HE LITTLE BOY IN C OUNTING B ACK TO L IAM TURNS INTO A monster when he’s angry. The monster is huge and gloriously ugly, toothy as a shark, carpeted with spiky slime-green hair, sporting bat wings, stegosaurus plates down his back, and a head that is an amalgamation of buffalo, werewolf, and Gila monster. When a man walking in front of Liam and his mother down a city street unwraps his sandwich and throws the wrapper on the ground, the monster erupts into thundering life, charging down the sidewalk—clunking into innocent bystanders along the way—and confronting the man with a roar that shakes the buildings around them, shattering the window of a bakery storefront, toppling the cakes. Then the monster stomps on the man’s foot. The man is hopping and stunned. The people on the sidewalk are appalled and rubbing their elbows and heads and other places the monster has bumped. The mother’s head is drooping, her hand over her eyes, and in this gesture and in the wilt of her shoulders, there is a profound discouragement, a near hopelessness that tells the reader that this is not
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