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Authors: Lydia Millet
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something I did then. I mean I never chose a single thing, when I look back on it. When I married your mother I wasn’t really awake. I wasn’t awake when she had you. I never woke up once for all these years. It was just not real to me. You know who you were looking at, the whole time you grew up? I was a ghost. I wasn’t really there. It was all, I don’t know, some other guy’s life I stepped into by mistake.”
T. felt drunken, his legs heavy beneath the desk. He swiveled in his chair and sadness closed his throat. There they were in his bedroom, when he was a little boy. His father sat on the side of his bed; it was bedtime, and here was his father to read him a story. Usually his mother read the stories, but this time his father had left the television and come upstairs. He almost smelled the new fresh paper of the picture book; he saw his father’s large hands turning the pages with deftness, with authority. In the book there was a family of beavers, and they lived in a dam. Inside the dam it was warm and golden, and the beavers ate their dinner at a round wooden table. He remembered the softness of his father’s voice.
Not real to his father; a life lived by a stranger. Sitting there on the side of his bed, reading the book about the beavers who were warm in their dam, had been no one.
“Until a month ago. That’s when I woke up. It was sudden, like an alarm clock or something. Now I’m awake. It’s too bad, but your mother is an innocent bystander. She’s a casualty.”
T. found he could not speak.
“I’ll drop her a line, on down the road.” He barely heard the rest.
As soon as he got home his mother asked, as was her daily custom, whether his father had contacted him. He had fully intended to keep it from her—his father’s callousness could hardly fail to do her an injury—but as he crossed the threshold into his apartment he saw, first, all the contents of his kitchen cabinets and drawers spread over the counters around her as she organized them, listening to golden oldies on a tinny clock-radio; and, second, the lettering on her apron, which pictured a slice of bright-red tomato and the words RIPE AND READY .
Exhaustion settled over him. He could not answer swiftly when she asked, and she was onto him.
“What? When? What did he say? Where is he?” “I don’t know,” he said wearily.
“Did he say anything? What did he say?”
He moved past her to the refrigerator, whence he removed a bottle of water. Uncapping it, tipping it up and drinking thirstily, he closed his eyes: this moment by itself must restore him. He opened the back of his throat into a wide hollow and felt the water in it, cool and flowing.
When he lowered the bottle again she was staring at him, fever spots on her cheekbones. Her hands shook, clutching a baking sheet.
“He didn’t tell me much. I told him he could call you here,” he said, and instantly regretted it. He had asked, but his father had not called. And now he made it worse by telling.
“Is there another woman?” “I don’t think so.”
“He didn’t mention anyone? He’s claiming that he’s all alone? He didn’t say where he was going?”
“No. He only said he was traveling,” said T. faintly, and reluctantly pulled a stool up to the kitchen island. The dog rose from the floor and licked his hand.
“Traveling where?” “He didn’t say.”
“So why did he call you, if he didn’t want to tell you anything?”
“He wanted to tell me he was on a journey of self-discovery. He wanted to let me know he was alive.”
His mother turned away, put down the baking sheet and picked up a shining triangular implement he did not recognize. No doubt she had purchased it for him. A cake knife, possibly.
“How nice for him,” she said softly, and tipped the cake knife from one side to the next, watching the glint shifting.
While he was showering she went out without leaving a note; he waited for a while and then got into bed. At two in the
T. felt drunken, his legs heavy beneath the desk. He swiveled in his chair and sadness closed his throat. There they were in his bedroom, when he was a little boy. His father sat on the side of his bed; it was bedtime, and here was his father to read him a story. Usually his mother read the stories, but this time his father had left the television and come upstairs. He almost smelled the new fresh paper of the picture book; he saw his father’s large hands turning the pages with deftness, with authority. In the book there was a family of beavers, and they lived in a dam. Inside the dam it was warm and golden, and the beavers ate their dinner at a round wooden table. He remembered the softness of his father’s voice.
Not real to his father; a life lived by a stranger. Sitting there on the side of his bed, reading the book about the beavers who were warm in their dam, had been no one.
“Until a month ago. That’s when I woke up. It was sudden, like an alarm clock or something. Now I’m awake. It’s too bad, but your mother is an innocent bystander. She’s a casualty.”
T. found he could not speak.
“I’ll drop her a line, on down the road.” He barely heard the rest.
As soon as he got home his mother asked, as was her daily custom, whether his father had contacted him. He had fully intended to keep it from her—his father’s callousness could hardly fail to do her an injury—but as he crossed the threshold into his apartment he saw, first, all the contents of his kitchen cabinets and drawers spread over the counters around her as she organized them, listening to golden oldies on a tinny clock-radio; and, second, the lettering on her apron, which pictured a slice of bright-red tomato and the words RIPE AND READY .
Exhaustion settled over him. He could not answer swiftly when she asked, and she was onto him.
“What? When? What did he say? Where is he?” “I don’t know,” he said wearily.
“Did he say anything? What did he say?”
He moved past her to the refrigerator, whence he removed a bottle of water. Uncapping it, tipping it up and drinking thirstily, he closed his eyes: this moment by itself must restore him. He opened the back of his throat into a wide hollow and felt the water in it, cool and flowing.
When he lowered the bottle again she was staring at him, fever spots on her cheekbones. Her hands shook, clutching a baking sheet.
“He didn’t tell me much. I told him he could call you here,” he said, and instantly regretted it. He had asked, but his father had not called. And now he made it worse by telling.
“Is there another woman?” “I don’t think so.”
“He didn’t mention anyone? He’s claiming that he’s all alone? He didn’t say where he was going?”
“No. He only said he was traveling,” said T. faintly, and reluctantly pulled a stool up to the kitchen island. The dog rose from the floor and licked his hand.
“Traveling where?” “He didn’t say.”
“So why did he call you, if he didn’t want to tell you anything?”
“He wanted to tell me he was on a journey of self-discovery. He wanted to let me know he was alive.”
His mother turned away, put down the baking sheet and picked up a shining triangular implement he did not recognize. No doubt she had purchased it for him. A cake knife, possibly.
“How nice for him,” she said softly, and tipped the cake knife from one side to the next, watching the glint shifting.
While he was showering she went out without leaving a note; he waited for a while and then got into bed. At two in the
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