worry. But it’s there. The worry. I can’t help it. It’s like telling me not to have brown eyes. I have brown eyes. I’m worried. Why isn’t Anthony talking yet?
David’s not worried at all. He says I worry too much about everything. I know he’s right. I do worry a lot, but this feels different from my normal, everyday neuroses about switch-plate protectors and sterilizing his pacifiers and the possibility that his formula could be contaminated with bugs.
I wonder if his hearing is okay. Anthony doesn’t seem to hear me. When I call his name, he doesn’t look at me. In fact, he really almost never looks at me. The other day, I clapped my hands as loud as I could, and he didn’t even turn his head. He just kept sitting on the floor looking out the slider glass doors at the leaves blowing around on the deck. It was as if I didn’t exist.
Is he deaf? He’s not. I know he’s not, which is probably why I didn’t mention it to Dr. Harvey. I see him bounce to music when we have it on. He loves reggae. And the other day, I dropped a pan in the kitchen, and I saw him startle, and then he cried. So he’s definitely not deaf. So why does a part of me keep hoping that he is? What a crazy thing to think. God, what’s going on with Anthony? Please tell me everything’s okay with him.
What am I worried about? Dr. Harvey says he’s fine. David thinks he’s fine. I’m sure he’s fine.
I’m such a liar.
CHAPTER 7
B eth has been staring vaguely into her bedroom closet for twenty minutes, about nineteen and a half minutes longer than she typically spends in this position. Her closet is a modest, rectangular pocket in the wall, enclosed by two doors that slide past each other. A single rod runs the length of it, and a single shelf sits above the rod. Nothing fancy. Beth’s side is on the left, and Jimmy’s is on the right. Or rather, it was.
She slides the doors to reveal the other side—the bare rod, the empty shelf, those nasty dust bunnies on the floor she needs to vacuum. She complained about their lack of closet space to Jimmy for years. She practically drooled over the walk-in that Mickey built for Jill (there’s even an ottoman in the middle of it for sitting—for sitting!). Now Beth has what she wished for, twice as much space, but she can’t bring herself to spread her hangers out onto his side of the bar or to walk her shoes over to his side of the floor. She can’t.
She slides the doors again and returns to the problem at hand. What to wear. Like everything else in the house, Beth’s side of the closet is tidy and organized. All of the hangers are the same—white, plastic, and facing the same direction.Hanging from left to right are tank tops, then short-sleeve shirts, long-sleeve shirts, dresses, and skirts. A short stack of sweatshirts and sweaters are folded on the shelf above the rod, and two rows of shoes are lined up along the floor. One pair of each—sneakers, snow boots, leather boots, clogs, low heels, sandals, flip-flops. With the exception of the sneakers, which used to be white but are now many-years-old gray, all of her footwear is black.
Most everything in her closet is black. Not edgy black. Not New York City, metropolitan-chic black. Not even Gothic black. Everything is blah black. Safe and boring, nothing-interesting-to-see-here black. Invisible black. What isn’t black is gray or white.
She thumbs through her shirts, cotton and boxy crewnecks and turtlenecks. The sweaters are shapeless and long. They all cover her butt. She holds an androgynous, black T-shirt up to her neck that might look okay with jeans. But her jeans aren’t dressy enough for Salt. Her jeans are baggy, practical, and comfortable, good for driving the kids in the minivan or cleaning the house or sitting on the couch or gardening, but not good for going out to Salt. Not good at all.
She pulls out her only two dresses and lays them side by side on the bed. They’re both black, but neither can be described
David’s not worried at all. He says I worry too much about everything. I know he’s right. I do worry a lot, but this feels different from my normal, everyday neuroses about switch-plate protectors and sterilizing his pacifiers and the possibility that his formula could be contaminated with bugs.
I wonder if his hearing is okay. Anthony doesn’t seem to hear me. When I call his name, he doesn’t look at me. In fact, he really almost never looks at me. The other day, I clapped my hands as loud as I could, and he didn’t even turn his head. He just kept sitting on the floor looking out the slider glass doors at the leaves blowing around on the deck. It was as if I didn’t exist.
Is he deaf? He’s not. I know he’s not, which is probably why I didn’t mention it to Dr. Harvey. I see him bounce to music when we have it on. He loves reggae. And the other day, I dropped a pan in the kitchen, and I saw him startle, and then he cried. So he’s definitely not deaf. So why does a part of me keep hoping that he is? What a crazy thing to think. God, what’s going on with Anthony? Please tell me everything’s okay with him.
What am I worried about? Dr. Harvey says he’s fine. David thinks he’s fine. I’m sure he’s fine.
I’m such a liar.
CHAPTER 7
B eth has been staring vaguely into her bedroom closet for twenty minutes, about nineteen and a half minutes longer than she typically spends in this position. Her closet is a modest, rectangular pocket in the wall, enclosed by two doors that slide past each other. A single rod runs the length of it, and a single shelf sits above the rod. Nothing fancy. Beth’s side is on the left, and Jimmy’s is on the right. Or rather, it was.
She slides the doors to reveal the other side—the bare rod, the empty shelf, those nasty dust bunnies on the floor she needs to vacuum. She complained about their lack of closet space to Jimmy for years. She practically drooled over the walk-in that Mickey built for Jill (there’s even an ottoman in the middle of it for sitting—for sitting!). Now Beth has what she wished for, twice as much space, but she can’t bring herself to spread her hangers out onto his side of the bar or to walk her shoes over to his side of the floor. She can’t.
She slides the doors again and returns to the problem at hand. What to wear. Like everything else in the house, Beth’s side of the closet is tidy and organized. All of the hangers are the same—white, plastic, and facing the same direction.Hanging from left to right are tank tops, then short-sleeve shirts, long-sleeve shirts, dresses, and skirts. A short stack of sweatshirts and sweaters are folded on the shelf above the rod, and two rows of shoes are lined up along the floor. One pair of each—sneakers, snow boots, leather boots, clogs, low heels, sandals, flip-flops. With the exception of the sneakers, which used to be white but are now many-years-old gray, all of her footwear is black.
Most everything in her closet is black. Not edgy black. Not New York City, metropolitan-chic black. Not even Gothic black. Everything is blah black. Safe and boring, nothing-interesting-to-see-here black. Invisible black. What isn’t black is gray or white.
She thumbs through her shirts, cotton and boxy crewnecks and turtlenecks. The sweaters are shapeless and long. They all cover her butt. She holds an androgynous, black T-shirt up to her neck that might look okay with jeans. But her jeans aren’t dressy enough for Salt. Her jeans are baggy, practical, and comfortable, good for driving the kids in the minivan or cleaning the house or sitting on the couch or gardening, but not good for going out to Salt. Not good at all.
She pulls out her only two dresses and lays them side by side on the bed. They’re both black, but neither can be described
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