Read Online The Best Thing for You by Annabel Lyon - Free Book Online
Authors: Annabel Lyon
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couldn’t let me go, while I raged and taunted and still tried (in my new, whole Levi’s and happy cotton sweaters, bizarrely brunette, child on my hip) to shock us down below the surface of things, to some reality that was not, in my estimation, a big shiny lie.
But we were trying, and you could say that was the important thing.
“No,” I say, waving off whoever it is in the washroom doorway. I’ve got my head in the sink again. My day hasn’t even started. When I straighten up, I see it’s Calvin. I spit once more, on purpose, and grab the tap.
“That was terrible,” Calvin says.
The soft clean stream from the low-pressure faucet is annoying. I cup my hand, scoop water around the basin, try to clean upfaster. I duck my head to drink and rinse my mouth. “Morning sickness,” I say briskly, ripping off a waffly piece of paper towel.
“Well, sure. You should try Gravol.”
“And you would know?”
“You are so fucking unfriendly,” he says.
We stare at each other.
Later that morning a child’s screaming pulls us into Reception, “ CALVIN ,” he’s screaming. His mom is trying to hold him but he’s a big boy, maybe seven, big and kicking, trying to twist away from May, who’s kneeling beside them, “ CALVIN CALVIN CALVIN ,” he screams.
“There you are,” May says.
“Hey, Davey,” Calvin says. He takes the boy from his mother and carries him back to the examining room, bouncing him a little the way you do with a baby. The boy has his head on Calvin’s shoulder and his little arm around his neck.
“He likes Calvin,” the mother says apologetically. She glances at me, then May.
“Everybody likes Calvin,” May says. She smiles at her feet and I think, Oh.
At noon she takes two cans of tea out of her lunch bag and hesitates. “I’m afraid to give you this after the last time,” she says.
I touch my can to hers, a mock toast. “Liam and I want you to come over for supper, you and your husband. How’s Saturday?”
May puts two fingers to her temple and stares at the tabletop. “Saturday, Saturday, Saturday.”
Calvin comes, hesitates, pulls up a chair. “Friend of yours?” I say quickly, meaning the child from this morning.
“Autistic. May thinks he likes my voice.”
“The reverberation,” May explains, tapping her chest.
“When my son was a baby we couldn’t put him down unless his dad sang him a lullaby first,” I say. “When I did it, he wouldjust scream. To appreciate the perversity, you have to have heard Liam sing.”
“He’s that bad?” May asks. I cover my eyes, shake my head.
“Can you sing?” Calvin asks.
“I sang in a punk band for a while. Put myself through a couple of years of school.”
“But does that answer the question?” May says doubtfully.
I sip my tea. “Am I being friendlier?” I ask.
“Somewhat friendlier,” Calvin says.
May stands up. “Can I get back to you about Saturday? I should just check it out with Jupiter.”
Inadvertently, I look at Calvin.
“Jupiter, my husband,” she says.
“Jupiter,” Liam says.
“I’m telling you now so you won’t laugh when I introduce you. They’re Taiwanese, okay?”
“I might still laugh, though,” my husband says gravely.
Upstairs our son is playing CD s, turgid and feedbacky, much guitar. The bass seems to drip from the ceiling. “I’m afraid to ask him to turn it down,” I say, because he’s had a lousy first week of school, cumulative troubles. I rap my knuckles on the counter. “I know that
song.
”
Liam nods. “Schubert.”
“Are you going to wear that?” I ask. Black pants and a black silk shirt, open at the throat – matte, but still. “You look like a dance critic.”
“That would be a euphemism?”
“May’s the only person at the clinic who doesn’t seem to be judging me because I’m new. I just want to make a nice impression.”
Upstairs, Ty bumps the volume another notch. “Mercy, grace, faith, hope, charity,” Liam says. “We should
But we were trying, and you could say that was the important thing.
“No,” I say, waving off whoever it is in the washroom doorway. I’ve got my head in the sink again. My day hasn’t even started. When I straighten up, I see it’s Calvin. I spit once more, on purpose, and grab the tap.
“That was terrible,” Calvin says.
The soft clean stream from the low-pressure faucet is annoying. I cup my hand, scoop water around the basin, try to clean upfaster. I duck my head to drink and rinse my mouth. “Morning sickness,” I say briskly, ripping off a waffly piece of paper towel.
“Well, sure. You should try Gravol.”
“And you would know?”
“You are so fucking unfriendly,” he says.
We stare at each other.
Later that morning a child’s screaming pulls us into Reception, “ CALVIN ,” he’s screaming. His mom is trying to hold him but he’s a big boy, maybe seven, big and kicking, trying to twist away from May, who’s kneeling beside them, “ CALVIN CALVIN CALVIN ,” he screams.
“There you are,” May says.
“Hey, Davey,” Calvin says. He takes the boy from his mother and carries him back to the examining room, bouncing him a little the way you do with a baby. The boy has his head on Calvin’s shoulder and his little arm around his neck.
“He likes Calvin,” the mother says apologetically. She glances at me, then May.
“Everybody likes Calvin,” May says. She smiles at her feet and I think, Oh.
At noon she takes two cans of tea out of her lunch bag and hesitates. “I’m afraid to give you this after the last time,” she says.
I touch my can to hers, a mock toast. “Liam and I want you to come over for supper, you and your husband. How’s Saturday?”
May puts two fingers to her temple and stares at the tabletop. “Saturday, Saturday, Saturday.”
Calvin comes, hesitates, pulls up a chair. “Friend of yours?” I say quickly, meaning the child from this morning.
“Autistic. May thinks he likes my voice.”
“The reverberation,” May explains, tapping her chest.
“When my son was a baby we couldn’t put him down unless his dad sang him a lullaby first,” I say. “When I did it, he wouldjust scream. To appreciate the perversity, you have to have heard Liam sing.”
“He’s that bad?” May asks. I cover my eyes, shake my head.
“Can you sing?” Calvin asks.
“I sang in a punk band for a while. Put myself through a couple of years of school.”
“But does that answer the question?” May says doubtfully.
I sip my tea. “Am I being friendlier?” I ask.
“Somewhat friendlier,” Calvin says.
May stands up. “Can I get back to you about Saturday? I should just check it out with Jupiter.”
Inadvertently, I look at Calvin.
“Jupiter, my husband,” she says.
“Jupiter,” Liam says.
“I’m telling you now so you won’t laugh when I introduce you. They’re Taiwanese, okay?”
“I might still laugh, though,” my husband says gravely.
Upstairs our son is playing CD s, turgid and feedbacky, much guitar. The bass seems to drip from the ceiling. “I’m afraid to ask him to turn it down,” I say, because he’s had a lousy first week of school, cumulative troubles. I rap my knuckles on the counter. “I know that
song.
”
Liam nods. “Schubert.”
“Are you going to wear that?” I ask. Black pants and a black silk shirt, open at the throat – matte, but still. “You look like a dance critic.”
“That would be a euphemism?”
“May’s the only person at the clinic who doesn’t seem to be judging me because I’m new. I just want to make a nice impression.”
Upstairs, Ty bumps the volume another notch. “Mercy, grace, faith, hope, charity,” Liam says. “We should
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