across the floor.
“Everywhere I go, men are losing their minds,” Mrs. Garland said. “It’s epidemic.”
“Not all men,” my mother sniffed. “Angie’s Tonyis a peach, don’t you think? And what wouldn’t you give for the way Mike looks at Maude?” There was the sound of a hammer pounding a nail. There was a scratch, and then: “The blue one, don’t you think? With the red bow?”
“You have to give Robert an ultimatum, Tina,” Mrs. Garland said. “What else can you do?”
“You mean: Come home now or I’m leaving? You mean: Hope you like the hills of San Francisco, because you can stay right where you are and never bother coming home?”
I knew my mother was showing off for Mrs. Garland. I was sure she couldn’t mean what she was saying. Almost sure. But did you ever feel like your soul has morphed into a volcano with all the rocks and everything else about to spew? Ever get so your throat’s so clogged up tight you can’t breathe unless you cough? Because that’s what happened to me: I started coughing. Lying on the floor in Dad’s office, beside the million quotables, looking for an epigraph, listening to Mom, I started coughing, and itwas the kind of coughing that happens when you cannot breathe, when you smack the floor to stay alive, smack your chest, smack the air itself for air. I coughed so hard you could have measured it on the Richter scale. You would have thought the world was splitting in two.
“Jilly?” I could hear my mother between the spasms. “Honey? You okay?” I could tell that she’d moved to the bottom of the stairs, that she was working her way toward deciphering the commotion, to weighing things out in her head.
“NOT JILLY!” I spat out. I was sprawled out flat on my back by now, wheezing like a smoker.
“Elisa?” my mother asked a minute later. I didn’t answer her. I made her suffer. I tested her. She didn’t come. “Elisa?” she called again. “Please. Answer me.”
I coughed, but it wasn’t much, it wasn’t frightening. It was an I-don’t-need-you and I’m-not-answering-you cough, is what it was.
“Elisa!” my mother said.
“Just let her be,” said Mrs. Garland after a while. “There’s nothing for it.” I could hear them stepping away from the stairwell now, returning to their business. I could imagine them starting up again, leaving Dad all by himself in the hills of San Francisco.
My parka was down on the banister. My mittens were stuffed in its pockets. I sipped in one more stingy whiff of air, then rolled to my knees and pushed myself up. I yanked open the door to Dad’s office—a loud, complaining commotion of a yank—and clomped down the steps two at a time into the land of Christmas, where twinkle lights were draping every post and column and mirror and frame. My mother had a box of tinsel in her hands. Mrs. Garland was tying velvet bows.
“So nice to see you, Mrs. Garland,” I said in my I’m-so-obviously-lying voice. I pulled my parka on. I dug in for the mittens. Mrs. Garland gave me the hugest fake smile. I Cheshire Cat grinned her right back.
“Where are you going, Elisa?” my mother asked, using the tone mothers use when they’re performing for their friends, when they’re pretending they’re the most civilized people in the world, utterly one hundred percent rational.
I had to go through the living room to get to the front door. Go around and over boxes, walk around and in between with my lungs spewed out and the air too thin for me to fill my tank. “Nowhere,” I answered. “Like always.” I had my hand on the doorknob. I pulled. The night air hit me like an Arctic blast, and I looked back over my shoulder at my mother, near the twinkling tree, just to see if she might call me back, but nothing. She was exchanging a look with Mrs. Garland.
“She’s every ounce her father, isn’t she?” I heard Mrs. Garland say as the door slammed hard behind me.
“Spitting image,” I said right back. “SPITTING
“Everywhere I go, men are losing their minds,” Mrs. Garland said. “It’s epidemic.”
“Not all men,” my mother sniffed. “Angie’s Tonyis a peach, don’t you think? And what wouldn’t you give for the way Mike looks at Maude?” There was the sound of a hammer pounding a nail. There was a scratch, and then: “The blue one, don’t you think? With the red bow?”
“You have to give Robert an ultimatum, Tina,” Mrs. Garland said. “What else can you do?”
“You mean: Come home now or I’m leaving? You mean: Hope you like the hills of San Francisco, because you can stay right where you are and never bother coming home?”
I knew my mother was showing off for Mrs. Garland. I was sure she couldn’t mean what she was saying. Almost sure. But did you ever feel like your soul has morphed into a volcano with all the rocks and everything else about to spew? Ever get so your throat’s so clogged up tight you can’t breathe unless you cough? Because that’s what happened to me: I started coughing. Lying on the floor in Dad’s office, beside the million quotables, looking for an epigraph, listening to Mom, I started coughing, and itwas the kind of coughing that happens when you cannot breathe, when you smack the floor to stay alive, smack your chest, smack the air itself for air. I coughed so hard you could have measured it on the Richter scale. You would have thought the world was splitting in two.
“Jilly?” I could hear my mother between the spasms. “Honey? You okay?” I could tell that she’d moved to the bottom of the stairs, that she was working her way toward deciphering the commotion, to weighing things out in her head.
“NOT JILLY!” I spat out. I was sprawled out flat on my back by now, wheezing like a smoker.
“Elisa?” my mother asked a minute later. I didn’t answer her. I made her suffer. I tested her. She didn’t come. “Elisa?” she called again. “Please. Answer me.”
I coughed, but it wasn’t much, it wasn’t frightening. It was an I-don’t-need-you and I’m-not-answering-you cough, is what it was.
“Elisa!” my mother said.
“Just let her be,” said Mrs. Garland after a while. “There’s nothing for it.” I could hear them stepping away from the stairwell now, returning to their business. I could imagine them starting up again, leaving Dad all by himself in the hills of San Francisco.
My parka was down on the banister. My mittens were stuffed in its pockets. I sipped in one more stingy whiff of air, then rolled to my knees and pushed myself up. I yanked open the door to Dad’s office—a loud, complaining commotion of a yank—and clomped down the steps two at a time into the land of Christmas, where twinkle lights were draping every post and column and mirror and frame. My mother had a box of tinsel in her hands. Mrs. Garland was tying velvet bows.
“So nice to see you, Mrs. Garland,” I said in my I’m-so-obviously-lying voice. I pulled my parka on. I dug in for the mittens. Mrs. Garland gave me the hugest fake smile. I Cheshire Cat grinned her right back.
“Where are you going, Elisa?” my mother asked, using the tone mothers use when they’re performing for their friends, when they’re pretending they’re the most civilized people in the world, utterly one hundred percent rational.
I had to go through the living room to get to the front door. Go around and over boxes, walk around and in between with my lungs spewed out and the air too thin for me to fill my tank. “Nowhere,” I answered. “Like always.” I had my hand on the doorknob. I pulled. The night air hit me like an Arctic blast, and I looked back over my shoulder at my mother, near the twinkling tree, just to see if she might call me back, but nothing. She was exchanging a look with Mrs. Garland.
“She’s every ounce her father, isn’t she?” I heard Mrs. Garland say as the door slammed hard behind me.
“Spitting image,” I said right back. “SPITTING
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