didnât dare say that to him, not the way heâd been lately. Seeing him so desperate worried her. Heâd taken what he loved and turned it into work. She believed in him, he knew that, but that wasnât enough. He wanted everyone to say he was wonderful, and that, she thought, would probably never happen.
She took her book into the bathroom with her, laying it on the red crescent mat in front of the toilet, then sat there distracted, scratchingat her lifeline, examining the withered grain of her thumb, thinking of the dishes sheâd washed, phones answered, lovers touched, her entire life there in her skin. Like anyone. The world turned cosmic when youâd gone too long without sleep. She rubbed her eyes, ground her eyebrows under her fingertips. What was he going to doâwhat were
they
going to do? The book lay there on the mat between her feet, but suddenly she didnât care about Harry Potter; she was only reading it to see what the kids found in it. Escape. She could use some right now.
The water smelled, a fact she conveniently forgot from year to year. For cooking they used bottled water, long plastic jugs they kept on the counter by the microwave, but for brushing her teeth she was stuck with the tap. The basin was stained. Fartwater, Sam called it, and she swished and spat fast, then covered the taste with a slug of Listerine.
âUck,â she said, and found herself in the mirror. On her chin was the beginning of an Emily-induced zit.
âIsnât
that
nice.â
She took her book from the windowsill and navigated the dim room to the head of their bed, then backtracked and found Ellaâs flashlight from camp, turned it on and stuck it beneath her pillow. She felt grubby after the car but the shower smelled and sheâd never get her hair dry. She dumped her shorts and top on the pile by the dresser and pulled on a T-shirt, then sat on the bed and swung her legs under the humid sheets. She settled in, the flashlight nestled in her shoulder, throwing its bullâs-eye against the page and beyond, the ceiling alive with an eclipse.
She was sure sheâd read this sentence before. Harry was taking the train from platform nine and three-quarters to Hogwarts, then meeting the headmaster Dumbledore for the first time, the picture on his business card disappearing when Harry turned it over. No wonder the kids loved this stuff, there was always another marvelous thing popping up. By the end of the section she was deep in that magical world. She actually had to stop herself from going on to the next chapter. She patted her stomach for her bookmark and set the book reverently on the cedar chest, then thumbed off the flashlight.
At the far end of the room, the fan barreled on. Ella stirred and slurpedâher braces made herâand Lise wondered what time it was, and if Meg was okay. Their windows overlooked the garage, stark as film noir in the floodlight above the kitchen door, the barbecue grill sitting beneaththe tree. There was no wind, just the lake slapping faintly. She would hear if Megâs van pulled up, the gust of the engine finishing, the croak of the emergency brake.
The pillow smelled of mold, and she wished theyâd brought their own. Across from her, the other bed was empty. Meg would be fine, she thought, but couldnât stop imagining the red-and-blue lights of police cruisers blocking the highway, flares throwing a ruby glow over the crash scene, glass scratching under the firemenâs boots.
Kenâs fatherâs death was expected, had only deepened his isolation from them, lost further in his work. Megâs death would be different, a chance for Lise to intervene. She would comfort him, bring him back to the world. Or he might grow even more remote, curled around his disappointment. She couldnât live with that kind of sadness, that kind of man. His distance already took so much energy to bridge. She could feel it wearing away her
She took her book into the bathroom with her, laying it on the red crescent mat in front of the toilet, then sat there distracted, scratchingat her lifeline, examining the withered grain of her thumb, thinking of the dishes sheâd washed, phones answered, lovers touched, her entire life there in her skin. Like anyone. The world turned cosmic when youâd gone too long without sleep. She rubbed her eyes, ground her eyebrows under her fingertips. What was he going to doâwhat were
they
going to do? The book lay there on the mat between her feet, but suddenly she didnât care about Harry Potter; she was only reading it to see what the kids found in it. Escape. She could use some right now.
The water smelled, a fact she conveniently forgot from year to year. For cooking they used bottled water, long plastic jugs they kept on the counter by the microwave, but for brushing her teeth she was stuck with the tap. The basin was stained. Fartwater, Sam called it, and she swished and spat fast, then covered the taste with a slug of Listerine.
âUck,â she said, and found herself in the mirror. On her chin was the beginning of an Emily-induced zit.
âIsnât
that
nice.â
She took her book from the windowsill and navigated the dim room to the head of their bed, then backtracked and found Ellaâs flashlight from camp, turned it on and stuck it beneath her pillow. She felt grubby after the car but the shower smelled and sheâd never get her hair dry. She dumped her shorts and top on the pile by the dresser and pulled on a T-shirt, then sat on the bed and swung her legs under the humid sheets. She settled in, the flashlight nestled in her shoulder, throwing its bullâs-eye against the page and beyond, the ceiling alive with an eclipse.
She was sure sheâd read this sentence before. Harry was taking the train from platform nine and three-quarters to Hogwarts, then meeting the headmaster Dumbledore for the first time, the picture on his business card disappearing when Harry turned it over. No wonder the kids loved this stuff, there was always another marvelous thing popping up. By the end of the section she was deep in that magical world. She actually had to stop herself from going on to the next chapter. She patted her stomach for her bookmark and set the book reverently on the cedar chest, then thumbed off the flashlight.
At the far end of the room, the fan barreled on. Ella stirred and slurpedâher braces made herâand Lise wondered what time it was, and if Meg was okay. Their windows overlooked the garage, stark as film noir in the floodlight above the kitchen door, the barbecue grill sitting beneaththe tree. There was no wind, just the lake slapping faintly. She would hear if Megâs van pulled up, the gust of the engine finishing, the croak of the emergency brake.
The pillow smelled of mold, and she wished theyâd brought their own. Across from her, the other bed was empty. Meg would be fine, she thought, but couldnât stop imagining the red-and-blue lights of police cruisers blocking the highway, flares throwing a ruby glow over the crash scene, glass scratching under the firemenâs boots.
Kenâs fatherâs death was expected, had only deepened his isolation from them, lost further in his work. Megâs death would be different, a chance for Lise to intervene. She would comfort him, bring him back to the world. Or he might grow even more remote, curled around his disappointment. She couldnât live with that kind of sadness, that kind of man. His distance already took so much energy to bridge. She could feel it wearing away her
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