When she was done he surprised her yet again by asking what the rehearsal schedule would be and whether he could help her learn her lines.
"Won't you be back at work next week?" she asked.
"I guess."
"Then how can you help me?"
"I can fit your school play in. Parents do it all the time. Work. Play. Parenting. They do, don't they?"
She agreed in her head that they did, and as a courtesy to her ailing father she nodded. But she couldn't imagine him actually running her lines with her or helping her memorize song lyrics.
"It's really incredible what you did," he murmured when she remained silent. "But you know what? I'm not surprised you got the part. I'm not surprised at all. You'll be stupendous. Absolutely stupendous."
WILLOW ALREADY KNEW that her birthday this year fell on a Monday, but she checked the calendar in the kitchen again now because she had a feeling it was going to be the day before her parents expected her to talk to that lawyer--or, perhaps, lawyers. She saw she was correct: It was. She would officially be eleven then. Barely eleven years old, she thought, and already she was being (and she hated the very phonetics of this new word) deposed.
Her father came into the kitchen, a couple of rattles he'd found on the floor in the den in his hands. The dinner dishes were in the sink, and she watched him stare at them for a long moment--as if he were actually surprised to find the remnants of their meat loaf and mashed potatoes and spaghetti squash still present. He seemed to do this a lot these days: He would simply stop and stare for a long instant at something as if the object or the panorama (it happened outdoors as frequently as it did inside the house) were new and unfamiliar. Then he tossed the rattles in a wicker basket on a shelf below the cookbooks where he and her mother tended to toss all of the small, nonessential items that belonged to Patrick: Toe puppets. Pacifiers. The flat plastic shells in which they packed wet wipes when they went out.
Her brother was upstairs sleeping and her mother was working behind closed doors in the living room. Whenever she worked in the evening she tended to close the door, because there was a chance she was listening to a tape of a patient. Sometimes she used a headset, but as often as not--even before Patrick was born--the headset disappeared under a couch or deep in a crevice in her shoulder bag.
"A busy schedule, eh?" he murmured when he saw her looking at the calendar.
She sighed and sat down on one of the stools at the L-shaped counter around which they ate breakfast. She was already in her nightshirt, and she could feel the cool wood against the backs of her legs. "My birthday is the day before I have to talk to the lawyer," she said.
"Oh. I'm sorry, sweetheart. It is going to be a hard month, isn't it?" She knew he was referring to the litany of bad dates before them. Saturday was the anniversary of the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, which was at least part of the reason why her mother was working right now: She had had extra office hours today and would have them again tomorrow. Then the week after next was the FERAL press conference that her parents and, she knew, her aunt dreaded: Even though none of them would be present, it was going to generate the media attention her uncle desired and make them all more public than they liked--especially, of course, her father and Charlotte. Her aunt had warned her father that reporters would try to reach him (and, Willow knew, they would succeed). And then the week after the press conference she and her cousin had to start meeting with lawyers to prepare for their depositions. Her first appointment was on Tuesday in Vermont and Charlotte's was on Thursday in Manhattan.
She decided she was going to call her cousin over the weekend. She needed to know exactly what Charlotte was going to say and--perhaps of more importance--what she wasn't. They hadn't spoken since her own family had left for Vermont the day after Uncle Spencer had returned to Grandmother's from the hospital, and that had been more than four weeks ago now.
Everything had grown much more complicated the moment her uncle had struggled back into the house in Sugar Hill. He was refusing to talk to her father, which was the reason why her own family had left the next day. The house was big, but not big enough for the two brothers-in-law once they weren't speaking. She knew the two men hadn't spoken since then, and she guessed on some level this was why she and Charlotte hadn't called each other, either. It was awkward now.
"It's going to be a very bad month," she agreed.
Though her father had loosened his necktie before dinner, the rope of fabric still hung around his neck. He nodded and sat down on a stool beside her and finally untied the knot completely and pulled the long strip of silk through the collar of his shirt. He wrapped the tie around his hand as if it were a roll of Scotch tape.
"You want to talk about it?" he asked.
"You sound like Mom."
"Thank you."
"No, I guess not."
"Really? You seem to want to--and we can talk about it right now, if you like."
It. She thought about the word, and wondered exactly what he meant. Did he mean the shooting? That was usually what they meant these days when they used the word it. Or was her dad merely referring to her deposition? That was what had led him to sit beside her just now. Or perhaps he meant the whole litany of unpleasant dates that loomed before them in the coming month.
"When do you think you and Uncle Spencer will start speaking again?" She surprised herself by asking this question first. The words just slid from her mouth the moment she parted her lips.
"I'd talk to him now, if he'd talk to me."
"I know."
"I hope soon. He can't be angry with me forever."
She almost disagreed with her father: Everyone always talked about how stubborn Uncle Spencer could be, and if anyone could decide to be mad at someone forever, it was probably him. She knew her uncle blamed her father for what happened--as would a lot of people once the press conference was behind them. She knew how much her father blamed himself.
But the truth was, she didn't think it was her dad's fault. She blamed this nightmare on Charlotte--which, she understood so suddenly that she actually sat up a little straighter on the stool, may have been another reason why she hadn't felt an inclination to phone her cousin over the last month. Everyone was so focused on the idea that her father hadn't gotten around to bringing his gun to a repair shop to have a stubborn bullet removed that they were forgetting--or ignoring--the fact that it was Charlotte who had taken the gun from the trunk of the car even though she'd been told explicitly not to touch it, switched off the safety, and fired it into the night. She knew the people at FERAL and her uncle's lawyer were going to portray her cousin as a victim, and she knew also that this was a complete fabrication: Her cousin--two weeks beyond her thirteenth birthday now--had been stoned and a little drunk when she'd pulled the trigger.
"You and Aunt Catherine are talking, right?" she asked her father. "Mom says Aunt Catherine's not mad at you."
"Yes, your aunt and I are talking. And while I'd say she's not as mad at me as your uncle is, she still wishes I had . . . behaved more responsibly. After all, she loves Uncle Spencer."
"I'm not so sure about that." She hadn't planned to say this, either, but she realized there was indeed a lot that she'd kept inside her for almost six weeks now. She wondered how much she was about to reveal.
"What do you mean?"
"Charlotte . . ."
"Yes?"
"Charlotte thinks her parents might someday get a divorce."
"What? When did she say such a thing?"
"This summer. The night of the accident."
"Have you told your mother this?"
She shook her head.
"Why does your cousin think that?" Her father dropped his necktie into his lap and rested his temple against his fingers and stared at her.
"Because . . ."
"Yes?"
"Oh, a lot of reasons. She says her mom flirts all the time, and her dad isn't really interested in Aunt Catherine. He's so busy with his animal caus
es."
"Your aunt Catherine has always been a flirt," he said, and although his eyes looked tired he was smiling. "Trust me. When we were growing up, I don't think I had a friend she didn't flirt with--especially when she was the age Charlotte is now. I think it would have killed her if I'd gone to Exeter, which your grandmother and I discussed pretty seriously, instead of staying in the city at Trinity. She wouldn't have been able to bat her eyelashes at my friends when they came by the apartment. And as for your uncle Spencer . . ."
He paused and took off his eyeglasses. This was, Willow knew, one of his courtroom gestures. But it also meant that he was about to say something that mattered to him greatly. "And as for your uncle Spencer: He may be self-absorbed, he may be fixated on monkeys or dolphins or whatever . . . but he adores your aunt. I know that. I know Spencer. He loves your aunt Catherine very much."
"But what if . . ."
"Go on."
"What if she doesn't love him? Charlotte doesn't think she does. She says her mom and dad are always fighting, and it's usually over nothing."
"Your mom and I argue sometimes--"
"No, you don't."
He thought about this and nodded. "We don't, do we?"
"Not like some parents I hear about. Not like Loree's parents. Or Mr. and Mrs. Hall." Loree King and Kristin Hall were two of Willow's classmates, and the squabbles Willow had witnessed when she was playing at Loree's or Kristin's house were legendary around the Seton dinner table.
"But most parents have their arguments," her father continued. "Just like most siblings and most friends. And most cousins."
"Charlotte thinks this is different."
"Your mom really doesn't know any of this? You haven't told her?"
She felt the sides of her eyes start to quiver. She still had math homework that was due tomorrow, she hadn't done her required thirty minutes of reading for the day, and it was clear that her father and she were still a while away from going upstairs so he could read to her while she curled up in bed. She didn't want to cry, and she didn't quite understand how her innocuous peek at the calendar had led to this. But she was afraid she was about to start sobbing--not hideous Patrick-like howls, but real tears and whimpers and sniffles, nonetheless. And a lot of them. A month-and-a-half's worth. Tears for her uncle who couldn't ever use his right arm again, for her cousin who--even if she wasn't getting blamed for this the way her dad was--still had to live with herself, for her aunt and uncle who might someday get a divorce, and (perhaps most of all) for her dad who she decided firmly now had done nothing wrong but was being treated like he had and always seemed sad. She felt her body starting to shake and gave in. Before she knew it she had climbed onto her father's lap on the stool as if she were a girl half her age, her shoulders heaving with sadness. She cried into the cotton shoulder of his button-down shirt, only vaguely aware of the smell of the deodorant he wore to work and the coffee that was still on his breath, and completely unconscious of the fact that her father's eyes had begun to water, too.
CATHERINE PUT THE NOVEL she was reading on her nightstand and was about to turn out the light. She glanced at Spencer, hoping he was finally asleep, because his breathing had been even and soft for at least the last two or three pages. He wasn't: He looked up at her, his eyes alone moving. He was, as he was always now when he tried to sleep, flat on his back--a position that, in the month and a half since the accident, he still had not grown accustomed to. In the past, he had fallen asleep on his right side, his body facing hers. Not only did he now have to try to nod off in what was still a new and uncomfortable position for him, the two of them had switched sides of the bed: For twenty years, since they'd been freshmen in college, he had always slept on her left. No longer. She couldn't be on his right because it meant his wounded shoulder was near her, and she couldn't bear the thought that she might pain him further by rolling against it in her sleep.
She leaned over and kissed him on his forehead. "You've taken a sleeping pill, right?" she asked him. "If not, I can get you one."
"I took one. It will kick in soon enough."
"Okay."
"I keep wondering about something . . ."
She had been sitting up with her knees making a tent of the sheets, but now she lay on her side so he wouldn't be looking up at her like an invalid. Something in his tone suggested he might want to talk about his disability and his future. "Yes?"
"I keep wondering: Should we have a surgeon at the press conference? Paige says we shouldn't because -"
"You want to talk about the press conference?" she asked. She realized she sounded shrill, but she couldn't contain her surprise--and her disappointment. Even now, at ten thirty at night in their bed, he was thinking about the press conference. Even though he knew how much she detested the very notion of the press conference--and FERAL's whole involvement in a lawsuit that, as far as she was concerned, was absolutely none of their business--he was bringing it up as if she supported what he was doing and was willing to discuss its particulars. She couldn't believe it. She simply could not believe it, and reflexively she sat up again so she could have some distance from him. If they were going to have a discussion that involved FERAL, she didn't want to be that close.
"Yes," he said. "I was thinking--"
"No you weren't thinking. That's the problem. You know my opinion of that press conference, you know how unhappy it makes me. Your animal-obsessed friends want to humiliate my brother and make a spectacle of our--yes, our--daughter. I will not discuss this right now, Spencer. I'm sorry."
"The lawsuit will benefit us. This family. That's why I'm doing it."
"No you're not! You don't need FERAL to sue Adirondack. You could sue them without all this ridiculous animal rights nonsense, without trotting out my brother--"
"No one is going to trot out your brother."
"You could do this without Dominique or Keenan. I like Keenan fine, but lately Dominique . . . before the accident, you and Dominique . . ." She shook her head: This wasn't about Dominique. She knew that Dominique had no romantic interest in her husband, but sometimes it seemed Spencer had an almost slavish devotion to her. The two of them shared an obsessive interest in beleaguered prairie dogs, whales, and chinchillas. They were soldiers together in their fanatical cause, and--in New York and on the road--they were often together. She wondered why, suddenly, she was jealous of Dominique, and all she could think of was that she was angry at the woman for all the hours she had kept Spencer away from his family over the last five or six years--and, yes, used him. And now she was using him again. Using his disability. Keenan was, too. They all were. That whole hideous organization that cared more about pandas than people.
"What about Dominique?" he asked.
"Nothing about Dominique."
"No, something's going on in your head. What?"
"Look, this isn't about Dominique. It's about Charlotte. It's about John. You know how I hate this whole thing. I'm only having breakfast with Paige tomorrow morning because I don't want her alone with our daughter. I shudder when I think of the ideas she'd put into Charlotte's head."
As if she hadn't spoken just now and explained herself, he said--still staring straight up at the ceiling--"If this isn't about Dominique, I don't know why you brought her up. We're friends. Just like you and Eric."
Eric, her associate from Brearley, had been at their home for dinner the night before. He'd brought with him a French green salad with basil shiitake mushrooms, a pasta dripping with a pesto he'd made of pine nuts and roasted red peppers, and a peach cobbler which he admitted he hadn't baked himself but he assured everyone had not a drop of cream or butter in it and was built largely of soy flour and substitute eggs. He hadn't planned to stay and eat with them, but she had insisted he remain. How could she not? He'd brought with him a small feast, every element of which (even the faux cobbler) was delicious. Had she and Eric flirted last night in front of Spencer and Charlotte? She thought not: She had been courteous and appreciative and (she hoped) char
ming and funny. But she didn't believe either of them had crossed any boundaries. Sometimes, she knew, Charlotte thought she saw things that weren't there. Her daughter didn't realize that sometimes men and women flirted simply because they were friends, but there wasn't anything to it. It was all part of being a grown-up. Everybody did it.
At least she presumed everybody did.
She wasn't sure how she should respond to what Spencer had just said. Should she be defensive, or should she simply ignore the innuendo? She was angry, that was for sure. But it was also late and he was in pain. It was one thing to argue about the press conference, an issue that affected her child and her brother. It was quite another to squabble right now over . . . flirting.