know how to finish, how to ask for what I want, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve gone too far, revealed too much. Daniel shakes his head and pulls away from me.
“I’m losing my mind,” he says without looking at me. Then, he gets up from the sofa and carries Bobby to the stairs.
What was I thinking to say “you and I” with the photographs of his lost wife between us?
As always, I am a master at timing.
Once again, I am alone.
I try to fall back asleep, but after the predawn show, it’s impossible. Somewhere around seven o’clock, I give up and take a shower. I am in the kitchen, looking for coffee when I hear footsteps on the stairs, then in the hallway. I turn just in time to see Daniel coming in to the room. He looks haggard, worn down. The lines around his eyes are so deep and dark they appear to be drawn in charcoal.
He sees me and the coffeemaker, in that order, and he smiles. “Ah, coffee.”
“I guess we have an addiction in common. That, and wanting to start over.” The minute the words are out of my mouth, I want to call them back. Even worse than the words is my voice; it’s all breathy, Marilyn-Monroe-Mr.-Presidenty.
He stares at me a moment longer, then leaves the room.
I stand there, feeling like a fool. Everything I say to Daniel is wrong.
It’s hardly surprising. I haven’t exactly had a lot of experience. There was Jed Breen in high school and Jerry Wist the summer after graduation, but that’s all. I met Thom at a party in my sophomore year at Davis, and Lord knows I haven’t dated since our divorce.
Sipping my coffee, I head out of the kitchen.
Bobby runs up to me, as if he’s been waiting. “Teach me more reading.”
“Sure.”
He leads me to the sofa. For hours, we sit there, sounding out sentences. I praise and encourage him, but all the while I’m also listening for footsteps on the deck. I keep remembering my dance with Daniel. Make a wish. Starting over would be . . .
“Joy,” Bobby says. “JOY.”
I blink, come into the now. “Sorry, Bobby.” I’m like a teenager, mooning over a boy. The thought makes me smile. Who would have thought?
“What’s this word?”
I turn my attention back to the book that’s open in my lap. It’s the Disney version of Pinocchio, and Bobby has an endless appetite for the story of the wooden boy who wants to be real. This is the second read of the day. “R . . . E . . . A . . . L. Real.”
He looks up at me. “I wish the Blue Fairy would make Freddy real.”
If the Blue Fairy existed, Freddy would be knee-deep in clover. Heaven knows the stuffed lamb with the straggly fur and loose button eye has been loved.
Behind us, the door bangs open.
Bobby slams the book shut. He wants to surprise Daniel with his reading.
Daniel walks in to the lobby, his flannel shirt and down vest peppered with sawdust and rain. His face is gray with wet dirt. When he smiles, his teeth are brilliant white. “Hey, there.” He takes off his jacket, lays it on the chair back, then turns on the television. “It’s no use workin’ any more. A storm is coming.”
“A storm?” Bobby sounds scared.
“Don’t worry, boyo. I’m here to protect you.”
Bobby tucks in closer to me, whining. “I hate storms.”
For the first time, I notice how dark it is in the lobby. Outside, charcoal clouds obliterate the sky overhead. Shadows crawl across the lake and grass.
“Turn on the news, will you, Bobby?” Daniel says, bending over to unbutton his work boots. “I’ll be back down in a sec.” With that, he goes upstairs.
Bobby reaches for the remote and hits the power button. There is a thump of sound, then a picture.
“I hate the news,” he mutters, eying the darkening day outside.
On screen, a pretty blond woman is talking about a three-alarm fire in downtown Seattle. After that, she relays the rest of the local news: a few burglaries, a car stolen in Hoquiam, and a goat mascot stolen from a
“I’m losing my mind,” he says without looking at me. Then, he gets up from the sofa and carries Bobby to the stairs.
What was I thinking to say “you and I” with the photographs of his lost wife between us?
As always, I am a master at timing.
Once again, I am alone.
I try to fall back asleep, but after the predawn show, it’s impossible. Somewhere around seven o’clock, I give up and take a shower. I am in the kitchen, looking for coffee when I hear footsteps on the stairs, then in the hallway. I turn just in time to see Daniel coming in to the room. He looks haggard, worn down. The lines around his eyes are so deep and dark they appear to be drawn in charcoal.
He sees me and the coffeemaker, in that order, and he smiles. “Ah, coffee.”
“I guess we have an addiction in common. That, and wanting to start over.” The minute the words are out of my mouth, I want to call them back. Even worse than the words is my voice; it’s all breathy, Marilyn-Monroe-Mr.-Presidenty.
He stares at me a moment longer, then leaves the room.
I stand there, feeling like a fool. Everything I say to Daniel is wrong.
It’s hardly surprising. I haven’t exactly had a lot of experience. There was Jed Breen in high school and Jerry Wist the summer after graduation, but that’s all. I met Thom at a party in my sophomore year at Davis, and Lord knows I haven’t dated since our divorce.
Sipping my coffee, I head out of the kitchen.
Bobby runs up to me, as if he’s been waiting. “Teach me more reading.”
“Sure.”
He leads me to the sofa. For hours, we sit there, sounding out sentences. I praise and encourage him, but all the while I’m also listening for footsteps on the deck. I keep remembering my dance with Daniel. Make a wish. Starting over would be . . .
“Joy,” Bobby says. “JOY.”
I blink, come into the now. “Sorry, Bobby.” I’m like a teenager, mooning over a boy. The thought makes me smile. Who would have thought?
“What’s this word?”
I turn my attention back to the book that’s open in my lap. It’s the Disney version of Pinocchio, and Bobby has an endless appetite for the story of the wooden boy who wants to be real. This is the second read of the day. “R . . . E . . . A . . . L. Real.”
He looks up at me. “I wish the Blue Fairy would make Freddy real.”
If the Blue Fairy existed, Freddy would be knee-deep in clover. Heaven knows the stuffed lamb with the straggly fur and loose button eye has been loved.
Behind us, the door bangs open.
Bobby slams the book shut. He wants to surprise Daniel with his reading.
Daniel walks in to the lobby, his flannel shirt and down vest peppered with sawdust and rain. His face is gray with wet dirt. When he smiles, his teeth are brilliant white. “Hey, there.” He takes off his jacket, lays it on the chair back, then turns on the television. “It’s no use workin’ any more. A storm is coming.”
“A storm?” Bobby sounds scared.
“Don’t worry, boyo. I’m here to protect you.”
Bobby tucks in closer to me, whining. “I hate storms.”
For the first time, I notice how dark it is in the lobby. Outside, charcoal clouds obliterate the sky overhead. Shadows crawl across the lake and grass.
“Turn on the news, will you, Bobby?” Daniel says, bending over to unbutton his work boots. “I’ll be back down in a sec.” With that, he goes upstairs.
Bobby reaches for the remote and hits the power button. There is a thump of sound, then a picture.
“I hate the news,” he mutters, eying the darkening day outside.
On screen, a pretty blond woman is talking about a three-alarm fire in downtown Seattle. After that, she relays the rest of the local news: a few burglaries, a car stolen in Hoquiam, and a goat mascot stolen from a
Similar Books
