car driving up in front of the house.
It’s me, Mom, she calls out. As if it could be anyone else. And then she says no more for a few minutes, before standing in the kitchen doorway.
The application form, she says. It’s still lying here.
Disappointment. Her face and her voice, her hand with the letter.
She gives it to me. And now I have to open the envelope, I have to look at the sheet of paper with the blank spaces where Simon’s name should be. I have to say oh, I have to say I must have forgotten about it. I have to find an excuse, she is right to be displeased with me, she has taken over that role. It is the intention that I should feel ashamed.
I’m a bit disorganized, I say and apologize to my daughter. She says it’s all right, Mom. Fetching my glasses, she places them in front of me on the table and puts the grocery bags on the counter. Sit down in the living room, Mom, I’ll sort out the groceries. I go into the living room and put the application form down in front of me on the coffee table, closing my eyes as Simon usually does. Open them again. From the window I see a flock of sparrows gathered on the terrace. The radio is playing the Beatles. It must be the Beatles, Simon likes them, he has never been too old for the Beatles. What’s that called, the song they’re singing. “Michelle.” It’s a long time since I heard that. Simon should have been here now.
The newspaper is lying folded on the table. She is busy tidying up out there, opening and closing the doors to the fridge, the kitchen cabinet. I read the newspaper headlines upside down, managing to read a whole column, a whole paragraph. I watch the sparrows. Michelle, ma belle, these are words that go together well . Simon loves that song.
Or am I the one who loves it.
Do you remember that book Dad liked so much? she shouts. The history book.
I know what she means. His great hobby, battles of the First World War. She is still standing in the kitchen, shouting. Yes, I say.
I promised him I would read it.
Michelle, ma belle, sont les mots qui vont très bien ensemble .
But the truth is I haven’t got the time.
Très bien ensemble .
I don’t think I’m going to do it, she says, there isn’t really any point. Now.
Is it written to a sweetheart, I wonder. The song. It really must be.
I don’t understand why they haven’t delivered the newspaper, I say. It didn’t come yesterday, but today it was there again.
I really should bring it back here with me, she shouts.
What do you need to bring with you, I ask.
She clatters the dishes, putting them into the dishwasher, pushes the door closed. The song is finished, there is someone talking now.
She stands in the living room doorway. Helena, who has always been the youngest. She sits down beside me, stretches out her arms and embraces me, rocking. I accept the sign of affection and hug her back. If you fill out the form, I’ll fetch it for you meanwhile, she says.
What, I ask.
The book, she says.
Why does it not matter anymore, I inquire. What do you mean?
I just mean that I won’t actually be able to tell him if I like it, we aren’t going to be able to discuss that book now.
She strokes her hair with her hand as she speaks, pulling it behind her ears. I can bring it to you, she says. I can come in again afterward in any case.
Yes, I say.
Mom, she says, giving me a hug.
And then she leaves.
SHE WANTS TO return the book she has borrowed from him, as though there really is a rush. An hour later she phones to say that it took awhile to find it. As though I have asked her to do it, as though there is a hurry and it’s important. Take your time, I say. I’m here.
But just after that she is standing in the house again. With the book and frozen raspberries she was out picking in our garden earlier in the summer. Everything is contained in two bags. She couldn’t be bothered to read it. Although she feels, she says, that he still wants her to do it. The book means
It’s me, Mom, she calls out. As if it could be anyone else. And then she says no more for a few minutes, before standing in the kitchen doorway.
The application form, she says. It’s still lying here.
Disappointment. Her face and her voice, her hand with the letter.
She gives it to me. And now I have to open the envelope, I have to look at the sheet of paper with the blank spaces where Simon’s name should be. I have to say oh, I have to say I must have forgotten about it. I have to find an excuse, she is right to be displeased with me, she has taken over that role. It is the intention that I should feel ashamed.
I’m a bit disorganized, I say and apologize to my daughter. She says it’s all right, Mom. Fetching my glasses, she places them in front of me on the table and puts the grocery bags on the counter. Sit down in the living room, Mom, I’ll sort out the groceries. I go into the living room and put the application form down in front of me on the coffee table, closing my eyes as Simon usually does. Open them again. From the window I see a flock of sparrows gathered on the terrace. The radio is playing the Beatles. It must be the Beatles, Simon likes them, he has never been too old for the Beatles. What’s that called, the song they’re singing. “Michelle.” It’s a long time since I heard that. Simon should have been here now.
The newspaper is lying folded on the table. She is busy tidying up out there, opening and closing the doors to the fridge, the kitchen cabinet. I read the newspaper headlines upside down, managing to read a whole column, a whole paragraph. I watch the sparrows. Michelle, ma belle, these are words that go together well . Simon loves that song.
Or am I the one who loves it.
Do you remember that book Dad liked so much? she shouts. The history book.
I know what she means. His great hobby, battles of the First World War. She is still standing in the kitchen, shouting. Yes, I say.
I promised him I would read it.
Michelle, ma belle, sont les mots qui vont très bien ensemble .
But the truth is I haven’t got the time.
Très bien ensemble .
I don’t think I’m going to do it, she says, there isn’t really any point. Now.
Is it written to a sweetheart, I wonder. The song. It really must be.
I don’t understand why they haven’t delivered the newspaper, I say. It didn’t come yesterday, but today it was there again.
I really should bring it back here with me, she shouts.
What do you need to bring with you, I ask.
She clatters the dishes, putting them into the dishwasher, pushes the door closed. The song is finished, there is someone talking now.
She stands in the living room doorway. Helena, who has always been the youngest. She sits down beside me, stretches out her arms and embraces me, rocking. I accept the sign of affection and hug her back. If you fill out the form, I’ll fetch it for you meanwhile, she says.
What, I ask.
The book, she says.
Why does it not matter anymore, I inquire. What do you mean?
I just mean that I won’t actually be able to tell him if I like it, we aren’t going to be able to discuss that book now.
She strokes her hair with her hand as she speaks, pulling it behind her ears. I can bring it to you, she says. I can come in again afterward in any case.
Yes, I say.
Mom, she says, giving me a hug.
And then she leaves.
SHE WANTS TO return the book she has borrowed from him, as though there really is a rush. An hour later she phones to say that it took awhile to find it. As though I have asked her to do it, as though there is a hurry and it’s important. Take your time, I say. I’m here.
But just after that she is standing in the house again. With the book and frozen raspberries she was out picking in our garden earlier in the summer. Everything is contained in two bags. She couldn’t be bothered to read it. Although she feels, she says, that he still wants her to do it. The book means
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