about, Patrick?”
He shakes his head and clutches me even tighter. It’s hurting.
“Patrick, who’s Lily?”
Lily. On top of all the rest of this, is he talking about some fucking affair?
“I…you were…I couldn’t…” That’s all I can make out. The rest is incoherent, muttering, sobbing.
I’m thinking that no, it’s not an affair. I know my husband. An affair he could admit to. This is something else.
I can hardly breathe. He’s got to let go of me.
“Patrick. Patrick listen to me. You need to rest. You need to let go. I’ll make us some coffee and we’ll talk, okay? About…everything. Let me go, Patrick. Please. Let go.”
He eases up slightly.
“Okay. Good,” I tell him. “You’re okay. You’re going to be fine. Let me make us some coffee.”
I have to use both hands to pry us apart.
His face is bathed in tears, his lips pulled away from his teeth as though frozen in some painful simulation of a smile. For a moment our eyes meet and I can’t say what I see in his, whether it’s pain or relief, joy or grief. It crosses my mind that he looks like some crazy religious penitent in the throes of ecstasy. And I wonder who’s gone mad here, him or I or both of us.
I get up off the bed and go to the closet for my bathrobe. It’s there all right, but not where I left it. It’s pushed aside, as are my skirts and jackets for work, and for the first time I notice that there are clothes strewn all over the bedroom floor -- my clothes -- my red satin dress, my faux Hermes silk scarf, a pair of mismatched woolen knee-socks, my long white gloves.
Connection: clothes on the floor, my wedding dress destroyed in the living room.
I have no idea what this means but I think, leave it go for later. Get the coffee. Patrick needs the coffee and probably so do you. I slip on the bathrobe and knot it around my waist.
The coffeepot’s in the sink and there are grounds in the bottom so I wash it out and fill it with water to the ten-mark, because this could be a multi-cup morning, and turn to the Krups machine on the counter and at first I don’t register what I’m seeing. It’s bright purple and has a clock and a dial and it’s shaped sort of like an old-fashioned radio. Then I see the Easy-Bake logo.
Connection: Easy-Bake oven, stuffed toys on the sofa.
Is there a child here?
I think, the guest room. Coffee can wait.
The answer is yes. There is indeed a kid around here somewhere -- or at least there has been.
It’s a little girl.
How do I know?
Forget the oven. There’s a beading set on the dresser and a half-made knotted multicolored quilt on the floor by the bed next to something called a Stablemate Animal Hospital. I see a small bandaged mule out front. On the other side of the bed near the door my entire collection of Barbies are outfitted in bikinis and lying on lounge chairs in front of a plastic pool and slide. There’s a pink convertible waiting out front.
On the night-table next to the bed is a half-finished glass of milk.
Tossed on the unmade bed there’s a pink pair of pajamas in a smiling-monkey pattern.
A little girl’s been here recently all right, but where is she now? Not the living room, kitchen or either bedroom. Maybe the office.
I check the office. No.
Possibly outside.
I take a turn around the house. It’s already unseasonably warm even at this early hour though the grass feels refreshingly cool and damp against my feet. It’s the first remotely pleasant sensation I’ve felt all morning. I walk all the way out to the dock by the river and back again. I walk over to the old slide and swing set.
No little girl -- though the slide is polished smooth, the rust all gone, the seats on the swings have been sanded down and I notice there’s been some soldering work done on the chains and hangers. Patrick? It’s got to be.
Enough of this, I think. I don’t care what he’s going through. I need to talk
He shakes his head and clutches me even tighter. It’s hurting.
“Patrick, who’s Lily?”
Lily. On top of all the rest of this, is he talking about some fucking affair?
“I…you were…I couldn’t…” That’s all I can make out. The rest is incoherent, muttering, sobbing.
I’m thinking that no, it’s not an affair. I know my husband. An affair he could admit to. This is something else.
I can hardly breathe. He’s got to let go of me.
“Patrick. Patrick listen to me. You need to rest. You need to let go. I’ll make us some coffee and we’ll talk, okay? About…everything. Let me go, Patrick. Please. Let go.”
He eases up slightly.
“Okay. Good,” I tell him. “You’re okay. You’re going to be fine. Let me make us some coffee.”
I have to use both hands to pry us apart.
His face is bathed in tears, his lips pulled away from his teeth as though frozen in some painful simulation of a smile. For a moment our eyes meet and I can’t say what I see in his, whether it’s pain or relief, joy or grief. It crosses my mind that he looks like some crazy religious penitent in the throes of ecstasy. And I wonder who’s gone mad here, him or I or both of us.
I get up off the bed and go to the closet for my bathrobe. It’s there all right, but not where I left it. It’s pushed aside, as are my skirts and jackets for work, and for the first time I notice that there are clothes strewn all over the bedroom floor -- my clothes -- my red satin dress, my faux Hermes silk scarf, a pair of mismatched woolen knee-socks, my long white gloves.
Connection: clothes on the floor, my wedding dress destroyed in the living room.
I have no idea what this means but I think, leave it go for later. Get the coffee. Patrick needs the coffee and probably so do you. I slip on the bathrobe and knot it around my waist.
The coffeepot’s in the sink and there are grounds in the bottom so I wash it out and fill it with water to the ten-mark, because this could be a multi-cup morning, and turn to the Krups machine on the counter and at first I don’t register what I’m seeing. It’s bright purple and has a clock and a dial and it’s shaped sort of like an old-fashioned radio. Then I see the Easy-Bake logo.
Connection: Easy-Bake oven, stuffed toys on the sofa.
Is there a child here?
I think, the guest room. Coffee can wait.
The answer is yes. There is indeed a kid around here somewhere -- or at least there has been.
It’s a little girl.
How do I know?
Forget the oven. There’s a beading set on the dresser and a half-made knotted multicolored quilt on the floor by the bed next to something called a Stablemate Animal Hospital. I see a small bandaged mule out front. On the other side of the bed near the door my entire collection of Barbies are outfitted in bikinis and lying on lounge chairs in front of a plastic pool and slide. There’s a pink convertible waiting out front.
On the night-table next to the bed is a half-finished glass of milk.
Tossed on the unmade bed there’s a pink pair of pajamas in a smiling-monkey pattern.
A little girl’s been here recently all right, but where is she now? Not the living room, kitchen or either bedroom. Maybe the office.
I check the office. No.
Possibly outside.
I take a turn around the house. It’s already unseasonably warm even at this early hour though the grass feels refreshingly cool and damp against my feet. It’s the first remotely pleasant sensation I’ve felt all morning. I walk all the way out to the dock by the river and back again. I walk over to the old slide and swing set.
No little girl -- though the slide is polished smooth, the rust all gone, the seats on the swings have been sanded down and I notice there’s been some soldering work done on the chains and hangers. Patrick? It’s got to be.
Enough of this, I think. I don’t care what he’s going through. I need to talk
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