until its excised. Parasites! Anemia! A convergence of unseen threats worming their way through the young prince’s bloodstream.
“You’ve barely touched anything on your plate.” Her mother shoves the tray of grilled sausages, a bowl of macaroni salad towards him. “Are you taking your supplements?”
He glowers. Her mother reels out of the kitchen towards the first-floor bathroom, yelling, “Where are the multivitamins?”
Her father shakes his head, refills his glass of wine, and leaves the table with it, muttering something about policing at the barricade. Las decamps as quickly, brushing roughly against his sister, muttering, “Nice fuckin’ going, Steph.” And Stephanie can’t help herself; she smiles, delighted at the distraction.
When her mother returns, holding a supplement bottle, Stephanie is clearing the plates. “He took off, Mom.”
“Oh dear. Do you think …”
“I’m guessing he lives.”
Her mother heads to the hallway. Stephanie hears her knock on his bedroom door. “Las … Las.”
Now the phone is on the counter beside the sink. She picks it up and checks the charge, then places it down. As she rinses and stacks each plate, her eyes flit back to the phone to see if it is winking at her, offering to save her from a loveless adolescence and an evening stuck in the oppression of her home. At seven-thirty the dishes are stacked, the table wiped, the floor swept. She thumbs in WE STILL DOIN SUMTHIN? to Nate, hits Send, and vows not to check the phone for a whole half-hour. After which she checks every ten minutes, sitting on one of the kitchen stools, leaning into the black granite island, slumping over the phone, lifting it up and placing it face down, lifting it up again. Could she text Nate a fourth time without it being cyberstalking?
When her father comes in, she makes no attempt to hide her compulsion. She feels him watching her.
“Thanks for cleaning up, hon.”
Stephanie nods, her eyes still on the phone.
Please go
, she thinks.
Mitch pours himself a generous measure from the bottle of red wine he opened at dinner and then takes out another glass, fills it halfway, and slides it towards her. “It’s summer. Enjoy yourself.”
Stephanie looks at the glass, looks at her father, and wishes he didn’t understand her as much as the offer suggests. Her eyeballs burn. He squeezes her shoulder, which means he wants to leave before tears fall. And after he does, she drains the wine in two swallows, reaches for the bottle, admires the label with its vaguely Latin name, its promised tastes of cassis and smoke, and pours the remainder into her glass.
Why not?
she thinks, carrying her newly full glass into the living room, turning off all the lights, and falling into her Nan’s puce wingback chair. She lifts and lowers her phone for the next ninety minutes, twice getting up to assure herself that the time on her cellphone is the same as on the kitchen clock.
Letting somebody hope is a cruel sport
, she thinks.
When she has finished the wine, she returns to the kitchen, finds a three-quarters-full bottle of Gewürztraminer tucked into the refrigerator’s side door. After the sourness of the red, the white tastes so cool and sweet it makes her cry.
Ella feels like a ghost haunting what was once an enviable family life, a busy, productive contentment. The frustration of the barricade has made them subject to public sympathy, private isolation. Behind the door of what was to be her dream room is her husband, Mitch, hiding away, yelling, begging, cajoling into the phone at all hours. Las is lost to his headphones, too upset by everything to allow her to minister to his hurts, and losing weight. In the face of their helplessness, they’ve all gone mute with embarrassment. And now, after ten p.m., Ella wanders in and out of the darkened rooms of her house, not up to the energy of bright lamps, their suggestion of activity, of occupancy.
She leans into the living room, wondering if
“You’ve barely touched anything on your plate.” Her mother shoves the tray of grilled sausages, a bowl of macaroni salad towards him. “Are you taking your supplements?”
He glowers. Her mother reels out of the kitchen towards the first-floor bathroom, yelling, “Where are the multivitamins?”
Her father shakes his head, refills his glass of wine, and leaves the table with it, muttering something about policing at the barricade. Las decamps as quickly, brushing roughly against his sister, muttering, “Nice fuckin’ going, Steph.” And Stephanie can’t help herself; she smiles, delighted at the distraction.
When her mother returns, holding a supplement bottle, Stephanie is clearing the plates. “He took off, Mom.”
“Oh dear. Do you think …”
“I’m guessing he lives.”
Her mother heads to the hallway. Stephanie hears her knock on his bedroom door. “Las … Las.”
Now the phone is on the counter beside the sink. She picks it up and checks the charge, then places it down. As she rinses and stacks each plate, her eyes flit back to the phone to see if it is winking at her, offering to save her from a loveless adolescence and an evening stuck in the oppression of her home. At seven-thirty the dishes are stacked, the table wiped, the floor swept. She thumbs in WE STILL DOIN SUMTHIN? to Nate, hits Send, and vows not to check the phone for a whole half-hour. After which she checks every ten minutes, sitting on one of the kitchen stools, leaning into the black granite island, slumping over the phone, lifting it up and placing it face down, lifting it up again. Could she text Nate a fourth time without it being cyberstalking?
When her father comes in, she makes no attempt to hide her compulsion. She feels him watching her.
“Thanks for cleaning up, hon.”
Stephanie nods, her eyes still on the phone.
Please go
, she thinks.
Mitch pours himself a generous measure from the bottle of red wine he opened at dinner and then takes out another glass, fills it halfway, and slides it towards her. “It’s summer. Enjoy yourself.”
Stephanie looks at the glass, looks at her father, and wishes he didn’t understand her as much as the offer suggests. Her eyeballs burn. He squeezes her shoulder, which means he wants to leave before tears fall. And after he does, she drains the wine in two swallows, reaches for the bottle, admires the label with its vaguely Latin name, its promised tastes of cassis and smoke, and pours the remainder into her glass.
Why not?
she thinks, carrying her newly full glass into the living room, turning off all the lights, and falling into her Nan’s puce wingback chair. She lifts and lowers her phone for the next ninety minutes, twice getting up to assure herself that the time on her cellphone is the same as on the kitchen clock.
Letting somebody hope is a cruel sport
, she thinks.
When she has finished the wine, she returns to the kitchen, finds a three-quarters-full bottle of Gewürztraminer tucked into the refrigerator’s side door. After the sourness of the red, the white tastes so cool and sweet it makes her cry.
Ella feels like a ghost haunting what was once an enviable family life, a busy, productive contentment. The frustration of the barricade has made them subject to public sympathy, private isolation. Behind the door of what was to be her dream room is her husband, Mitch, hiding away, yelling, begging, cajoling into the phone at all hours. Las is lost to his headphones, too upset by everything to allow her to minister to his hurts, and losing weight. In the face of their helplessness, they’ve all gone mute with embarrassment. And now, after ten p.m., Ella wanders in and out of the darkened rooms of her house, not up to the energy of bright lamps, their suggestion of activity, of occupancy.
She leans into the living room, wondering if
Similar Books
