The Children(12)

Lost. Was this good or bad when it came to love? Guinevere wanted to hug him, but he always seemed surprised when you did. It was better to let him hug you first.

Their father scrubbed both hands over his face. He seemed suddenly tired, red-gold and bleary and thick. A bear in a fairy tale who’d once been a prince. He turned his eyes to the house.

His children followed suit, all three of them watching the strip of lit windows on the third floor. Behind them, that long warm room they hadn’t breached since the first day, with its desk all covered in hands. It had become Edith’s, where she went every day to—what? Read, probably. She’d carted all her books inside it and had Llewellyn bring up a chair.

Guinevere remembered the room’s closed-mouth stillness, its absolute quiet, all the treetops moving in semaphore outside its seven windows. What was so awful about it? She couldn’t remember now.

The windows went dark as they watched. All at once, like blown-out candles. A minute passed, and Edith called out through the dusk.

From books Guinevere knew that mothers liked to stand in doorways, shouting for their children. Suppertime! they’d say. Or, Be home before dark! Or simply their children’s names, one after another. Edith only ever called for Llewellyn.

He rose and put his hands out. Each child took one, and together they crossed the grass. Edith waited in the doorway, house yawning at her back. When they were close Llewellyn let go of his son and daughter and moved toward his wife, unencumbered.

She stretched long arms over the threshold and pulled him in.





Seven

1998




When were they going home? And where exactly would home be?

Guinevere didn’t ask. Maybe if she ignored the questions they would be resolved in her favor. This is home. You’re already here.

She woke one night with a dry mouth and a full bladder. Her neck and shoulders prickled with sunburn. In her dreams she’d been front-crawling along a briny Venetian canal, fishes nibbling at her skin. She crossed her legs, rolled onto her side then back again. Could she sleep, could she make it until morning? She could not.

Guinevere peed and rinsed her hands as fast as she could. She didn’t like the second-floor bathroom, especially at night. The toilet chain felt rusty against her palm, the porthole window rattled when the wind hit it. Water from the tap tasted like it had been carried a long way in a bucket. The way to get it down was to pretend you were Laura Ingalls Wilder.

On her way back to bed she heard her parents’ voices through their bedroom door. She shuffle-slid closer, until her ear hovered right over the wood.

Llewellyn said, “I have to go back.”

Edith, coldly: “You?”

“We. Us. Me and you and the children. We have to go back, to . . .” He gave a strained laugh. “To civilization, Edie. Autumn’ll come soon enough, heaven knows what kind of schools they’ve got out here in the back of beyond. They need other kids to play with. And I have to work.”

“You have to work. What about me?”

A palpable pause. “What about you?”

“Are you kidding me, Llew? How many times do you need to hear it?”

“I’ve heard it. You’ve been saying it since I met you. But, love, be honest. Have you written one word since we got here? I know you didn’t in Italy. That was the plan, wasn’t it? You wanted to sit in cafés with your notebook, you wanted to . . .”

“You’re actually bringing up Italy right now? Are you high?”

“No, I’m not—”

“All that romantic horseshit about cafés was your idea, by the way, pitched to me after you’d already decided we were going. Venice was all about you, the rest of us were an afterthought.”

“That’s not fair. Venice was a chance to rest, stop bleeding our money away on rent. To sort things out, plan my path back to—”

“And how’d that work out?” Edith hissed. “Maybe Italy could’ve been good for us, if just once you’d kept your dick in your pants.”

“Please don’t bring that up again.” Her father’s voice was so soft and defeated it made Guinevere’s skin hurt. “I know I’m selfish. I’m a selfish man, a weak man. But I love you. I love you. I love our children.”

“Did you love me in Italy? Did you love your children? Or were you too busy fucking the nanny?”

Guinevere’s shoulders jumped. Her mother’s words were vicious, impenetrable.

“Edith, I’ve heard you. I’ve apologized. We left Venice, we came here, I’ve done what you asked of me. And it’s helped, really, all of us being here together. It’s taught me that I can be better. I can be who you need me to be, as long as I can work. It’s not good for me here. This house, it’s not good. I can’t stay here.”

“What, because of a few weird dreams?”

“It’s not a few . . . it’s every night, it’s the same dream, and it’s starting to feel like a warning. Door after door after—I’m sick of closing my eyes and finding myself in the same damned house! This house. How do you not feel it? The wrongness here?”

What doors? What wrongness? Guinevere held her breath, but her father didn’t clarify.

Edith spoke steadily. “This is how it’s gonna be. You say you want this family, I need you to prove it to me. You’ve already got two kids you’re not allowed to see, you really want to make it four? You think you’ll mount your great comeback with me stirring the shit, taking interviews? I’ll look like Mother fucking Courage.”