Salvatore moved to the refrigerator. If Lucy was OK, Salvatore knew he would find dinner ingredients—either fresh fruit and vegetables or Diet Coke and Lean Cuisines. It was only the late-stage addicts who barely ate, saving every cent for their drugs. These poor souls could live for a long time on ramen noodles.
Salvatore opened the fridge and sighed. There was nothing—no milk, no butter, no Diet Coke, champagne, or juice. No Tex-Mex leftovers brought home from work.
And in the cabinet: no coffee or tea.
Just three ramen packets in a lonely pile.
-10-
Whitney
ON THE DAY THEY got Roma’s diagnosis, four years before, Whitney and Jules had left the doctor’s office without speaking; they were silent during the whole ride home. As Jules turned onto their street, Whitney’s shoulders eased a bit, relieved that at least there was an answer. She and Jules could be on the same page now; it was no longer her opinion versus his. They just needed to sit down together, as they’d done so many times—talking about college 529 funds for the twins, planning vacations, working through mortgage documents—and discuss their next steps. Some sort of fancy mental hospital? An intensive, inpatient treatment center? The doctor had been grave, but Whitney believed that everything could be solved. It was just a matter of work, period. Nothing was truly uncontrollable if you worked hard enough （and had money）。
That afternoon, the doctor’s words still ringing in her ears, Whitney held her tongue as Jules paused by their safety gate, letting the scanner register his identity, then maneuvered the car into the dim garage. He turned off his Mercedes and it made the ticking noise as its complex engine cooled.
“Jules,” said Whitney.
“Darling, I have a surprise,” he said.
“Jules,” Whitney repeated.
He turned to her. “New Zealand,” said Jules. He put his hand on her knee. He was exactly the prize she wanted…or the prize she had been trained to want. Her grandmother had been so pleased. But now Gram was dead and Whitney could wonder: did she want her husband anymore? Had she ever loved him—or just mistaken security for love?
Ballet trained you to obey orders. Your job was to become your teacher’s vision. Nobody wanted a dancer with opinions.
“We should go to New Zealand,” said Jules. “A vacation. All of us—together.”
New Zealand? It was useless. Ridiculous. A big expensive itinerary that led them right back to this horrible place.
The doctor had said: We call it conduct disorder with callous and unemotional traits. I’m sorry.
“That’s your surprise,” said Jules. He alighted from the car and walked into their house, already calling someone about something with his Bluetooth headset.
In this moment, Whitney wondered if Jules’s remote aloofness, his inability to be won, was not a positive characteristic but rather a symptom of a disease. The same disease, maybe, that their daughter had just been diagnosed with—it ran in families, the doctor had said.
Roma, Whitney saw clearly, was her problem. Jules would never take action to help.
This burden was Whitney’s alone. But what could she possibly do?
* * *
—
THE TRIP WAS A write-off. Many of Whitney’s clients were interested in New Zealand—it was where they wanted to be when the upcoming apocalypse hit. The idea （and they all had the same idea） was to be as far as possible from the U.S., but also in a place that was just like the U.S. They wanted ski mountains and beaches, but none of the starving hordes. These people were…Whitney didn’t want to say cold and calculating, but honestly, they were cold and calculating. They could compartmentalize. Perhaps they were like Roma, truly.
Jules bought first-class tickets. They sat in a row: Jules, Whitney, Roma, and Xavier. They hadn’t been on the plane for ten minutes when Xavier cried out, “What the heck, Roma!”
Roma didn’t move. Her pearl-colored headphones covered her ears and her eyes were closed. Whitney had always admired her daughter’s eyelashes—they were long and lush, unlike Whitney’s. When Roma’s eyes were closed, Whitney could pretend things were different. It was like a drug, this lovely forgetting. She’d imagined so many futures for her girl, so many adventures for the two of them together.
As a little girl, Roma had slept next to Whitney every night, Jules banished to the guest room. Roma would fall asleep before Whitney, her two “stuffies” gathered close to her heart, her face flushed pink. Whitney would read for a while longer, then turn out the light and put her nose to Roma’s hair, inhaling. Roma smelled like ice cream melted in the sun: faintly buttery, sweet, a bit tangy. Whitney would cradle her head, touch her nose to Roma’s. Roma had once been hers.
* * *
—
THE AIR NEW ZEALAND flight attendant smiled at the Brownson family and continued down the aisle. The twins were twelve and looked angelic. As soon as she was out of earshot, Xavier, said, “Roma pinched me.”
“Honey,” said Whitney.
“Look!” he insisted, showing Whitney his thigh, where a purple welt bloomed. Whitney’s stomach went sour.
“Jules,” said Whitney. He was also pretending to be asleep.
“Hm?” said Jules, opening one eye.
“Roma pinched him.”
“Dad, look!” said Xavier. It was there—it was a fact. A painful-looking bruise on his fair skin.
Jules stared at his son’s leg. “Well,” he said, finally. “Roma’s asleep.”
“Dad…” said Xavier.
“I don’t know,” said Jules.
“Come on, Dad! You think I did this to myself?”
“Settle down, all of you.” Jules closed his eyes again. Xavier looked at Whitney.
“Sweetheart,” she said, her voice pleading.
“It hurts, Mom,” said Xavier. He swallowed. “She did this,” he said. The defiance in Xavier’s eyes faded slowly when Whitney didn’t answer, but it did fade.
“Would anyone like a drink?” said the stewardess, on her way back down the aisle. Xavier shook his head and turned away.
“I’ll take some champagne,” said Jules. His hand on Whitney’s knee was warm.
-11-
Annette
ANNETTE AND LOUIS’S LAWYER was on speakerphone, the volume high. “OK,” said Louis, standing next to his statue of his childhood pony, Red, tugging at his too-tight jeans. “OK, listen. We’re just speaking to you as a precaution, Toby.”
“Robert didn’t do anything,” said Annette.
“Right! Right!” said Louis. “Toby, I just want you to know. This is a good boy we’re talking about.”
“I absolutely agree,” said their lawyer, who was Louis’s parents’ lawyer, currently en route from Midland to Austin. “But…Are you sitting down, Louis?”
“Yes, Toby,” said Louis, annoyed. He looked at Annette, daring her to disagree.
“OK, so here’s what’s happening,” said Toby. “I just got an email from the Austin Police Department. Louis, Annette, they’re asking for Robert’s DNA.”
“What?” cried Louis. “His DNA? Why?”
Toby sighed. “I honestly don’t know,” he said. “I’ll be there soon. All of you need to sit tight, OK? Especially Robert.”