On the day she visits the house, Addie runs to meet Iris, and when she tells Iris about school, about the small footstool she helped Alex build, her eyes keep looking over at Iris’s belly. Kay marvels that Iris has Alex’s nose. They all eat lunch like some new version of a family. Addie shows Iris her nail polish, reports that Kay said they could plant a garden in the backyard. Iris tells Kay her tomato panini are the best. Kay is moved when Iris invites her to feel the baby kick. She is surprised she doesn’t want to take her hand away once it’s there. The baby shifts and twists under Iris’s shirt, and Kay closes her eyes and loves the sensation. “Bless the little angel,” Kay says.
Panic. Panic comes as quickly as the happiness, like its side effect. Did she forget to pack Addie a snack for school? Lunch money? Is Alex picking her up today? She is too old for this, she sometimes thinks. She panics when it rains one day: rain and rain, overflowing the roof gutters. She panics that the basement will flood from this fast rain. She panics about Greg. These weeks of recovery in the hospital. She knows they will all hold their breath for every blood test. She panics that she is not panicking enough some days when Addie is reading to her, when Iris is texting her an ultrasound picture, when the dog is putting its paw gently on her lap.
The boxes. On the day Addie leaves, after she waves to Kay from the backseat of Alex’s car and they drive away, Kay is able to look at the boxes in the basement. She has thought about Benny’s stuff so often, but she could never look. Her sister packed up his things. Kay lifts one lid and exhales. His Walkman, a Beastie Boys cassette still inside. She slides the battery pack open because she is worried they rusted, but they are fine. She holds the two small batteries in her hand and looks at them. She sees his stack of MAD magazines. The small plaque he made in shop class with his name burned into it. He was real, she thinks. This was all real. She lets her hand hold the key chain from Bar Harbor that used to hang from his backpack zipper. She closes her eyes. “Benjamin Scott,” she says, and sighs.
Kay hears a noise and turns around. The dog has followed her downstairs. They are keeping Wizard for a few weeks to help Freddie. “Well hello,” she says quietly. His stare is compassionate. He waits for her and follows her up the stairs. She looks around the clean kitchen. The sun makes the granite on the counter sparkle. A vase of pussy willow branches sits on the table. How odd it will be to not have Addie here tonight. She knows she and Alex will feel the quiet. Maybe they can go out for dinner, for a drive in the lengthening evening. Maybe they could walk the dog the way they used to when they had Toby.
Freddie’s boss, Darcy Crowley, has agreed to let the cat stay with her for a while. Kay knows Darcy from going to the cleaners over the years, knows her because who in Wharton could forget her? She has thought about Darcy ever since December when her son, Luke, was killed in a car accident. Whenever she sees Darcy these days, she feels as if they share a terrible commonality they can’t speak about. Kay was shocked when Darcy telephoned her one day and asked how she could help, offering time with Addie, offering to have curtains or rugs or tablecloths cleaned. She does not seem to be an animal person, but when Kay suggested temporarily taking the cat, Darcy didn’t hesitate. “Certainly I would. As long as it’s mannerly.”
Kay walks over to the window and picks up her rosary beads. She doesn’t say any prayers but holds them, feeling their weight in her palm.
She sees their driveway where Addie sketched birds and yellow suns and whales in sidewalk chalk, the driveway Iris walked up when she visited and timidly knocked on the door, the driveway Benny rode over with his bike and never came home. She is grateful for its cracks, for its shiny black tar. She is grateful for the folded newspaper that sits there, for the squirrel that pitter-patters over it, for the white flower buds that blow across. She holds her rosary and is grateful for the cuckoo clock that Addie looked up at every hour while she stayed here, for the sweet shifting sound time always makes.
16. Out to Sea
It’s been four months since he’s seen her.
Four months since she stood beside him in her paisley dress at the wedding, walking slowly with her arm locked inside his, the stars like scattered glitter in the black sky.
Four months since she let him kiss her hand, since she looked at him while he talked in that way a woman hasn’t looked at him in so long. Four months since she wore his coat and he didn’t care how cold he was. Four months since she came to him, eyes rimmed with red, and begged him to drive her to the hospital. He remembers how she held her hand over her mouth the whole ride, how carefully she buckled her seat belt.