Greg placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I worry about you.”
Patrick stood, dragging his foot across the ragged carpet. He studied the sole of his shoe as if he had stepped in something unpleasant. “Don’t.”
The lump in Patrick’s throat doubled in size. Coupled with the pounding in his chest, compounded by the precipitous drop in his stomach—it was time to rip off the Band-Aid. He pushed Greg forward until they reached the atrium, the dingy airport suddenly awash in sunlight. “I’m the normal one in the family. Remember that. I’m the most normal.”
“You say it like it’s a competition.”
“Everything’s a competition.”
Patrick’s phone dinged. He pulled it out of his pocket and studied the screen.
“What is it?” Greg asked.
“Package delivered from the Hollywood Foreign Press. I think it’s my new Golden Globe.”
Greg laughed. “Yeah. You’re definitely the most normal.” He looked up at the glass above them. There was a small brown bird, confused by all the windows, flying back and forth from one side of the glass enclosure to the other, looking for a way out. Greg waved at the bird. “That’s us,” he said. “Trapped,” as if the atrium was their grief.
Patrick didn’t want to be included in this diagnosis. “Maybe he’s comfortable in here.”
Greg offered a dismissive shrug. “Trapped, nonetheless.”
And it was true. The bird didn’t belong inside. There might have been comforts—air-conditioning, a Starbucks where people bought muffins that crumbled and left behind delicious, bird-sized treats—but it was ultimately out of place. An airport was not where a bird belonged; even the man-made birds needed to pull back from their gates to pick up speed and fly. The only way out was the sliding door. The bird, high above them, would have to sink lower in order to make its escape.
Patrick heard thundering footsteps with no sign of slowing. Maisie hit her uncle’s legs with such force, Patrick took three steps backward to avoid toppling over. She wrapped her arms around him. “Bye, GUP.” She didn’t let go.
Grant arrived with a second, less forceful, thump, adding to their hug by gripping his sister, his little hands just reaching Patrick’s leg. “Bye,” he said, and added something in Grant-speak, something like Thee you thoon.
Maisie wore one of her rash guard shirts, as if the airplane might have a pool. Patrick smiled. He crouched to roll the sleeves up her forearms. “This is the best costume for today,” he started.
Greg looked puzzled.
Maisie lifted her uncle’s chin and replied, “And I can always take off the skirt and use it as a cape.”
“Maisie, you’re not wearing a skirt. You hate skirts.” Greg scratched his chin. “What are you talking about?”
“We’re doing a bit,” Patrick replied.
“It’s from Grey Gardens,” Maisie added.
“What’s Grey Gardens?” Greg was totally confused.
Maisie sighed. “It’s a 1975 documentary by the Maysles brothers. We watched it while you were gone.”
“I gave these kids an education,” Patrick said. It sounded like edu-gay-tion.
Greg smiled. No doubt he’d be hearing about it for weeks.
Patrick’s eyes burned; he stood, pinching the bridge of his nose in a futile effort to get it to stop. As angry as he had been with Greg for leaving his kids with him, he was now twice as angry at his brother for taking them away. He hugged them tight to his leg. “I need you to remember something. We’ll call it Guncle Rule sweet sixteen: I want you to really live. To live is the rarest of things. Most people merely exist.” It was another lesson cribbed from Oscar Wilde, but often what kept families apart was the unbearable thought that other people shared our own faults—and Patrick did not want to be responsible for the children sharing his.
Greg pulled Patrick in close; in all his life, Patrick could not remember being hugged this tight.
“Come home,” Greg whispered.
Patrick flinched. He kicked his leg slightly to free himself from Maisie, taking a step backward until it was only Greg’s fingertips on him, and then another step until he was just out of reach. “You’re going to miss boarding.”
Maisie frowned, then started to cry. Greg put his hands on his daughter’s shoulders. This was just their uncle’s way.
“You’ll take care of Marlene?” Maisie sobbed.
It had been Greg’s idea that Marlene stay in Palm Springs. He told a reluctant Maisie to think about her uncle. How he would be all alone once they were gone. How Marlene would be good for him, and how they would all be back to visit. “I will,” Patrick agreed, but he wasn’t certain he’d said the words aloud.