When he walked out of that room, he never saw Joe again.
Patrick wiped his eyes with the back of his hands and found Maisie standing in front of him clutching three containers of orange juice with foil tops.
“You okay, GUP?”
Patrick inhaled deeply and said he was, but he couldn’t hide his tears.
I want to be.
But he couldn’t do this again.
TWENTY
Patrick pulled the Tesla into his garage around five and, feeling no need to take it out again anytime soon, secured the car under the dustcover. Grant wasn’t in the mood for lupper; Patrick forced him to eat half a peanut butter sandwich anyway so that he could take the mild painkiller that had been prescribed, changed the sheets on the kid’s bed, and then tucked him in tight. After he was out, Maisie helped clean up the debris from the quake, holding a bag open as her uncle swept the remnants of some possessions with a broom and dustpan. The Jonathan Adler knickknacks from atop the piano. A vase from Takashimaya that lived on the coffee table. A few shattered picture frames, photos of him on various sets, mostly, with other recognizable faces. They straightened ornaments on tinsel branches and marveled how so many had refused to be shaken from the tree. Maisie, for her part, seemed equally reluctant to shake her uncle’s side.
“These don’t really need glass, anyway,” Maisie offered helpfully, assessing the picture frames.
“You’re right,” Patrick agreed. The photos themselves were undamaged.
They swept the tile floors and vacuumed the rugs, unsure where little shards and remnants could be hiding. He would tell the kids not to walk barefoot for a few days, and would put Marlene in her booties, the ones they used to protect her paws from the heat. And tomorrow when she was here, he and Rosa would sweep the floors again.
“You have a big house,” Maisie observed, as if it had occurred to her for the first time. “Don’t you get lonely when it’s just you?”
“Sometimes,” Patrick responded. “I think that’s part of being an adult.”
“I’m not going to be lonely. When I’m an adult.”
“No?” He wondered how she could be so sure in the face of a loss like the one she was enduring.
“No. I’m going to have a smaller house. With three Siberian huskies.”
“That seems wise.” Patrick surveyed his spacious living room. It was too big for one person. “Will there be anyone else in this house? Any people?”
“How do you mean?”
Patrick shrugged. “I don’t know. A husband—or maybe a wife?”
Maisie lifted another photo frame, the one Patrick had gifted her with a photo of her mom. A Christmas miracle—the glass remained intact.
“A husband maybe. I don’t have to decide right now.” She traced her mom’s face with her finger.
Since either answer would be fine with Patrick, he agreed. “There’s plenty of time to decide. The huskies, however, are an excellent start.”
When they began on the shelves, Maisie cradled his Golden Globe—the globe part dented and bent—and quietly broke down in tears. “Hey, it’s okay,” Patrick said to comfort her. “It’s the Hollywood Foreign Press. They give them out to anyone. Twiggy, for god’s sake, has two.” Patrick stroked her hair, mimicking the way Clara had carefully brushed it; he remembered how calming it had been for Maisie. This wasn’t about some cherished possession. This was something else. Her growing fear that attaching herself to anything will only cause those things to break, wither, fall away—that maybe she would be lonely after all. “Things can be replaced,” Patrick whispered, pulling her in for a hug. “Things can always be replaced.”
Eventually Maisie retired to bed, choosing to stay the night with Grant—at least to start. Alone at last, Patrick surveyed their efforts. The house seemed more modest, elegant. It was like the earthquake unleashed Coco Chanel, dictating to the living room her old adage: Look in the mirror and take one thing off. Patrick kind of liked the new look, the simplicity. It was spare.
He set to work on his bedroom, wanting to thin it out to match his new aesthetic. The TV was busted, but he didn’t mind; he had little use for it at night other than as background noise when he felt most alone. The books were easy to restack, but he pulled a few titles to donate, anyhow. Books should be an experience, he thought, not a trophy for having read them. The Slim Aarons photo on the wall outside his en suite was askew, but he easily slid it back on its hook, and everything, for a moment, felt level again.