“Sorry, Mom.”
“And . . .” Peter prompts.
“And I will never, ever speak to you like that again,” Jack says.
Peter takes me by both hands and pulls me up off the sofa. “Cheer up, grumpy. See? Your son loves you. Now—beach-ward?” He goes to the porch door and yells to Maddy and Finn. “Oi! Out of the pond. We’re leaving in five minutes.”
They splash each other and duck under the water, ignoring him.
“So, can I take the car?” Jack asks.
“In your dreams, mate.”
“Then can you at least drop me off at Sam’s house?”
Two seconds, and already Jack has reverted to entitled teenager being unfairly denied his rights. It should rile me. But in this moment, when my heart is spinning off its axis, his utter predictability is a life preserver. I turn my cheek toward him. “Kiss, please, you pill.”
He gives me a reluctant peck, but I know he loves me.
Peter looks at his watch. “Crap. We’re incredibly late. Round up your kittens, Elle. I’ll load the car. Jack, call Sam and tell him to pick you up at the end of the road in ten minutes.”
I yell to Finn and Maddy and head down the path to the bathroom. The gummed-up ziplock bag with all our sun block in it has mysteriously vanished. I know I left it in the pantry yesterday. I yank open the wide bottom drawer of the built-in linen closet where my mother shoves anything she finds lying around the house that she deems unsightly. It is there, of course, along with a pair of Maddy’s flip-flops I’ve been looking for and a damp bathing suit of Peter’s that now has that forgotten-in-the-washing-machine-for-three-days stench of mildew. Buried at the bottom of the drawer is a large red-plaid thermos my mother has had since I was younger than Maddy. Once upon a time, it had a chic, beige plastic coffee cup that fit snugly onto the top. I unscrew the stopper and give the thermos a sniff. It has probably been twenty years since my mother used it, yet the faintest smell of stale coffee still lingers in its hard-plastic walls. I rinse it out, fill it from the bathtub tap, take a sip. The water has the slightly metallic taste of pipes. I need ice.
At the end of the path I stop for a moment, watching my lovely husband rounding the corner with three boogie boards on his head, a pile of towels under his arm, the children nipping at his heels. I do not deserve him.
“Peter,” I call out.
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“Of course you do, you silly git.”
7
1974. May, New York.
Cherry blossom season. The hill behind the Metropolitan Museum is a sea of pink. I would eat it if I could. I climb up into the low-hanging boughs of a tree and hide myself in a canopy of flowers. Through the blooms I can see the ancient hieroglyphics on Cleopatra’s Needle.
Below me, my mother spreads a checkered cloth on the dappled slope, takes a paper plate from her basket, and dumps out a baggie of peeled hard-boiled eggs. She unfolds a square of tinfoil filled with a mixture of salt and pepper, dips in the pointy end of her egg, and takes a bite.
“Yum,” she says out loud to herself. She fishes her red-plaid thermos from the basket, unscrews the plastic cup from the top, and pours herself some milky coffee.
“Eleanor, come down from there. We don’t have all day.”
I make my way carefully. I’m wearing my new leotard and tights under my jumper and I don’t want to snag them. We are going straight from the park to my first ballet lesson.
“Here.” My mother hands me a brown paper bag and a little box of milk. “There’s peanut butter and butter, or liverwurst.”
It’s Saturday, and the park is crowded, but no one else bothers to climb up over the rocks and down into this hidden grove. I find a dry spot in the grass, lay my cardigan on it, and sit beside Mum. She’s deep in a novel, so we eat our lunch in silence. Above us, the sky is the crispest blue. I hear the distant crack of a baseball, a sudden happy cheering. The rocks smell sweet and clean. It’s the first real day of spring, and they are airing themselves in the sun after a long winter hibernating under banks of snow and dog shit.
“I brought Pecan Sandies,” Mum says. “Do you want the last hard-boiled egg?”
“I need to pee.”
“Well, go behind that rock.”
“I can’t.”
“Don’t be prissy, Eleanor. You’re seven years old. Who on earth will care?”
“I’m wearing my leotard and tights.”
“Well then, you’ll just have to hold it until you get there.” She dog-ears her page, shoves the book in her bag, and starts packing away our picnic. “Help me pack this up.”