Maybe this was progress. Her mother, she knew, hadn’t wanted children, but had had them anyhow. Annette hadn’t wanted children, and had had one, but she’d known enough to walk away so that Ruby could be raised by her father and her stepmother, a woman who, by every indication, had wanted kids. Maybe Ruby would be the bravest of them. Maybe she represented the final stage in the Morgan women’s evolution; the one who would reject marriage and motherhood completely. Or maybe she just didn’t want marriage now, or to this particular guy, and she’d do it when she was ready, and she’d be happy.
Whatever she decided, whatever she wanted, Ruby would have, God willing, many, many years ahead of her to get it. Years to make up her mind and change it; years to make mistakes, and fix them; years to try, and fail, and try again, and fail again.
Annette went to the bathroom, filled a cup from the tap, and set the glass of water on the bedside table, so it would be there if Ruby woke up. She smoothed Ruby’s curls away from her forehead. On the top shelf of the closet, she found an extra blanket. She pulled the armchair up to the side of the bed and tucked the blanket around herself, and sat in the darkness, listening to her daughter breathe.
FRIDAY MORNING
Eli
Eli Danhauser had lain awake through an endless, miserable night, on his back on the bed underneath the guest-room window, his entire body on alert as he listened for the sound of a car crunching up the driveway.
“I’m sorry about this,” his wife had said, indicating the queen-sized bed that took up most of the space in the small room. They’d be sharing a bed for the first time in weeks, and Sarah was clearly not happy about it.
“It’s fine,” Eli said. He was remembering the first time Sarah had brought him to the Cape, to meet her parents, when they’d been glad of a tiny bed. They hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other; had barely managed to get dressed and make appearances at meals.
That night, Eli sat on the edge of the mattress with his back to his wife as Sarah undressed. He let her use the bathroom first, finding solace in the familiar, homey sounds of running water, a toothbrush clattering in a glass, his wife humming. He recognized the song: “Happy Days Are Here Again.” It made him want to cry.
“Well, good night,” Sarah said after she turned off the lights. I love you, Eli thought, but could not say. I love you, and I’m so sorry that I’m going to disappoint you. He’d listened as Sarah’s breathing deepened, lying awake, the guilt chewing at his chest, gnawing at his belly. Waiting. It was torture… especially because the narrow bed seemed to have developed a declivity in its middle. No matter how hard he tried to stay in place, Eli found himself, again and again, sliding down the incline, rolling toward his wife’s sleeping back as if pushed by an invisible hand, as if some force, or maybe the house itself, was trying to get them together again.
It was just after midnight when he finally heard the car arrive. Eli crept into the shower in the bathroom, which had a circular window, like a ship’s porthole, cut into the tiled wall. He stood on his tiptoes to peer through the window, but all he could see was the treetops. Gingerly, he climbed on top of the toilet, balancing his feet on its rim so that he could see through the window and get a look at the driveway below.
Eli saw Gabe get out of the driver’s seat and go to the trunk to pull out suitcases. A dark-haired woman got out of the passenger’s seat. A second woman emerged from the rear of the car. The mother and the aunt, Eli figured. He couldn’t see their faces. He watched as the trio collected their bags and carried them up to the guesthouse. Then he forced himself to go back to bed, where he lay, wide-awake, for the duration of the night. He could hear people coming and going; the sound of a car leaving in the night at about one in the morning, and the door opening and closing at just after six. Probably Ari out tomcatting, he thought. He didn’t care. He was focused on his mission, Project Confront Gabriel’s Mother.
At six thirty in the morning, Eli worked his way out of the bed and got dressed as quietly as he could. He went to the kitchen, where he brewed a pot of coffee, sliced pineapple and strawberries, piled muffins on a platter, and poured juice into a pitcher. By seven, he had the table set, the dishwasher unloaded, the floors swept, and the countertops clean.
“Eli?” Ronnie was standing at the top of the staircase, gripping the railing, looking startled. His mother-in-law wore a bathrobe, and her hair was uncombed.
Eli set the fruit on the table. “Good morning. Want some coffee?”