But she knew what they looked like. Alice pulled a few dresses out of her closet—drapey ones, snug ones, ones with elaborate beading and even a few stray feathers—and laid them across the bed. It was like playing dress-up in her own life. At least, this version of her life.
Dorothy toddled in to check on her and immediately ran a jam-covered hand across the bedspread and toward one of the dresses, a beige thing that looked right for a very, very rich nun.
“Hi, Dorothy,” Alice said. “You like that one?”
Dorothy licked her palm and then shook her head. “I like the pink one.”
The pink one was pretty good, Alice had to admit. It had a high neck with a wide ruffle that reminded her of the prom dress in Pretty in Pink, and then stopped short midthigh, where it continued with enough feathers for a dozen ostriches.
“You don’t think it’s too much?” Alice asked. Dorothy shook her head vigorously.
“It’s like a flamingo.” Dorothy seemed like a very direct person. Alice was sure that she would love her very much, if she were her mother, if she could remember being Dorothy’s mother. Alice could feel something—love, maybe, or devotion—entering the room like an invisible cloud. It wasn’t exactly what she imagined motherhood would feel like, but what did Alice know about mothers anyway? Alice could hardly remember being in the same room as her own mother—she had three or four memories, and that was it; everything else was long-distance, and came after Serena had left. People told Alice all the time that it was hard for a mother to lose custody, but it wasn’t hard when the mother agreed. Mothering seemed like downhill skiing, or cooking elaborate meals from scratch—sure, anyone could learn how to do it, but it was much easier for the people who had seen other people do it first, and well, from a very young age.
Sondra called Dorothy’s name and the girl dutifully trotted back to the kitchen, where dinner was being presented for the children. Alice checked her phone again—she tried calling Sam, but there was still no answer. Her mother had left a message, which was just about the only part of her life that felt unchanged. There were half a dozen texts from people whose names she didn’t recognize wishing her a happy belated. Alice was popular.
Tommy came in, shutting the door behind him. He was sweaty again, in exercise clothes. A rich-person marriage with small children seemed to involve parents taking turns exercising and then bathing. Alice remembered the sex that she and Tommy had had, and how long ago that night must feel to him.
“Hey,” she said. “Remember when we fucked at my sixteenth birthday?”
“Heh,” Tommy said. “Did you call the plumber back? There’s still a leak in the back of my office; it must be coming from the apartment upstairs.”
“Sure,” Alice said. She was standing in her underwear, which was very nice underwear, the kind that came in a box surrounded by tissue paper and that you were supposed to wash by hand. Alice was used to buying her underpants three at a time, and then wearing them until the cotton was too stained or ripped to be ignored, when she would throw them in the trash and buy more. She ran a hand over her lacy bra. “This is nice, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I see the credit card bills.” Tommy yanked his shirt off over his head. “How was your dad? Was Debbie there, too?”
“She was. She was really nice. My dad isn’t talking, but he made some noises. I think he knew I was there. He definitely knew I was there,” Alice said, though she wasn’t really sure. What was definite? What was real? She had been standing next to her father—she had touched his hand. None of the grief books she’d bought and hardly read had mentioned this scenario. Or maybe she just hadn’t read closely enough. Maybe there were secret chapters written just for people like her, like the handbook in Beetlejuice. You didn’t need the information before you needed it. Alice sat down on the bed and looked at the books teetering on her bedside table. Brené Brown, Cheryl Strayed, Elizabeth Gilbert. If Oprah had read and loved a book, Alice had bought it, apparently. There weren’t any books that she didn’t recognize. Tommy walked into the bathroom and she heard the shower turn on and begin to splash the tile walls. There was a small drawer in the table, and Alice slid it open. She put the letter from her father in and shut the drawer again quietly. Sesame Street was blasting in the living room. The letter of the day was L. Alice’s children screamed happily.
* * *
? ? ?
Sondra whisked Leo and Dorothy quickly through the party to say hello and curtsy sweetly at the guests. Alice found herself wanting to follow them into their bedrooms and curl up under the covers, their warm little bodies pressed against hers, but she had put on the flamingo dress, and it was her party, and she was not allowed to leave. Sam hadn’t called her back yet, and Alice was starting to panic. Leonard had said it was a chute, a ramp, a slide forward, and this was where she landed. Whatever she’d done, whatever decisions she’d made, they had led her here. Alice was making lists in her head, trying to piece together everything that had happened in between. The marriage, obviously, and the children. But Alice had still gone to art school—there were projects of hers hanging on the walls—and she still loved all the same things. The fridge was full of Fairway avgolemono and Zabar’s challah and lox from Murray’s, and her favorite books were still on the shelf, in the editions she’d always had. Alice smiled at everyone as they came into the apartment, feeling like a festive amnesiac. As long as no one asked her any direct, meaningful questions, she would be fine. Having been to many parties just like this one at the homes of Belvedere parents, Alice actually thought there was a good chance she could get through it talking about which of the catered snacks were the most delicious and asking people follow-up questions once they mentioned that they were in the middle of a home renovation.