Wish You Were Here (42 page)

She was not one of those holy-roller juicers who saw everything as destiny, God's face in a cup of weak meeting coffee. It wasn't like she was a poster child for sobriety. But she was here, and that in itself was astonishing. Sometimes she wondered where she'd been all these years.

She emptied the top rack of glasses and loaded the few new ones from the sink. Hanging the damp dishcloth from the handle of the oven, she noticed the silly salt and pepper shakers her mother bought at the flea market, the pink pigs dressed like waiters. She picked them up, one in each hand, examining their happy faces, their black vests, the towels draped over their arms. They seemed to be rushing to fill someone's order, but gamely, rosy-cheeked.

She tried to recall a morning thirty years ago, maybe in winter, because she could picture snow falling on the Mitchells' pear tree across the driveway. Her father wore a pressed shirt, his tie thrown over his shoulder so he wouldn't spill on it, and orange juice, he always had a glass. He ate first because he had to catch the bus, taking the same chair every morning, his back to the refrigerator. Then when he was gone she and Ken and their mother sat down together and had their eggs or oatmeal. These shakers would be on the table, but she couldn't see them. There were plates, but what they looked like she had no idea, as if her brain had been scrubbed clean of the memory. Glasses, silverware, the table itself—nothing. All she could recall was her father sitting there alone, reading the business section as he ate, and then the three of them sitting down without him.

She was going to put the shakers down again—foreign now, things she might have handled in a dream—but noticed a film of grease on the stove top. She soaped and wetted a sponge and wiped between the burners, then set them back where they were supposed to go.

She did the counters and the chopping block, pensive, in slow strokes, her eyes going unfocused. While it was still dark, her father would walk down Grafton Street with his briefcase to the corner of Farragut and wait for the bus by the sign. In winter he wore galoshes over his good shoes and a black watch cap. There were three or four other fathers who waited with him, discussing money or sports, whatever it was fathers discussed. When the bus came they filed on and it rolled off, blowing diesel exhaust, the silhouettes of their heads in the lit windows.

She rinsed the sponge, filled Rufus's water dish from the teapot and refilled the teapot from the tap. Finally, she turned the lights off in order: the outside light and then the kitchen, leaving only the brow of the stove to guide her, the yellow porch overhead, the lamp above the puzzle, and lastly the brass one by the gateleg table. At the door to the stairs she paused, appreciating the dark, then went up, her father following her, cruising through the cold city, lost in his newspaper.

Emily woke in the vast, blank middle of the night, as if the Lerners' alarm had gone off. It hadn't, but she sat up, head cocked, listening for what it might have been. The rain had slackened, and as the room divulged itself—the bright clock, the shadow-box mirror on the dresser, the drapes, the closet door—she was certain she heard someone prowling through the downstairs. At the foot of the bed, invisible, Rufus exhaled indignantly, and the burglar evaporated.

She tipped her head, her mouth open yet holding her breath, until all she heard was a tiny whine, a piercing set of empty frequencies like a skewer through her head—an absence of sound that she understood was manufactured deep within her skull, one she knew from afternoons when she skipped lunch, precursor of a debilitating headache.

The window flashed, a lunging shadow painted on the drapes, making her clutch the covers, unconsciously reach beside her as if to wake Henry. Just then a wall of thunder banged and broke open, uncomfortably close, echoing over the hills, slowly dispersing in crunches like distant fireworks.

“God's sake,” she said, and Rufus groaned in protest, but she still was not convinced she was alone.

She sat there waiting for the next footfall as the rain picked up again, a handful of acorns lobbed onto the roof. The thunder had frightened her, and now her blood seemed to pulse in several different parts of her head, like heat lightning firing the sky. She imagined someone outside, a faceless man in a slicker, the muddy prints from his boots filling with water.

Ridiculous. Rufus was old but he could still hear better than she could. It was just the thunder, and her being excited about going tomorrow.

She'd moved from her warm spot, and as she settled back in, the sheets were cold on her arms. She'd reached for Henry—wasn't that funny. Even now she expected him to protect her.

She could hear her own breathing, and stopped. In the cup of her ear pressed against the pillowcase, her heartbeat scratched at the fabric like someone approaching over a crust of snow. She shifted to get rid of it, lay with her nose pointed toward the ceiling, knowing she'd never fall asleep in this position. When she and Henry slept together, they ended up with him tucked behind her, his stubbled chin pricking her shoulder, his breath warm on her neck, an arm crooked around her ribs.

It had not been so long ago, she knew, yet it seemed she'd been alone forever, futilely trying to heat their big bed with just her own dwindling body. It was last fall, and now it was August. Not even a year. She rolled on her side, slowly, trying not to stir the chilly air under the covers. Rufus sighed, the rain abated, and then the house was still again, all but her mind, slapping like a loose shutter in the wind.

Lise was up with the boys and beat everyone to the shower, even Ken. It was Wednesday, past halfway. Today would be easy, the ride eating up time, and she was glad to escape the enforced intimacy of the cottage, to turn her mind to something less demanding than his family. She could see beyond Niagara Falls to Saturday, packing the car and heading back to Massachusetts, to the crammed mailbox, the answering machine blinking with calls. Rinsing the conditioner from her slick hair, she thought she ought to feel guilty about how much she was looking forward to it, but shrugged that off. The stink of the water, the crystallized mineral deposits on the stall walls, the dark bracelet of hair ringing the drain—none of it could discourage her this morning.

“Come on, let's go, up up up,” she taunted, getting dressed, Ken groaning at her enthusiasm, Meg turning her face away. From their sleeping bags the girls eyed her with disdain. “Better get your buns out of bed if you want pancakes.”

“What kind?” Ella asked, stretching.

“Whatever kind we have. This isn't Perkins.” She high-stepped over them and pounded down the stairs for effect.

Sam was still in his pajamas, playing his Game Boy.

“Go get dressed,” she said. “And wash that crud off your face, I can still see it.” He started to complain but she cut him off. “Go
now.
You don't want to mess with me today.”

With a twinge, she saw Emily's coffee cup next to the sink. She'd really thought she had a shot at beating her. But there were no breakfast dishes to accuse her of sleeping in, and she ransacked the cupboard for a yellow box of Bisquick.

“There you go,” she said, cheering herself along, and swung around the door to the fridge.

Milk, eggs, margarine. She spun the lazy Susan and found a bowl the right size.

As she laid everything out on the counter, she noticed the flowers she'd bought at the farm stand sticking out of the trash, the stems still wet. “Nice,” she said, but resisted pulling them out to see if they were really dead. It had been four days, she didn't care.

Emily walked in as she was whisking the lumpy batter and stopped dead in the middle of the floor, shocked. “What's the occasion?”

“No occasion,” Lise said, “just making pancakes. Would you like some?”

“I've had a muffin, thanks.”

“You wouldn't have any chocolate chips?”

“I don't believe so.”

“Oh well.”

And still Emily didn't move, stuck there in the middle of the floor, staring at her as if she were on fire. Lise resisted turning and leveling her with a look, instead projected herself into the car, the fallen barns and stony hillsides passing with the miles, the hours and the day wasting away. She churned the batter, her arm hard. The powdery clumps of flour were breaking up, being absorbed. She turned the lazy Susan again and found a cast-iron skillet.

“You don't need to grease it,” Emily coached.

“I wouldn't,” Lise said cheerily. She had her own heavy set at home, picked up piecemeal year after year at the flea market. Lise knew Emily would say the same thing to Meg—to anyone who trespassed in her kitchen. Lise switched on a burner and waited, as if her gaze would make the coil glow. She would not let Emily get to her so easily.

Behind her, Emily sighed. “Wouldn't you know, it's recycling day.”

“I can do it,” Lise volunteered. “You just put it out by the road.”

“By the mailbox. You have to separate the glass and the plastic and put the magazines and newspapers in different bags. I'll do it. You're making breakfast.”

“It's no problem,” Lise insisted, suspecting Emily of stringing her along.

“What about the pop cans and beer bottles—should we put them out or will someone take them back?”

“I'll take them back.”

“Maybe we should make a special place for them in the garage. Does that sound like a good idea?”

“Sure,” she said, and went back to tending her pancakes. Once the screen door swung shut behind Emily, she let herself exhale.

“Where's breakfast?” Sam asked, sliding across the dirty linoleum in his socks.

“Didn't you wear that shirt yesterday?”

“We didn't play outside.”

“Go put on a clean one, please.”

Alone, she stared down into the skillet, smoke rising from the black metal. Bubbles opened in the soft face of the batter, releasing steam. She tested the edges with her spatula, then flipped them, turned the oven on to warm.

Outside, Emily was lugging the recycling bin up the drive.

Lise punched the screen open with the heel of her hand. “I'll do that.”

“I've got it,” Emily called back.

“Just incredible,” she said into the skillet, shaking her head, then caught herself, stopped, taking a deep breath and standing bolt upright.

She wouldn't play that game, not today. And honestly, she wanted to feel sorry for Emily, it was just that Emily made it so hard. All last fall, Lise had to remind herself to be nice to her, and then Emily seemed to take advantage of it, tearing down her Christmas dinner in front of everyone. Lise needed to be bigger, but she wasn't like Ken, she couldn't just slough that stuff off, pretend it didn't hurt her.

She'd burned the second set. She poured another pair and watched the batter spread, resenting the power Emily had over her emotions.

“Are the pancakes ready yet?” Sam asked, wearing his gray Nomar shirt that was too small.

“Two minutes. Go tell your father.”

“You don't mind taking those bottles and cans back?” Emily asked when she came in.

“We have to go to Wegmans anyway to load up on stuff for the trip home.”

“You might have to go before that. They're piling up pretty fast.”

“Not a problem.”

“When I was a child they were only a penny. It's not such a jump considering the price of everything else.”

Lise nodded, concentrating on her pancakes, and Emily made her exit. She was like a little kid, Lise thought, always having to have the last word.

There was syrup in the fridge door, but they'd need to get more soon—put it on the list. She told Justin to pour three milks for now and leave the jug out. Yes, he could have juice, but only after he finished his milk. He asked it like she might yell at him. He was a fragile kid, timid. For all Sam's problems, she was glad he was hers.

The boys were almost done when Ken came down, and she was doing the dishes when the girls finally showed. She gave them sufficient grief before telling Ella to get the ones in the oven and to be careful of the plate. Arlene returned from walking the dog and said she didn't need any, only if there were some left over.

“I made enough for everyone,” Lise said.

They would get off early, even with Meg dragging her ass. Ella was worried about leaving Rufus alone all day, but Emily said he was used to it, he'd sleep. The idea appealed to Lise. She could recline her seat and sleep in the car all the way there. Ken would want to drive anyway, with the girls chattering in the back. At the falls, she'd be busy with the kids. Nap on the way back, eat dinner, read her book.

She wondered aloud what the weather was going to be like tomorrow.

“It's supposed to clear off,” Arlene said. “Eighty degrees and sunny.”

“Gotta get out there and hit 'em,” Ken said.

“The place will be an absolute madhouse,” Emily said.

“It'll be worse on Friday,” Lise reasoned, “with everyone down from Buffalo.”

Finally Meg had her act together, and they told the boys to at least try to pee. They had to leave by the kitchen door, something to do with the dead bolt, and then Emily had forgotten to turn on the answering machine. “In case there's an emergency,” she said, though the whole family was split between the two cars.

When Emily came out again, she made straight for the 4Runner
and got in back, Sarah scooching over so she'd fit. “I'm sorry,” she explained to the back of Ken's head (as if Lise weren't looking directly at her), “but I cannot passenge while your sister's driving, I'm simply not strong enough. I hope you girls don't mind.”

“No,” Sarah and Ella said.

“Good. Now I can catch up on all the gossip.”

Lise rearranged herself so she faced the front, giving Ken a sideways look which he returned, as if to say it wasn't that bad, or that, yes, he knew, but somehow he'd make it up to her. They were in the lead, and pulled out first. She felt bad for Arlene, stuck with the boys and all the garbage in Meg's car.