over the sheets, try to rip them, fail, try again, succeed. I tear both sheets into long shreds. Then I walk over to the dresser and upend his top drawer, watch the rain of boxers and T-shirts and folded socks. “Now what do I do?” I ask them. “Huh? Now what do I do? You tell me! You tell me!” And then, of course, I start sobbing. I sit down on the floor, hold one of his T-shirts against me and ask him to forgive me. I say I am just so scared.
I cry until my stomach aches, until my throat is sore. And then I get up and put Jay’s things away, put fresh sheets on the bed, carry the torn ones out to the trash.
Tonight I will try once again to teach Sarah how to use chopsticks. And then I will start being honest. “Sarah,” I will say, looking her right in the eye, my insides true and calm as a ticking clock. “Daddy is in a coma, and I still hope he will wake up. I still believe he will wake up. I know you said you don’t want to see him anymore, but I think we should all go together next time.” And then I will take her to see him, which frightens her, I know, Amy too; but I willtake them to see him and I will say, “Talk. He can hear you. That I know. I really do know that.”
And if I need to cry, I will cry. “I’m just feeling sad right now,” I’ll say. “I just need to cry to feel better. Maybe you need to, too. It’s all right.” What would be wrong with that? What would be wrong with the three of us sitting on the sofa in the living room, crying together? The three of us asking together in silence for something we want too much to say out loud. There is nothing wrong with that. It’s probably only real prayer.
I want to get up. This long, bright field of things waving, you are all on the other side. The field is so bright, yellow sun, and then a rush of birds rising up, their calls, their calls to me, three birds. They rush toward my face and then they are gone, black dots high up in the sky, shimmering pepper
.
I work at a beverage distribution center. Beverage World, it’s called. I can walk to it. There’s a globe on a pole outside the small brick building. It used to spin on its metal axis. Now it stays still, rusting a little more each day. There’s a big office with two desks in the front; a smaller room in the back where the boss, Frank, sits. He’s one of the most elegant-looking men I ever saw: tall and slender; neat mustache;thick, gorgeous gray hair; looks like he ought to rule a country or at least conduct symphonies. He loves sailing, has little toy boats all over his office, and one of those wave-in-glass things that offer an approximation of the continuous comfort of the ocean. He has a terrible stutter. You just don’t know what to do, sometimes, when he gets going. You just stand there, thinking really hard
it’s all right, you just take your time, I’m not mad, don’t worry
but of course he does worry, he feels really badly that he just can’t spit it out. He’s a nice man, he lets me come and go, work around the kids’ schedules, leave early if I need to, come in on Saturday if I want to. The woman I work with in the front, Dolly, is in love with him. She’s full-time, she’s worked with Frank for twenty-three years, and I don’t think he knows how she feels. He’s married, happily; Dolly’s shy and careful. She wears, with no sense of irony, pearl-decorated glasses chains and cardigan sweaters buttoned at the top. She’s so happy when Frank’s on the phone and can’t get his own coffee. She carries it in to him as though it’s her heart on a silver platter, which of course it is.
It’s not a glamorous job, by any means, but it’s a break from the house and a little extra income that I’ve been saving for the kids’ college tuition. I’m the girl Friday: I do a little filing, a little phone-answering, even a little bookkeeping, though that terrifies me. I get to pay bills sometimes; I really like, for some reason, paying the trucking companies. They
I cry until my stomach aches, until my throat is sore. And then I get up and put Jay’s things away, put fresh sheets on the bed, carry the torn ones out to the trash.
Tonight I will try once again to teach Sarah how to use chopsticks. And then I will start being honest. “Sarah,” I will say, looking her right in the eye, my insides true and calm as a ticking clock. “Daddy is in a coma, and I still hope he will wake up. I still believe he will wake up. I know you said you don’t want to see him anymore, but I think we should all go together next time.” And then I will take her to see him, which frightens her, I know, Amy too; but I willtake them to see him and I will say, “Talk. He can hear you. That I know. I really do know that.”
And if I need to cry, I will cry. “I’m just feeling sad right now,” I’ll say. “I just need to cry to feel better. Maybe you need to, too. It’s all right.” What would be wrong with that? What would be wrong with the three of us sitting on the sofa in the living room, crying together? The three of us asking together in silence for something we want too much to say out loud. There is nothing wrong with that. It’s probably only real prayer.
I want to get up. This long, bright field of things waving, you are all on the other side. The field is so bright, yellow sun, and then a rush of birds rising up, their calls, their calls to me, three birds. They rush toward my face and then they are gone, black dots high up in the sky, shimmering pepper
.
I work at a beverage distribution center. Beverage World, it’s called. I can walk to it. There’s a globe on a pole outside the small brick building. It used to spin on its metal axis. Now it stays still, rusting a little more each day. There’s a big office with two desks in the front; a smaller room in the back where the boss, Frank, sits. He’s one of the most elegant-looking men I ever saw: tall and slender; neat mustache;thick, gorgeous gray hair; looks like he ought to rule a country or at least conduct symphonies. He loves sailing, has little toy boats all over his office, and one of those wave-in-glass things that offer an approximation of the continuous comfort of the ocean. He has a terrible stutter. You just don’t know what to do, sometimes, when he gets going. You just stand there, thinking really hard
it’s all right, you just take your time, I’m not mad, don’t worry
but of course he does worry, he feels really badly that he just can’t spit it out. He’s a nice man, he lets me come and go, work around the kids’ schedules, leave early if I need to, come in on Saturday if I want to. The woman I work with in the front, Dolly, is in love with him. She’s full-time, she’s worked with Frank for twenty-three years, and I don’t think he knows how she feels. He’s married, happily; Dolly’s shy and careful. She wears, with no sense of irony, pearl-decorated glasses chains and cardigan sweaters buttoned at the top. She’s so happy when Frank’s on the phone and can’t get his own coffee. She carries it in to him as though it’s her heart on a silver platter, which of course it is.
It’s not a glamorous job, by any means, but it’s a break from the house and a little extra income that I’ve been saving for the kids’ college tuition. I’m the girl Friday: I do a little filing, a little phone-answering, even a little bookkeeping, though that terrifies me. I get to pay bills sometimes; I really like, for some reason, paying the trucking companies. They
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