The Objects of Her Affection by Sonya Cobb Page B

Sophie had noticed that it was the pursuit of objects that excited him even more than the acquisition. Was this a man thing?
    “Well!” she said, trying to sound encouraging. From her vantage point at home, amid the crumpled laundry and spilled Cheerios and nonringing phone, it was easy to cultivate shameful pockets of jealousy. But now, seeing Brian in his element, practically trembling with excitement, a bit of hair taking its leave from the carefully gelled ranks, she chided herself for being so selfish. Brian had worked hard for his success. He deserved it. If she worked a little harder, she could surely expect, some day, to enjoy the same level of contentment.
    Brian took a deep breath through his nose. “So what’s up, anyway?”
    “Oh, just, some issues with—um, some mortgage papers that came in the mail.” Sophie wound the strap of her bag around her hand.
    “I hope this isn’t going to involve math.” He slid Eleanor’s letter back into its envelope and started rummaging through a pile of folders.
    “No, well, sort of. It’s just that we got this thing called an option ARM—”
    “What’s that?”
    “Well, you have the option of paying just the minimum payment, or the whole interest payment, depending on how things are going, and to be honest—”
    Marjorie appeared in the doorway. “Excuse me.” Brian swiveled to look at her. “Brian, maintenance needs to move a case, and there aren’t any art handlers…”
    “I scheduled them two weeks ago.” He held out his hands; Marjorie just stood there. He let his hands fall to his lap. “Jesus. Sophie, I’m just going to run to the gallery for a minute; it shouldn’t take long. I want to hear the rest of this; can you hang out?”
    “All right,” she said brightly, letting the strap unwind from her hand. It left welts in the fleshy part next to her thumb.
    After Brian hurried out she set her bag on the floor and moved into his chair, surveying his desk. She could never understand how he managed to get anything done amid such chaos. Books and CDs were layered into the slippery strata of papers and file folders. One pile was anchored with a large tape measure, another with a dirty coffee mug. The sight irritated her. She started straightening one of the stacks, putting books and CDs into separate piles. Behind a drift of manila envelopes, she found a picture frame lying on its back. It held a photograph of Lucy holding Elliot in her arms, her face lit up by a combination of sisterly pride and the camera’s flash. Elliot was looking up at her with wonderment, his lips parted, eyes wide. The picture had been taken during his chubby phase, when his skin had seemed to rise and puff like bread dough around his joints and under his chin. Sophie couldn’t believe how much he had lengthened and thinned out since then. They were turning into real people before her eyes: Lucy, with her strong opinions and keen ear, had already discovered the pleasure of making people laugh—a benign addiction that would probably be with her the rest of her life. Elliot was fearless and determined, yet mild-mannered. He’d always seemed to take after Brian, but now Sophie wondered if there was a little bit of Maeve in there too. She cleared a space and stood the photograph back up.
    The kids were growing up; even Brian was maturing, coming into his own. Sophie realized that she was the only one who was stuck, who hadn’t grown into her new life, hadn’t learned how to handle things properly, like an adult. She could almost hear Maeve’s exasperated voice: “You’re more responsible than this. What were you thinking?”
    She felt the fog of exhaustion rolling over her once again, threatening to condense into tears. She turned away from the confusion of Brian’s desk and picked up a mirror that was sitting on one of the rolling carts. She wiped away a smudge of mascara. She stared at her red eyes, which were sunk in deep shadows. She could not remember how it felt not