loved was painful but familiar to him. He had felt that way all his life, ever since he was a child.
Phillip’s younger sister Liz was hunched over her computer, staring at the blank screen, when the e-mail came in. The sound of the computer voice saying “You’ve got mail!” literally made her wince when she saw who it was from, and she suspected why. It was about that time, and she’d been dreading receiving the e-mail for days. She hated getting it every year, and hated going on her mother’s birthday trip even more. She was always the odd man out, or at least she felt that way. At forty-four, she had felt like the family failure all her life.
She had been concentrating on the screen, with her eyes half closed, trying to write a short story. She had wanted to write since she was a kid. She had published short stories in her early twenties, and then had written a novel. She found an agent through a friend, but no publisher would touch it. They said it wasn’t commercial enough, her characters were flawed, and her plot was weak. Her agent urged her to try again—not everyone published on the first shot. Her second novel was worse. The agent had urged her to rewrite it three times, and when she had, he still couldn’t sell it. She went back to writing short stories and a few poems, and they were published in a literary magazine. And after that she’d been busy getting married, having babies, and trying to keep her head above water. She had been too emotionally spent to write and felt too unstable to even try.
She’d gone back to writing short stories, several years before, but hadn’t written any in three years. She was utterly and completely blocked. She still tried to write in spite of it but never finished anything. And since both of her girls were out of the house, she had told herself that it was now or never. She had been trying to write again seriously for several months, and for the past few weeks she had forced herself to sit down at her computer every day. Nothing came. She just sat there and cried. She was emotionally and mentally constipated, and what was worse, she was the only member of her family who had accomplished absolutely nothing in her entire life. As far as Liz was concerned, publishing a few short stories that no one read didn’t count. It didn’t matter that her agent had said she had talent. That was in her twenties and thirties. Now at forty-four, she had no achievements, no victories, no career, and her years as a stay-at-home mom to her two girls were over.
Her daughter Sophie was getting her master’s at MIT in Boston in computer science, after getting her B.A. at Columbia. She was a math genius and was talking about going on to business school. Like her grandmother, she had a head for business, and at twenty-three, she was far better than her mother at taking care of herself. She was a bright, beautiful, very independent young woman. She had been the product of Liz’s first marriage, to a French Formula 1 race car driver. Liz had fallen madly in love with him and had dropped out of college and run away to marry him at twenty-one. She got pregnant instantly, and he was killed in a race just weeks before Sophie was born. Two years later, with Sophie in tow, Liz had gone to L.A. and dated a well-known actor, Jasper Jones. She had been twenty-three, the same age Sophie was now, with none of her skills or capabilities. Sophie was a practical young woman. Liz had always been more idealistic. Liz had tried to get a job as a screenwriter and had gotten involved with Jasper instead. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. They got married when she was six months pregnant, and the marriage had lasted eleven months.
Carole had been eight months old when they divorced. She was twenty now, and a dreamer like her parents. She had assorted talents and was a bright girl but seemed without direction. She talked about being an artist but wasn’t serious about it. She had taken acting
Phillip’s younger sister Liz was hunched over her computer, staring at the blank screen, when the e-mail came in. The sound of the computer voice saying “You’ve got mail!” literally made her wince when she saw who it was from, and she suspected why. It was about that time, and she’d been dreading receiving the e-mail for days. She hated getting it every year, and hated going on her mother’s birthday trip even more. She was always the odd man out, or at least she felt that way. At forty-four, she had felt like the family failure all her life.
She had been concentrating on the screen, with her eyes half closed, trying to write a short story. She had wanted to write since she was a kid. She had published short stories in her early twenties, and then had written a novel. She found an agent through a friend, but no publisher would touch it. They said it wasn’t commercial enough, her characters were flawed, and her plot was weak. Her agent urged her to try again—not everyone published on the first shot. Her second novel was worse. The agent had urged her to rewrite it three times, and when she had, he still couldn’t sell it. She went back to writing short stories and a few poems, and they were published in a literary magazine. And after that she’d been busy getting married, having babies, and trying to keep her head above water. She had been too emotionally spent to write and felt too unstable to even try.
She’d gone back to writing short stories, several years before, but hadn’t written any in three years. She was utterly and completely blocked. She still tried to write in spite of it but never finished anything. And since both of her girls were out of the house, she had told herself that it was now or never. She had been trying to write again seriously for several months, and for the past few weeks she had forced herself to sit down at her computer every day. Nothing came. She just sat there and cried. She was emotionally and mentally constipated, and what was worse, she was the only member of her family who had accomplished absolutely nothing in her entire life. As far as Liz was concerned, publishing a few short stories that no one read didn’t count. It didn’t matter that her agent had said she had talent. That was in her twenties and thirties. Now at forty-four, she had no achievements, no victories, no career, and her years as a stay-at-home mom to her two girls were over.
Her daughter Sophie was getting her master’s at MIT in Boston in computer science, after getting her B.A. at Columbia. She was a math genius and was talking about going on to business school. Like her grandmother, she had a head for business, and at twenty-three, she was far better than her mother at taking care of herself. She was a bright, beautiful, very independent young woman. She had been the product of Liz’s first marriage, to a French Formula 1 race car driver. Liz had fallen madly in love with him and had dropped out of college and run away to marry him at twenty-one. She got pregnant instantly, and he was killed in a race just weeks before Sophie was born. Two years later, with Sophie in tow, Liz had gone to L.A. and dated a well-known actor, Jasper Jones. She had been twenty-three, the same age Sophie was now, with none of her skills or capabilities. Sophie was a practical young woman. Liz had always been more idealistic. Liz had tried to get a job as a screenwriter and had gotten involved with Jasper instead. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. They got married when she was six months pregnant, and the marriage had lasted eleven months.
Carole had been eight months old when they divorced. She was twenty now, and a dreamer like her parents. She had assorted talents and was a bright girl but seemed without direction. She talked about being an artist but wasn’t serious about it. She had taken acting
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