Page 88 of Under Story

“Which part?” Laurel asks.

“The dying one,” says Maisie.

—

The next day, Laurel drives to Progress Senior Living. It’s a bright, modern facility, with glass walls and fig trees in planters.

The receptionist greets her pleasantly. “Are you here for the tour? It leaves on the hour.”

Laurel joins a group of middle-aged people. A chipper male employee leads them through each floor. Level One, postnatal care, is laid out like a hospital. The second level features skilled nursing and early education. They pass double and triple bedrooms, as well as a classroom whose lights have been dimmed. A young woman—the teacher, presumably—taps a tablet while students nap on mats.

“Some families choose to bring their relatives home after care at Level One or Two,” says the employee, as they climb to the third floor. “For those who remain, Level Three offers more independence. Each resident has their own room, along with sign-out privileges, and buses provide easy access to local high schools.”

The seniors on this level are closer to the age of Laurel’s students. One couple sits on a bench along the windows, holding hands. While the tour guide fields questions about Medicare, Laurel slips back downstairs.

—

The other Clare lives in an apartment with Walter. Their college diplomas, earned two years earlier, hang in the living room. Both work at the Madison Symphony Orchestra—Walter in development, Clare as the conductor’s assistant—and when Clare picks up the phone, Laurel hears classical music at top volume. The other Laurel had cosigned her mother’s lease, and a younger neighbor once called Laurel to complain about the noise.

“She’s only mad that it isn’t her kind of music,” Clare sniped. “That generation is totally biased against classical, but trust me: it’s going to be huge.”

Laurel and Clare meet for lunch every other week. In warm weather, they eat outside; today they’ll sit indoors to escape the driving rain. When Laurel arrives, Clare waves from their favorite table. She’s already ordered Laurel’s coffee.

Laurel has been surprised by how much she looks forward to these meetings. Sometimes she even feels guilty, as though she’s betraying Clare One. Laurel’s relationship with her mother was complicated by history: the death of Laurel’s father, the sale of the orchard. Looking back, Laurel is racked by regret. Pete’s death should have taught her to take nothing for granted. Her relationship with Clare Two feels like a clean slate.

They hug across the table. After a server takes their order, Clare says, “I have something to tell you.”

“Oh?”

“Walter and I are getting divorced.”

Clare seems to brace herself for Laurel’s reaction.

“Oh, Mom.” Laurel doesn’t often use that word here, but Clare looks unusually fragile. “I’m so sorry.”

“You aren’t upset?”

“Of course not. It’s your life. I want you to be happy.”

Clare expels a long sigh. “Maybe it doesn’t come as a shock. You’ve probably noticed the tension.”

Laurel last saw Walter at Eli’s birthday party. Clare and Walter bickered, but Walter treated Laurel with special fondness. Eli’s parents, meanwhile, seemed anxious for Eli and Laurel’s approval. Twice Leo asked if he had made the Rosen birthday cake correctly. Janet described the subject of her current research, a hybrid Spanish-Mandarin language from the twenty-second century. Frequently she scanned Laurel’s face, as if to gauge her interest level.

“I want everything to stay the same between you and Walter,” Clare says now. “He’s always been like a father to you. We’ve just grown apart, and the separation has been amicable. In fact, we’re having an unwedding in May.”

Laurel lowers a hunk of brown sugar into her coffee with a spoon. “An unwedding?”

“In May,” Clare repeats, distracted: a fit-looking man in his sixties is jogging past the window. “Bob and Lois could only manage a trip to the courthouse—no closure. Thank goodness it isn’t like that with us. Walter and I were so young when we met. I thought I wanted someone like me, with the same interests and tastes, but now I’m not sure.”

Clare is sixty-six—according to public record, she was born at ninety, in 2040—which means she’s been alive for twenty-four years.

“You don’t have to be sure right now,” says Laurel. “There’s plenty of time to figure what makes you happy.”

It feels good to see the tension leave Clare’s face. When the check arrives, Clare reaches for her wallet.

“Please, let me,” says Laurel. Clare has an assistant’s salary, and she’ll soon be without Walter’s income.

“I want to,” says Clare, proud, and Laurel decides simply to thank her.