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Rachel
Andrew’s house is a mess of boxes and bubble wrap, toys scattered across the floor, unpacked books tottering in a tall, uneven stack.
As I step across the threshold, I am assaulted by this house’s otherness—when have I paid a visit to someone else’s home? The last time was when I spoke to Eva, but I don’t want to think about that now.
“Sorry it’s such a mess,” Andrew says with a wry grin, scratching at his patchy beard. I can’t tell if he’s growing it out or cultivating the stubble, but it suits him. He has such a friendly look about him that looking at him makes me want to smile.
“You’re doing well,” I say as I step over a pile of mismatched Tupperware. “It looks like things are mainly unpacked.” If not put away.
“Jake likes the unpacking part,” Andrew says as he ruffles his son’s hair. The unconscious gesture makes something ache inside of me, but I repress it. I don’t want to feel sad right now. Jake is half-hiding behind his dad, but he keeps peeping out to give me c
autious, curious glances. “Not so much the putting away. But we’ll get there.”
“Where did you move from?” I figure if I ask Andrew questions, it might keep him from asking questions of me. And I remember, in an achey, atrophied sort of way, that asking questions is part of normal conversation. Getting to know people. Actually making friends.
“From about an hour away, near Worcester. This is a new start for us.” There is a determinedly upbeat note to Andrew’s voice that I recognize, and I must give an unconsciously questioning look, because he grimaces a little and glances towards Jake. The implication is obvious; he doesn’t want to talk about it in front of his son.
I nod my understanding, and turn to Jake. Looking at him feels a bit like looking at the sun—too much, too bright. I fight an urge to shield my eyes. His eyes are very blue, his hair a curly rumple, his skin smooth and soft.
“Are you in school, Jake?”
Jake nods, sliding behind Andrew’s legs once more. “He’s starting kindergarten in September,” Andrew says. “At Angier. Do you know it?”
I shake my head. I looked at Angier Elementary School ever so briefly, when I still nursed hopes that, with the right specialist help, Emily might start there last September. I gave that up a while ago, when the seizures became worse and then Emily went into hospital for yet another infection and it became clear she would not be coming out anytime soon. But I don’t want to explain any of that to Andrew.
Andrew rests one hand on Jake’s shoulder and gently steers him to stand in front of him. Jake leans against his legs. “Jake is looking forward to school, aren’t you, buddy?” He nods.
“That’s great.” It’s clear Jake is shy, and I don’t want to pressure him to make conversation with a stranger. He gives Andrew a questioning look, and he nods back, the kind of easy, unspoken communication between parent and child I remember so well, and then Jake ducks his head and runs off, out to the backyard.
A surprisingly comfortable silence stretches between Andrew and me, expanding and elastic.
“He seems like a good kid,” I finally say, because he does.
“He is,” Andrew agrees. “I’m lucky.”
Yes, I can’t help but think. And you don’t even know how lucky you are. But I don’t want to go down that dark, twisting trail of conversation, so I smile as brightly as I can and ask, “Did you move to Boston for work?”
“Yes. I’m a graphic designer. I start work on Monday with Neo Designs. Have you heard of them?”
With an apologetic grimace, I shake my head. “I’m sorry. That’s not an area of work I’m that familiar with.”
“What do you do?”
I pause, as I often do at this stage in a conversation, not that I’ve had all that many, weighing up what I want to say, and how I want to say it. How much to reveal, knowing the shocked flood of sympathy it will cause, followed by the inevitable awkward silence, the change in conversation like the screech of tires.
I realize I don’t want to go down that route today. I’m too tired, too weary and worn down. I want to be different today, even if it’s just pretend, just for a little while.
“I’m a teacher,” I say when the pause has gone on a few seconds too long. “High school English.”
“Oh, that’s great. Here in Newton Upper Falls?”
Another pause, as I consider whom Andrew might meet, what he might discover about me. “No,” I say, deciding to stick with as much truth as I can. “In Needham.”
“That’s not too far…?” His forehead crinkles. “I’m still getting used to the area. I’m from Rhode Island, originally.”
“It’s pretty close. Ten minutes, in the car.”
“You must like it.” He smiles at me, and I’m not sure how to respond. Yes, I did like it, but it feels like a lifetime ago. I can’t imagine caring about George Orwell and Emily Bronte now, the five paragraph essay, putting your hypothesis in the introduction… it all feels ridiculous. Unimportant, and yet I know it’s not. Not for everyone else.
