A Window Opens: A Novel (20 page)

We hugged and I introduced her to my family. She made a perfunctory comment about how we all looked alike, then reached out to shake each of my parents’ hands: “Ed,
Joan, your daughter is just lovely. You did nice work.”

My mom beamed. “We like to think so!”

My dad nodded, but he didn’t smile. Was he in pain? Was the bulge on the side of his neck just the angle of the sun, or could it possibly be the tumor, already flouting the round of aggressive radiation it was being zapped with?

I was about to awkwardly explain why my dad wasn’t able to say anything when Mona asked, “So, how’s it going at Scroll?”

“It’s great! I mean, it’s a big change but . . . opening great bookstores? What more could I ask for, right?”

“You know what? I hate to say this, but I’m not drinking the Kool-Aid along with everyone else. These people own
shopping malls
. They’re
retail
. What do they know about books?” Mona broke into rough, hysterical laughter—the kind that doubles as a cough. “And yes, I know they’re selling first editions. But still. It’s like this fake world—
ew
.”

The rest of us were silent, but I knew everyone was listening, even the kids. The sandcastle building had come to a grinding halt.

My dad tilted his Hoyas cap back on his head in the manner of a street punk cruising for a brawl. He crossed his arms atop his no-longer-ample chest.

“Wow. I haven’t thought of it like that”—although I had, fleetingly—“but it’s not fake, actually. It’s going to be a booklover’s paradise.” I launched into a manic description of the chaise longues, the gluten-free pastries, and the subscription program. I knew I was making a spectacle of myself, but I couldn’t stop.

“Oh yeah, I’ve heard all that.”

The conversation ended awkwardly, with a hasty fake plan to catch up with each other the next day. Then Mona strolled away, her perky straw hat disappearing into a sea of colorful umbrellas.

Nobody said anything for a minute, and then Will jumped in. “All I can say is? Fuck that. We are
not
hanging out with her.” Mary and I made a show of telling him not to curse in front of the kids.

•  •  •

That night, I heard Margot’s voice as I was climbing the ladder up to our sleeping loft above the living room. “Mom? Can you come here?”

She was hard to find among the cousins sprawled around in sleeping bags and on air mattresses, but when I finally tiptoed to the top bunk she shared, head to toe, with her cousin, I was taken aback by how tall Margot looked in the tiny bed. The year before, we’d squeezed Georgie in here, too.

“What is it, lovebird? You should be sleeping.”

“Mom, why did that lady say that to you on the beach?”

“She was just being silly. She doesn’t like Scroll.”

“Did she hurt your feelings?”

“A little, yes. But people have a hard time with new things. It’s what makes my job exciting but also hard sometimes.”

“You really like your job, though, right?”

“I do, lovey. Now go to sleep. We have a lot of shells to collect tomorrow.”

“Okay—but Mom?”

I leaned over to dust sand off the bottom of my feet. “Yes, Margot.”

“Are Audrey and Susanna coming down this year?” Usually the two of them came to Long Beach Island for a day and we’d take the girls to the rides at Fantasy Island. Audrey is the only one of her siblings who has the stomach for amusement parks.

“No, sweetie. With Pop feeling—well, not so great, we thought it would be best if it was just our family this time. I thought I explained that—”

She lowered her head back onto the pillow and closed her eyes. “That’s fine. Audrey says we’re too old for the Tilt-A-Whirl anyway.”

•  •  •

When I was growing up, I fell asleep every night to the sound of my dad in the room below mine, chuckling in front of
The Honeymooners
and
Johnny Carson. Now the wet rasp of his breathing kept me awake. The noise drowned out the swish of cars on the boulevard and the shush of the waves on the other side of the dunes. It was the gurgle of a throat that would never clear. It was the sound of suffering.

Susanna:
How are you guys holding up? Thinking of you constantly.

Me:
The cousins are skim-board phenoms, taking the island by storm. Adults are more subdued; nice to all be together. You?

Susanna:
The usual. College kids quitting for a better offer, so basically me on my feet all day, ringing up
Fifty Shades of Grey
. What
is
it with that book?

Me:
Ya got me. I’m halfway through
The Light Between Oceans
and LOVING. IT.

Susanna:
That one’s selling like hotcakes, too, thankfully.

Me:
Speaking of lighthouses: we’re off to Barnegat. Love to all. TTFN. Xx

Susanna:
You, too, especially your sweet dad.

My dad was anything but sweet, but illness had the effect of making people describe him that way.

•  •  •

The drive off the island was brutal. We got stuck in the interminable crawl of renters vacating houses as close to the ten a.m. deadline as possible, so there was nothing for me to do but stare out the window and replay our horrible leave-taking. “We’ll be back next year,” I said, when all the luggage and buckets and beach towels were crowding out the view through the back window of the minivan, and the kids were on the roof deck gathering the shells they’d collected during the week.

“Of course we will,” said my mom.

My dad picked up Buzz and pressed it to four different sites on his neck before finding a spot that would cooperate. His eyes were hooded with exhaustion: “Not me.”

As we passed the Ferris wheel at Fantasy Island—lights out, at a
standstill until the next week’s wave of kids climbed aboard—Margot piped up from the backseat. “Pop
really
isn’t feeling well.”

“I know, sweet pea. What makes you say that?”

“He just doesn’t have any . . . juice. It’s like his batteries are running out.” This was from Oliver. I swallowed hard, determined to hold it together.

Nicholas adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see the kids in the backseat, then reached down to clasp my hand. “Remember how Mommy told you that Pop’s cancer is back? That’s what’s making him so tired.”

“Oh.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes, George?”

“Does Cornelius have cancer?”

“No, why?”

“He’s so tired, too. He sleeps
all the time
.”

I laughed. “Don’t worry. Cornelius might be an old man, but he’s as healthy as a horse.”

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Today, I’m really happy to announce a new milestone for Scroll. The gaming company Joystick will be joining the MainStreet family. We absolutely could not think of a more perfect partner for Scroll as we both share a love of entertainment and an appreciation for the authors and video game creators who bring us our favorite escapes, be they in words or pixels. Whether you’re turning pages or enabling your avatar to save the world from the forces of evil, both mediums are rooted in imagination. And as Albert Einstein famously said, imagination is more important than knowledge. Peace out, players.

Oliver was waiting most nights when I got off the train, either standing at the bottom of the little gravel hill next to the playground or sprinting
down the path that runs alongside the train station parking lot. He only had to cross a single one-way street—North Edison—to get to the tracks. If the train rolled in a minute early, I could see him, pausing carefully on the corner and looking to the right. Spotting him from the train window was the highlight of my day.

One night, I climbed off the train with an older woman. She stopped on the platform, put on a pair of reading glasses, and flicked open her flip phone. Her black tote bag had clear pockets containing pictures of little people wearing colorful polar fleece and radiant smiles—grandchildren, I figured.

Would
I
still be on this train when my own kids were parents?

Usually, Oliver showed up with a lacrosse stick or a basketball, but that night he was empty-handed, arms hanging slack by his sides as he submitted to a hug he tolerated without reciprocating.

“Mommy, can you stay home tomorrow?”

I opened my mouth to remind him that the next day was a work day—but yay, we only have two more work days till the weekend—when the woman with the tote bag said something I couldn’t hear.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, ‘Do it.’ ”

I pictured my Outlook calendar: Genevieve was OOTO, Rashida was WFH, the Marketing Team was off site working on the budget for the next quarter. (I should mention: in all my years working at
You
, I never once heard about a budget.)

I shrugged.

“Okay, yes,” I said to Oliver. “Yes. I’ll stay home tomorrow.”

As soon as we were out of earshot, he asked in his froggy whisper, “What did that lady say?”

“She told me to take you to the lake tomorrow. And you know what? I think that’s a great idea.”

“Is she a witch?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Just old?”

•  •  •

“This is Genevieve Andrews at Scroll. Please leave a message.”

“Genevieve, this is Alice. I’m not feeling well today so I’m staying home. I’ll be checking my messages, so let me know if you need anything. You have my number.”

My first-ever mental health day. Of course, I felt terribly guilty, which made me feel vaguely ill, so I really
wasn’t
feeling well.

We stopped at the deli and then headed to Deer Lake in Boonton, about forty minutes away. Nothing has changed there since the 1980s: same paddleboats, same pedal toilets in the outhouses, same tired woman serving limp french fries to a new generation of hungry swimmers. The minute I pulled into the parking lot, I felt like I was on another planet.

Susanna had jumped at the chance to join us for the outing. Between us, we had eight sand chairs, two Playmate Wheelie Cools, three mesh bags of sand toys, two umbrellas, nine varieties of sunblock (in lotion, spray, and stick form), and a kite. On the beach, we met up with another neighbor—a mother of four boys—and a friend from spinning whose twin girls are friends with Georgie.

“Ladies, what do we think about the new principal?”

Susanna was a class mom, so all eyes turned to her.

“Hard to say. I’m waiting to see what else he’s going to do besides making North Edison two-way.”

My neighbor laughed. “Well, it’s nice to know his priorities are in order. Is he at all concerned about our kids’ abysmal language arts scores?”

“Ha. What do you guys know about Tutor Shack? The Walsh kids go there and Stacy says they’re suddenly journaling
on their own
. She can’t keep enough composition notebooks in the house!”

Susanna chuckled. “Give me a break. Kids don’t need a tutor to learn how to write; they need to
read 
!”

And we were off, galloping into a full-blown momversation: day
camps, educational and otherwise; skin care, running the gamut from acne treatment to wrinkle cream; use of alcohol and tobacco (how to respond when your kids ask if you ever smoked pot; whether you would ever serve alcohol to teenagers); volunteer opportunities for kids (Habitat for Humanity in Guatemala versus myriad less expensive options closer to home); and lice—always lice. Does Listerine really kill the bugs? Is it true that some people emit a pheromone that repels them altogether? Is the Filament lice lady as competent as the one in Brooklyn, who can guess your nit count
without even touching your head
?

I settled back in my Adirondack chair, enjoying the familiar cadence of the banter: respectful disagreement, gentle advice, the occasional over-the-top compliment: “Oh my God, you’re The. Best. Mom.”

There are two swimming areas at Deer Lake: one roped-off area for little kids, which is shallow and has a slide; and a deeper area with lap lanes, a bigger slide, and a faraway float. You have to pass a deep-water swimming test if you want to brave the big slide—no big deal for Margot, who stroked effortlessly out to the float in the middle of the lake on the first day of the season. But Oliver still hadn’t made an attempt; he steadfastly refused to expand his horizons beyond Georgie’s side of the lake.

In the late afternoon, after we’d eaten our salads and doled out granola bars to the kids, Susanna made a visor out of her hand and looked over to the lap lanes. “Is that Oliver?”

Skinny arms windmilled in a steady crawl in front of a modest whitewater wake. Instantly, I recognized Oliver’s capable, cautious form: he was in the midst of the deep-water test, with three tanned, muscley little boys cheering him on from their perch at the bottom of the big blue slide.

By the time I’d made my way over to the deep end, he was back on dry land, shivering and grinning from ear to ear as a towheaded lifeguard pinned him with the special badge worn by advanced swimmers. I tried not to make too big a deal because this is how Oliver rolls: he gets it in his head that he’s going to do something, he does it without hoopla, and then he’s easily mortified by praise. I kissed the top of his spiky wet head, then the tip of his ear. “I’m proud of you.”

The boys spent the rest of the afternoon leaping off the floating dock in the middle of the lake. Again and again, four boys in tandem, interchangeable as little seals hurling themselves into the water: cannonball, jackknife, pencil dive. Repeat.

As we packed up to go home, the other moms (with the exception of Susanna) made plans to meet up again the next day. While my friends were at the lake together, lighting their citronella candles and settling back for an afternoon in the Adirondack row, I’d be at work, wearing a wool cardigan to combat the icy blast of industrial-strength air conditioning.

Margot:
“What do you think I should do when I graduate from college?”

Me:
“I don’t know, what do you want to do?”