He moved aside so she could pass in front of him. She turned back to say something, something innocuous about the beauty of the day, and found herself unable to speak, overtaken by the same fullness of heart she had felt on his first day on earth. Caught by this, she watched Kevin push the door shut with the tip of one crutch. It was an unconscious act; he appeared to be preoccupied, thinking about something else, and he did not notice her eyes on him as he swung himself down the short hall. He moved smoothly and quickly, and in his casual, newly learned grace, Marian saw, and was dazzled by, hope.
Kevin's world had changed. Friends had died. He was disabled, though only, thank God, temporarily; he was in daily pain—yet he'd adapted. And when he was finally rid of the crutches, back on the Job, and once more the man he had been—different, but the same—he would adapt to that, too.
Since September 11 Marian had been grateful to be middle-aged, glad at least that she'd had her youth, under some clouds and some looming shadows to be sure, but not like this. Her heart had ached for the young people who would have to live the rest of their lives with the knowledge of what had happened and what therefore, at any moment, could happen again. But watching Kevin now, Marian became less sure that she was fortunate in this. Perhaps the sheer forward momentum of youth, the impulsiveness and lack of subtlety (the subtlety that could be in people her age a cause of, and cover for, an unwillingness to choose and commit), would carry the young through into a world whose changes they would accept, adjust to, and even thrive within.
“You should see him when he's clean.” Sally's voice startled Marian. She spun to find Sally in the kitchen doorway behind her.
“What?”
“Kevin. He's much more worth staring at after his shower. He's almost handsome if you can get him to shave.”
Kevin dropped himself onto a chair and rolled his eyes.
Marian said, “Was I staring?”
Sally hugged her and murmured, “A little, but who could blame you?” She crossed to the kitchen table, kissed Kevin's cheek, took the crutches, and propped them in a corner. “What are you doing out here so early?” she asked Marian. “Did you stay with your dad last night? Want some coffee?” She brought out three yellow cups and saucers from the cabinet and put the coffeepot on the table.
“Thanks, Mom,” Kevin said, pouring coffee, reaching for the sugar.
“Could I have tea?” Marian asked.
“Real tea? Or smelly flowers?”
“Flowers, thanks. Kevin, darling, you can just unwrinkle your nose.”
When he was four, Kevin had asked Marian why she always drank smelly flowers. He hadn't understood what was funny, but that she'd laughed was good enough for him. From then on, for years, he'd clapped his hand to his head in mock horror and announced, “Smelly flowers!” every time the chamomile tea box came off the shelf.
“How do you feel?” Marian asked Kevin.
He shrugged. “Pretty good, I guess.”
She peered more closely. “You look like you're worried about something. Is your therapy going all right?”
“The PT?” Kevin glanced down at his leg. “It's going fine.”
“His physical therapist says he's improving faster than she expected. She says he's impressive. Fantastic, extraordinary, unbelievable—”
“No, Mom, that was you. Mrs. Cummings said I sweat a lot.”
“Same thing. Marian, did you have breakfast?”
“Yes, thanks. Can I help you do something?” Marian made the offer quickly, before Sally could ask where she'd eaten. Marian's father liked to take her out to breakfast whenever she stayed over in Pleasant Hills.
“No, I have it under control.” Into melted butter Sally broke three eggs. She popped bread into the toaster and sliced a grapefruit in half. The scents of domesticity, of the life Marian had not had, crowded the sunny air like phantoms.
Sally asked, “Are you sure you don't want anything?”
“No, the tea will be perfect, thanks.”
Marian felt herself distracted. She tried to force herself to focus on her task, but before she could begin, Sally asked quietly, “Did you see the paper this morning?”
Marian nodded.
“What?” said Kevin. “What's in it?”
Sally reached for the
Marian watched Sally cook, watched Kevin read. His face could hide anger no better than it could joy. When it came time to turn to the inside pages, he snapped the paper to a new fold. His skin flushed, his scowl deepened.
Marian waited until she judged he was finished, though his eyes remained on the newspaper. She took a breath and said, “Listen, you guys. I came over to talk to you about something serious.”
Now Kevin looked up. Sally, back at the stove, turned to regard Marian over her shoulder. The two concerned pairs of eyes so exactly alike, so dear to her. Marian thought, Can I take it back? Can I leave them out of this? Hasn't it been terrible enough for them? Why don't I just say, No, never mind, I'll handle it, you guys just go on doing what you're doing, it's enough.
But of course she couldn't. It wasn't her choice. Earlier, watching Tom drink coffee, she had seemed to choose,
