Anne sighed. “OK. No computer tomorrow at all. You have to do homework first, OK?” She walked out, saying over her shoulder, “Get ready for bed now, we’ll read the chapter together and you can do the math sheet in the morning before school. It’s too late to do it now, you need to get some sleep.”
Behind her Theo’s eyes cleared. His mom always knew what to do; she was as reliable as the sun. If he was naughty she would issue a consequence, if he was good she would issue a reward, and if he needed a hug her arms would already be open. He was by nature a worried child, concerned about unseen dangers, worried that somehow he had messed things up. His mom never seemed to worry, and she was the trellis his little vines twined around.
She walked back into her bedroom, where Kate was drifting off to sleep next to Charlie, who was on his phone and paying no attention. He looked up as Anne came in and raised his eyebrows in a question, indicating their daughter.
Keeping her voice low, Anne said, “You keep her, I’ll deal with Theo, then sleep in her room, OK?” Anne and Charlie slept in the same bed maybe twice a week, moving from bed to bed as their children dictated. Both of them would rather sleep than get a chance to be intimate with each other. Charlie, at least, was glad his libido seemed to have gone into hibernation. As a younger man it would have killed him to be next to Anne but not able to reach out for her in the night, tugging at her nightgown until she woke up and came to him. But now he loved the gentle sounds of a sleeping child, the occasional foot in the face a small price to pay for the feeling of being a family. Sometimes he would wake in the night and walk from room to room, counting his blessings as they slept.
He nodded at his wife and blew her a kiss, which Anne pretended to catch and press to her lips, tossing him one in return. He turned out the light, pulled the sheet over Kate who was now gently snoring, and went back to checking e-mail on his phone.
• • •
Iris sat on the edge of Wyatt’s bed and watched him breathe, his face smoothed out in sleep, his cheeks flushed. How could eyelids so small lift lashes so long? He held Gubby in his hand, a small rabbit that had once been soft and gray, but was now worn and torn, the cream feet and ears more like gray, the gray more like brown. When I die, he had once asked, will Gubby die with me? Iris had nodded, taking the question at face value and trying not to let him see how the thought made her feel. She prayed he’d die about eight decades after he’d forgotten Gubby, or more, maybe breaking the world record for longevity, oldest man ever.
Sara coughed gently at the door and held out her hand. Iris smiled and got to her feet, after tucking the sheet more fully around Wyatt. She held her wife’s hand as they walked down the hall toward their bedroom. Sara was looking at her in a way that meant she wanted to fool around, and Iris was wondering if she could ask her, afterward, if another baby were possible. That’s what it was doing to her, this longing: Everything was related to it, somehow. Every breath, every kiss, every bite of nutritious food, every baby smiled at in the grocery store, was a wish for another. She was going mad and the madness was coloring everything. She and Sara had a good marriage, a strong friendship, yet Iris was worried her request for another child would sound like a demand. What if Sara said, “It’s me or a baby”? And why did Iris even think that was a possibility? Sara was never like that, had never been like that. Iris was losing her fucking mind.
• • •
Lucas slept horizontally, like a stave. He had fallen asleep in his parents’ bed, and pretty much stretched from one side to the other. Bill had slowly moved to the very edge of the bed to make room. He folded one leg down to stop himself sliding off, and to help him balance the computer on his lap. The lights were off and he was miles away, immersed in the music he was composing. As his heart slept beside him in superhero pajamas, Bill fought dragons one phrase at a time and didn’t think of his wife at all.
Eight.
Frances tapped the horn. Lucas was supposed to be running down the slight slope of his front yard right now. Actually, several minutes ago. She sighed, turned to Ava, and opened her mouth.
“No, honk again. Louder.” Her daughter’s tone was cool, but her eyes were ready to start a fight.
Frances raised her eyebrows. Ava was working on her passive resistance this morning, and had been ever since Frances had dared to suggest that something with sleeves might be a good idea.
“Here he comes,” said Lally, from behind her, saving Frances from another bout with the standing featherweight champion of in-car boxing.
“Sorry, Frances.” Bill had come with his son, and stood next to the car as Lucas clambered in. “I overslept. Then he didn’t want to get dressed, and it took a while to compromise.”
Frances looked in the rearview. Lucas was wearing pajama pants, but a regular T-shirt. She smiled at Bill. “Looks like a perfect outfit to me,” she said. “He’s covered, right?”
Bill smiled back, thinking for the hundredth time how much he liked Frances. She was easy, Frances was. No muss, no fuss. Just us humans here, no need to panic.
Frances smiled at him, put the car back into gear, and
