“Is that why you called?”
“What?”
“Tomorrow is the anniversary, you know. I thought maybe that was what you were calling about.”
Frances got up and grabbed the cookie jar, which was shaped like an elephant. “No. Or at least, I don’t think so. Maybe on some level I remembered, but I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“He’d be the same age as Michael, you know.”
She bit into a cookie, which truly was delicious. “Yeah, I know. Their birthdays are even close.”
“Little May babies. Both Taurus, strong and calm. I think about Alex all the time, do you?”
A second cookie. “I do. I think about what a great uncle he would have been. I think about the cousins the kids might have had, the nieces and nephews, the grandkids. Of course, he might have married someone we didn’t like, there’s always that chance. Like that girl across the street.”
“Isabel? She ended up marrying a proctologist from Long Island.”
“Serves her right.”
“Who knows, maybe she and Alex would have been happy together. When you lose a child, you lose the life they would have had, too. Right? Don’t you look at the kids and wonder what kind of adults they’re going to be, who they’re going to marry, that kind of thing?” Her mother’s voice faded in and out as she bustled around her kitchen, all those miles away.
Frances laughed ruefully. “Mostly I just try to make it through the day alive, but sure, sometimes I think about the future. Mostly trying to imagine what life will be like once they’ve moved out and I finally have enough storage space.”
Her mom sighed. “I used to pretend Alex was just away, you know. Sometimes when it got too hard, I would just decide he was at camp and I would write him letters in my head, or imagine him climbing on ropes and riding horses and having a wonderful time. I would tell myself it was good I hadn’t heard from him in so long, it meant he was busy and happy.”
“Wow, that sounds . . . delusional and painful.” Would a third cookie lead directly to diabetes, or was it OK?
“Yeah,” replied her mother, dryly. “I think it’s generally understood that outliving your child is horrible.”
“And now?”
“Still horrible. But bearable, because time really does, as they say, heal all wounds. It’s also easier because none of my friends have kids at home, either. The first few years it hurt so much because of this constantly nagging sense I was forgetting something, then I’d remember he was gone and there was nothing I could do. And the other mothers in his grade knew it, too, and I knew that every time they saw me dropping you off they remembered Alex and felt sorry for me and guilty for being glad it was me and not them. Did you ever have those dreams where you forget you have a child?”
Frances shuddered. “Oh my God, not as much as I used to, but when the kids were babies I’d have them all the time. I’d dream I’d left the car seat on top of the car and driven off, or that I’d forgotten they existed and they’d been at home for days without anyone feeding them, and I’d rush home and they’d be crying and dirty and hungry, or not there at all because someone had taken them away from me. It was horrible. I still get them from time to time, but not so much.”
“Well, it was like that, but I was awake. That pit-of-the-stomach-panic feeling, combined with a terrible physical pain and emptiness. I’d forget for a second or two, then it would come slamming back and knock the wind out of me. Your father and I didn’t talk about him for nearly a decade. I think we each thought it would kill the other, just the act of physically shaping his name with our mouths.”
“How is Dad?”
Her mom laughed. “He’s addicted to meth and having an affair with a forty-year-old.”
“No! You’re joking.”
“Yes, I’m joking. He’s fine, he’s working on a book, he’s teaching, he’s happy. He has a cough that won’t go away, and in the middle of the night I think it’s cancer. But hopefully not.”
“Has he seen a doctor?”
“No. He just tells me not to worry, so I don’t.”
Lally came in, wearing a swimsuit and bunny ears. “Who are you talking to?”
“Grandma.”
Lally took the phone. “Hey, Gramma. Did you watch the show?”
A pause.
“No, just her.”
Another pause.
“Yes, but . . .”
And another.
“I don’t know.” Lally handed the phone back to her mother and rolled her eyes. “Gramma doesn’t get Littlest Pet Shop.” She walked away, then stopped. “Can I have some chocolate milk?” Frances nodded, and pointed to the fridge. Lally wandered over and hung on the big door with all her weight. It suddenly swung open, nearly knocking her over. Never not funny. Frances started to ask about the swimsuit, but remembered in time there was no point. She turned back to the phone.
“What don’t you get about Littlest Pet Shop?”
“So many things,” her mother replied. “Why would someone leave a chameleon at a pet boarding service? Do all those animals belong to people who’ve just abandoned them? Do they have lives outside the pet shop? Is Blythe the only one who can talk to them, and why is her head so big? Who looks after her while her dad is away flying airplanes? Is the old lady who runs the shop on drugs? Why do those rich twins who are so funny go to a public school, and not a fancy private one?”
“Wow, you do have a lot of questions. I had no idea.”
“Don’t you watch it?”
“Not if I can help it. However, I like the idea of you sitting in your nice Riverside Drive apartment, watching Littlest Pet Shop, taking notes.”
Her mother laughed. “I like to talk to Lally about these things, although she was no help just then.”
Frances’s mind jumped back. “So, tomorrow is thirty years? Is that possible?”
“Not only possible, but
