“I have news,” said Lally, around a strawberry.
“Oh yeah?” asked Ava, who was in a relatively good mood for once.
“Yeah. Treasure is getting a puppy.” She turned to her mom. “We should get a puppy.”
“No puppy,” Michael said, automatically.
But Lally was insistent. “Jack and Diane are old now, we should get them a puppy.”
“That’s not how it works,” explained her father. “They won’t look after the puppy, your mom would look after the puppy, and she’s got enough to do right now.”
“No, I would help . . .”
“Lally, I really have my hands full enough, OK?” Frances said, maybe a little more sharply than she’d intended.
Lally looked at her mom, and suddenly subsided. “OK.”
There was a short silence.
“That’s it?” Ava couldn’t keep it in. “You’re just giving up?” She reached over to her sister and felt her forehead. “She’s not hot.”
“I don’t want a puppy, it’s OK.”
Frances frowned. It was most unlike Lally to stop bugging them this quickly. There had to be something deeper at work.
“I don’t want to make Mommy mad.”
Michael looked over at the stove. “I think her water is boiling.”
Frances got up to put the pasta on.
“It’s fine, Mom, I can eat the penne.” The four-year-old started eating her pasta, which was now sitting cold in front of her.
“It’s not a problem, Lal, honestly.” Michael reached across the table and touched her arm. “Mom’s already making spaghetti.”
But Lally was upset about something, and her chin was wobbling, even as it was getting covered in spaghetti sauce. Suddenly Ava spoke, her connection with her baby sister helping her put the pieces together faster than the rest of the family.
“She won’t leave, Lally. It’s not that big a deal. Mom’s not going anywhere.”
Michael looked at Frances, who had just dropped a handful of spaghetti into the water and was about to stir it to stop it from clumping. The spoon was in the air.
Lally started crying, putting down her fork and wiping her face.
“But she might.”
“She won’t.” Ava was firm. “Good luck getting her to leave just by asking for a puppy or a different dinner. I’ve been driving her mad for my entire life, and she’s still sticking around.”
Lally sniffed and looked at her big sister. “Really?”
“Really. Honestly, I’ve been terrible. You’re a rank amateur compared to me.”
Milo had wandered in during this, having heard the commotion from the other room. “Plus,” he added, “what about that time I set fire to the curtains in the front room?”
Lally’s eyes grew round. She hadn’t been alive for that one, but it was part of family lore. It was alternately referred to as The Curtain Incident or That Time the Dog Saved Our Lives. Jack had been a lone dog at that point, and a heroic one at that.
“If she didn’t leave over an actual fire, then she isn’t going to leave over pasta.”
Lally looked trustingly at Milo and nodded. But then her face clouded. “But Kate and Theo didn’t do anything at all and their mom left.”
Michael cleared his throat. His turn. “Well, Anne left for reasons to do with her, not because of Kate and Theo. Mommies and daddies never leave because of something their kids did, or at least, only very, very, very rarely.” He got up and came around to Lally’s side of the table. He knelt down next to her, and turned her little face to look at him. “Listen to me, Alexandra. There is nothing, NOTHING, you could do that would make your mom or me leave you, do you understand? We have been a family for a long, long time and we’re going to be following you around the grocery store when you’re at college, got it?”
“That’s creepy,” said Ava. “You’d better not do that to me.”
“I’m not promising anything.”
Finally, Lally got up the nerve to look at Frances. “Are you going away?”
Frances was stirring the pasta, letting Michael and the kids sort this one out in their inimitable way. Her heart was breaking for her baby, but she kept her outside calm and measured, nothing to panic about. She smiled at Lally and shook her head. “No, baby. Your dad is right, there is nothing you can do to get rid of me. You’re stuck with me forever, I’m afraid.”
“Seriously,” said Ava. “She’s like a genetic disorder.”
“Or a birthmark,” added Milo, turning to head back to his homework, this crisis having been averted.
“Or termites,” concluded Michael. “You might not always be able to see them, but they’re nearly always there.”
Frances threw a piece of spaghetti at the ceiling, where it stuck next to the one that had been there since before Lally was born. She waited, but it stayed.
Twenty-nine.
It was Saturday again. There was a kids book Frances liked, where the alphabet decided to wing it for once and go in a different order from usual. A started it off, but then one of the other letters got pissy and they all ran about and picked their own places. It got completely out of hand, but Frances often wished things could be more like that in real life. Let’s throw Tuesday out completely one week, and have two Thursdays instead. Tuesday is a pointless, soul-destroying day, the day when you’re brokenhearted that the week still has so much to go, and none of this work is going to do itself. Tuesday is the day you stare at the wall and wonder if you should have chosen a different major. A different husband. A different haircut. Wednesday you get your shit together emotionally because, let’s face it, you’ve been doing days in this order your whole life, and what’s the point of fighting the system? At work, however, it’s touch and go all day. But Thursday? Thursday you can see the weekend ahead and you get a second burst of steam and plow through everything so you can leave early on Friday. Frances gave this kind of thing a lot of
