She went through a phase of encouraging her mom to buy new clothes, suggesting they go on walks together, but then her own hormones had arrived and she’d stopped worrying about anyone’s appearance but her own. Now, at fourteen, she knew her discomfort about her mother’s appearance was a cultural norm, and called bullshit, while at the same time wishing her mom would drop her a little farther from the school gates. Then she hated herself for that feeling, and resolved to hug her mom more and spend more time with her, but then she would come home from school and her mom would ask about homework and Ava would hate her again. She was so irritating; her little habits of singing as she cleaned the kitchen, of talking to the dogs as if they were people, her endless supply of hooded sweatshirts and unfashionable jeans. Lots of moms at Ava’s school were super hip; it was that kind of school. Sharing clothes with their kids, going shopping together, getting manicures and whatever the fuck it was you did at nail places. Ava didn’t want to be one of those girls, she really didn’t, but sometimes it was hard not to want to fit in. It was easier to let the current carry you along.
Then, of course, there was the other Ava, the one who got overwhelmed at school and needed her mom so badly it was all she could do not to cry. She ached for her mom’s voice, her calm demeanor, her air of unflappability. If she saw her mom unexpectedly, as she had at school the other day, she was filled with love and surprise and joy. My mother! Her heart would sing, There she is! Their eyes would meet and her mom would smile that smile . . . the one that made her feel hugged across any distance, and then some hand inside would reach up to her heart and poke hard and remind her she was a teenager now and Ava would dampen her smile and her mom would raise her eyebrows in question, and the moment would pass and they would be squabbling again.
Ava felt lately that she was on a moving sidewalk, like those things in airports, slowly gaining speed and carrying her in one direction while she walked faster and faster just to stay in one place. She re-read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and somehow it was a whole different book than it had been at nine. Then it had been a book about smiling cats and fairyland; now it was a book about the world where everyone is mad and you’re likely to lose your head for the most capricious of reasons.
Still, books remained her favorite place to go. Orwell confirmed her nihilism, Steinbeck made her cry, Saroyan made her homesick for a time she’d never known. She would disappear into these novels and emerge blinking into a life she wasn’t entirely certain of. Every day was like leaving a movie in the middle of the afternoon, strange and heightened, the light alien, the voices loud. Then her mother would appear with a cup of tea and remind her of being a child and she would feel such a storm of confusion it made her giddy. She’d read somewhere that hurricanes had winds so powerful that a piece of straw could pierce an oak, thrown so hard it became deadly beyond its weight. She was the straw, pushed by forces she only barely understood.
As her mom dropped her off at school then headed off with the little ones to preschool Ava turned and watched her go, wishing for a mad moment she could run after her, throw herself against the fence and go back to preschool with the others.
• • •
Frances watched her daughter in the driver’s mirror, standing irresolutely outside the school. She wished she could read her as well as she’d used to. Ava used to be an open book to her, but now she was not only closed, but written in a language Frances wasn’t familiar with. It was so difficult. Frances wished she could help her, but she also knew the whole point of being fourteen was learning how to do it without help. What a fucking disaster. Thank God she still had little kids whose needs were more binary.
Thirty-two.
Tuesday night is traditionally adultery night, but on this particular evening Anne was determined to save her marriage. She’d chosen clothes she hadn’t worn in years, clothes from when she and Charlie were first married. Now that everything fit her again she had yards of clothes to choose from, although if she kept not eating they would all be too big. She waited for Charlie at the restaurant, fiddling with the cutlery and sipping her wine a little too fast. She’d been early. He was late. Eventually he arrived, bringing the scent of the almost-frosty air in with him. He’d clearly been in court; his suit was impeccable. Anne felt anxious around him, as if they’d only recently met. She knew every inch of his skin, but the expression on his face was of very recent vintage. He’d never looked at her like that before.
Anne tried to make conversation. “Who’s got the kids?”
“Shirley.”
“The wonderful Shirley.”
“Yup. She’s awesome. Super reliable.” Unlike some people.
“Yup.” Unlike
