“Right now they are. The easier ones are ahead. They come with time.”
“What do I do until then?”
Patrick smushed what was left of the filling against the back of his teeth and then carefully licked it off. “Endure.” He felt sleep encroaching.
“Come home with us,” Greg said.
“No.”
“The kids—”
“—Greg.”
“What?”
Patrick put his fork in the sink. For the first time in weeks he couldn’t wait to walk through his front door and be completely, totally alone. He imagined lying still, luxuriating in the silence—the only annoyance the sound of the desert wind, and even that would be blowing his cares away.
He stretched the plastic back over the pies and returned them to the fridge over Greg’s objections. “I wasn’t done with that.”
Marlene scratched her ears, her collar jingling a clarion ring.
“That’s enough for tonight.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Patrick observed the kids run ahead, down the carpeted hallway and past the ticketing desks toward the entrance to the airport’s second terminal that housed the arrival and departure gates. “Stay where I can see you!” It was almost laughable, his avuncular overprotection in the company of their father; he was the laborer who stayed after his shift to comment on everyone else’s work. The airport itself was small (you could see clear from one end of the hall to the other) and largely empty; September was still the off-season. He dragged the kids’ carry-ons as they wiggled like salamanders, forging ahead undeterred.
Greg offered, “It’s not too late, you know.”
“Too late for what?”
“For you to come with us.”
Patrick stopped in front of the departures board; he wasn’t having this conversation again. “You all need some time alone. As a family.” He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The airport’s cooling system was fighting a losing battle.
“We are family.”
Sister Sledge ran through Patrick’s head like they’d been transported to a 1980s gay bar. “I’m sure the kids have had enough of me.” One of the wheels on Grant’s suitcase caught on a snag in the carpet.
“I haven’t had my time with you.”
Patrick placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder. Greg needed his own room to grieve. He shouldn’t carry Sara inside him like Patrick had carried Joe these past dozen years; he didn’t have the luxury of drifting through life unhealed—not with children to raise.
A young straight couple passed them; the woman, in hiking gear with a backpack and Nalgene bottle, focused her eyes on Patrick. Greg was invisible to them, but he stared back nonetheless.
“How do you do it?” Greg asked when the couple was out of earshot.
“What?”
“Those people who just walked by. Staring.”
“What people?”
Greg pointed beyond Patrick’s shoulder. He turned just in time to see the couple lean into each other and giggle. “I couldn’t be watched like that. Just the thought of eyes on me all the time.”
Patrick didn’t even notice it anymore. “Get used to it. You’re going to have eyes on you at all times. Mom, Dad. The kids as they get older. Clara will be on you like a hawk.”
Patrick could see on his brother’s face how much he wanted to just have everyone’s trust without earning it.
“You can do this, you know. I have faith in you.”
Greg looked everywhere but at his brother.
“Did you remember to put your phone charger in your carry-on? The kids will want to watch YouTube. Do you want granola bars for the plane?”
“Listen to you.” Patrick was Sara in that moment, mothering him and the kids. Greg fished in his pocket for the boarding passes they had printed back at the house.
Patrick watched Maisie chase Grant in a tight circle. They were laughing in the way that you can when the rest of the world drops away. “I’m going to miss them, you know.” The promise of a quiet house swiftly seemed less appealing. He wished like hell it was Wednesday just so Rosa would be puttering around or he could smell her enchilada sauce simmering in the kitchen.
“Settle down, Patrick.”
Patrick’s hackles were instantly raised. “Am I making a scene?”
“No, settle down. Find someone.”
Patrick chuckled. “I’m good.”
“You could have kids of your own. You’re so good with them. I watched you with Grant yesterday. Teaching him to put his face in the water. I was actually jealous of your time with them this summer. That should have been me.”
“I wasn’t teaching him to put his face in the water, I was trying to drown him.” Patrick shoved his hands in his pockets.
Greg shook his head. “I hate thinking of you all alone.”
Patrick removed his cap to muss his hair before crouching into a squat. He hid his face in his hat until he regained his composure. Greg fanned himself with the boarding passes. Maisie and Grant plopped in two chairs by the floor-to-ceiling windows to catch their breath. Patrick scrutinized Grant as the boy swung his feet, so carefree. Next summer his legs would properly reach the floor; another token of childhood gone forever.
Greg placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I worry about you.”
Patrick stood, dragging his foot across the ragged carpet. He studied the sole of his shoe as if he had stepped in something unpleasant. “Don’t.”
The lump in Patrick’s throat doubled in size. Coupled with the pounding in his chest, compounded by the precipitous drop in his stomach—it was time to rip off the Band-Aid. He pushed Greg forward until they reached the atrium, the dingy airport suddenly awash in sunlight. “I’m the normal one in the family. Remember that. I’m the most normal.”
“You say it like it’s a competition.”
“Everything’s a competition.”
Patrick’s phone dinged. He pulled it out of his pocket and studied the screen.
“What is it?” Greg asked.
“Package delivered from the Hollywood Foreign Press. I think it’s my new Golden Globe.”
Greg laughed. “Yeah. You’re definitely the most normal.” He looked up at the glass above them. There was a small brown bird, confused by all the windows, flying back
