Claire said, “I was born the day her friend died. Did you know that?”
Fiona whispered, although it didn’t need to be whispered. “She means Yale.” And then aloud she said, “No, that’s wrong. You were born the day before. Claire, listen, did you tell Kurt that I said that was the worst day of my life? Because I never—”
“It always killed me,” Claire said. She was talking only to Julian, as if Fiona weren’t there. Julian, to his credit, didn’t look panicked at being in the middle of this. Maybe he knew what he was: a void, a sounding board, a necessary presence. “There was always—when I was a kid, there was part of me that thought if only I’d been born after he died, she’d believe I was him, reincarnated or something. Then I could believe it, even. I wished I’d been born that exact instant.”
Although Claire wasn’t looking at her, just at Julian and the Magritte plate, Fiona said, “It was never a competition, honey.”
“Ha!” It was too loud, but no one else was listening. “That is hilarious.”
Maybe this was good. Claire needed to say the meanest things she could, so they’d be out in the room instead of inside her. Still, all Fiona could think to do was cry, which wouldn’t help anything, so she managed not to. Julian took a step toward Fiona, put a hand on her back.
Claire put the plate down and picked up another, this one bright sky blue with that bowler hat. Usage Externe, the hat’s label said.
Julian said, “I know she did her best.”
“I’m trying to do my best now,” Fiona said. “Now that you’re a mother, don’t you—”
But Claire cut in. “She only wants to move here because there’s been a disaster. She wants to swoop in and be near the drama.”
Julian looked confused.
Fiona said, “What I’d like to be near is my daughter and my granddaughter. I’d like to make up for maybe being a depressed, shitty mother by being a decent grandmother. I’m not asking anything in return.”
Claire flipped the plate over as if she were checking the price. A thoughtful, resigned silence.
“You might not resolve this all in the gift shop,” Julian said.
Claire said, “I can’t control where you live. If you move here, you move here.”
It was as good as Fiona could hope to get from her, for now.
“Can I interject something,” Julian said, “as we head for the escalators? Because it’s probably time to head for the escalators.” Claire blinked and put the plate down, and they walked out across the broad lobby. He said, “Everyone knows how short life is. Fiona and I know it especially. But no one ever talks about how long it is. And it’s—does that make sense? Every life is too short, even the long ones, but some people’s lives are too long as well. I mean—maybe that won’t make sense till you’re older.”
He stepped onto the escalator first, and he rode backward to face them.
He said, “If we could just be on earth at the same place and same time as everyone we loved, if we could be born together and die together, it would be so simple. And it’s not. But listen: You two are on the planet at the same time. You’re in the same place now. That’s a miracle. I just want to say that.”
Claire was behind her, so Fiona couldn’t see her face, but she could feel her energy—she’d had so much practice, and it was all coming back—and at the very least, she could feel that Claire wasn’t annoyed, wasn’t rolling her eyes and wondering who this asshole was with his motivational speech. As for herself, she was grateful. She hadn’t remembered Julian being this smart, but she hadn’t been smart back then either. Thirty years could do a lot.
They were nearing the top. “Turn around,” she said, “before you trip.”
1992
For the first time in three weeks, he could breathe. Not well, but well enough that he could get out whole strings of words, whole thoughts and sentences. When he’d been so certain, only yesterday, that this was it, that each breath had only one or two more behind it. Part of him thought he should hoard each breath, save it for tomorrow, but mostly he wanted to talk while he still could, say things he wouldn’t be able to say later.
Fiona was in the chair beside the bed. Eight months pregnant, barely, and still so small—if she’d worn a baggy enough