pale blue paper and the white ribbon I’d curled myself. The others were purple, orange, neon green—and from the looks of the bows, professionally wrapped. I remembered making wrapping paper when Tom was young—white paper that we stamped with happy faces and flower-power stickers. He’d cried when it had been used and thrown away, and Theo told him that was why he was an architect, that it was a terrible job to design something impermanent. That was Theo, always speaking adult to adult. It was as if, after our daughter died, he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone being a child.
“Tom,” I said brightly, pulling up a chair, “do you remember when we used to design the wrapping paper?”
He turned from the refrigerator, which was old and hummed so loudly I could hear it through the alcove, covering whatever he and Tinsley were or were not saying.
“No, I can’t say that I do. I wasn’t much of an artist, though.”
“Oh, you were fine.”
“Not like Dad, though.”
I felt the old frisson traveling through me. “Well, it’s an unfair comparison.”
“No kidding. Ellie, your grandfather’s handwriting was nicer than anything I ever drew or painted.”
I smiled; Theo did have exquisite handwriting, baroque, almost. You didn’t see anything like that anymore.
“I’ll show you some more of his letters on Wednesday when you stay over,” I said. “You can read them to me this time.”
“It’s Thursday, Mom,” Tom said.
“Oh, oh, uh, yes, of course. Thursday.”
Tinsley and Tom exchanged a glance and I wanted to scream. Had she never forgotten a date, an appointment? Had she never shown up for her assignations a half hour late?
“Ann, I just assumed you’d stay here with Ellie,” Tinsley said.
“Here?”
“No way! What fun would that be?” Ellie frowned, and I laughed. My feelings precisely!
“We’ll give her the emergency cell phone to carry,” Tom said to Tinsley. “She’ll be fine.”
“Oh, of course she will be,” Tinsley said and smiled. “Of course.”
“Hey, when are we going to open my presents?”
“Hey, right now, kiddo!” Tinsley said. She reached out to ruffle Ellie’s hair, but Ellie ducked under her hand.
The first two she unwrapped were dolls that looked like streetwalkers, with short skirts and boots. She sighed and set them aside—Ellie had never been a doll person. She picked up the next one, mine, and shook it mischievously.
“It’s not a sports car,” I said.
“It’s not a playhouse,” Ellie replied.
“It’s not a puppy,” Tom chimed in, and turned to Tinsley.
“What? Oh, um, it’s not a spatula!” she said brightly.
“Nice try, Tins,” Tom said quietly.
Ellie tore open the paper, then surveyed the white box, which bulged in the middle. She opened the tissue carefully, peeking. Her eyes opened wide. “Is it… a cat?”
“No, silly,” I laughed.
She pulled out the jacket and gasped. “Grandma!” she cried. A short brown fur jacket, with knit ribbing around the waist and a hood. Exactly what a young girl dreams of. The gentleman at the fur salon that specializes in restyling was certainly right.
“Wow,” Tom said.
Ellie was already putting it on. “I had it made a little big, so you could wear it for a while,” I explained.
“It’s perfect!”
“Wow, it’s uh, very grown-up, Ellie,” Tinsley said.
“I love it! I’m never taking it off!”
“That’s not real fur, is it, Ann?” Tinsley frowned, “Because—”
“Oh no, of course not!” I said. And as I leaned over to zip up the zipper for Ellie, our eyes met and I gave her the universal grandmother-to-grandchild signal.
I winked.
She finished up her presents and I told Tom I’d forgotten something in my car. It was in a dark box on the floor of the backseat, no bow. I carried it in and set it in front of him.
“An early present for you,” I said.
“Three months early?” he replied and I shrugged.
The lid of the box came off easily.
“Sneakers?”
“Running shoes,” I said firmly. “I hope they fit.” I smiled as I gathered the scraps of wrapping paper for the recycling bin.
Tinsley looked up from her nails warily, like someone does when a nurse enters the room with a needle.
September 5, 1967
quick shower
PETER CALLED AT 4:30 AND Emma watched me on the phone intently, as if she knew. Could she hear the difference in my voice? Were there variants every time I opened my mouth, lilting to her brother, stern to her, flat to Theo?
Before we hung up we made plans for Wednesday, at the tavern. He said, “Good-bye, love,” and my face flushed; I splashed water on it at the kitchen sink.
I made hamburgers for Emma and me, then