a tacky, overly publicized Martian wedding with vaguely pagan undertones. They’d stolen a rover and run away and discovered a crater full of frozen water, which they’d melted to survive. And the Russians were coming, a whole rocket-load of them. Not to kill them, but to rescue them. Isabel’s rich Russian family were criminals with hearts of gold.
But they missed home. There was only a chapter or two to go. Roy had to get them home.
* * *
By the time Liam and Greg came home, Peaches was high as a kite and cooking a rabbit.
“Dinner won’t be ready until I don’t know, midnight, but it’ll be worth it,” she told them loudly, brandishing a glass of white wine.
“I smell pot,” Liam said.
“Oh, do you now?” Peaches giggled.
“Mom!” he whined. He looked like he’d been crying.
“Herbes de Provence, that’s what you smell.”
“Are you stoned?” Greg asked. He seemed impressed.
“Very,” she admitted.
It was hot in their apartment. She’d taken off her sweater and jeans and was cooking in just her T-shirt.
“Mom, please put on some pants,” Liam whimpered.
Her phone bleated. Another text from Roy Clarke. Greg stared at the phone where it lay on the counter.
Then the phone rang. It was Stuart Little. It rang and rang. Her ringtone for when he called was set to the opening drum sequence of the Blind Mice song “Omnia Vincit!” It was pretty obnoxious.
Peaches gulped her wine and snorted, horselike. “I’ll go find some shorts.”
When she came back, Greg and Liam were seated at the kitchen table, waiting for her. This was odd. They never gathered around the kitchen table except to eat.
“We have something to tell you,” Greg announced.
Peaches didn’t know if she was being paranoid because of the pot, but it sounded like they were trying to freak her out on purpose.
“Guys,” she protested, “I already had the worst possible day.”
“Well, it’s about to get worse,” Liam said.
Peaches’ lower lip trembled. When had her only child learned to be so mean?
“It’s the dog,” Liam said. “He’s dead.”
“We came home around the same time,” Greg explained. “He was lying in front of the door. We carried him to the clinic but it was too late. His heart stopped.”
Peaches hadn’t even noticed that the huge dog was missing. She sat down next to Liam and took his hand. Greg reached for her other hand across the table.
Tears spilled from the corners of her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. “He was a good dog.” She hoped she didn’t sound stupid and high. “He was my friend.”
Letting go of their hands, she tucked her palms beneath her thighs and rocked back and forth in her chair. Her chest shuddered. A stream of snot dripped from her nose.
“We got him when I was pregnant with you.” She sobbed in Liam’s direction. “He was your brother. When you had to go to the pediatrician, I used to say I was taking you to the vet.”
Her sobs were loud and uncontrollable now. News of the dog’s death and perhaps smoking a shitload of pot while gulping white wine had uncorked all her bottled-up emotion. How did she get here? She was supposed to be a girl drummer in a cool indie band, dating Stuart Little. Instead she was an overworked school nurse, Liam’s mom, Greg’s wife, chief cook and bottle-washer of the family, and the owner of an enormous, old, dead dog.
Greg watched her across the table, regretting that they were no longer holding hands. Liam’s eyes were screwed miserably shut. He was inconsolable. They both were. Greg stood up.
“Can I help with dinner? Do you need more wine? Liam, can you set the table? Maybe start by getting us all some big glasses of ice water.”
Nobody moved.
“I hate this kitchen.” Peaches sobbed. “There’s no ventilation. Maybe we should move. I want to move.”
Liam opened his eyes. “Mom. Stop.”
Greg knew Liam had every right to be miserable. Liam was a teenager. But Peaches. He hated to see her so sad. It wasn’t just the dog—he was an old, old dog. She was sad before they even got home.
Greg began to clank around the kitchen, putting away clean dishes, opening another bottle of wine, cutting bread, taking out the butter, making a salad. Whenever Peaches was incapacitated, he became hyperefficient. There’d been so many sad, restless, dissatisfied days before she became a nurse. They’d brainstormed possible solutions—move, have another baby, go to cooking school, go to plumbing school, train for a marathon. Peaches had fond memories of her own elementary