a baby into the world was a great equalizer.
She had seen it all in London. Not hidden in a brown paper bag, but spread out on the dining room table. Here, she arrived months after everything was cleaned up and in order. There, she was right in the midst of it as it happened.
The day Allison’s baby was born, Sam showed up for work and found the twins, eighteen months old, sitting on the stoop in their pajamas. She led them inside. Allison’s husband, Joe, was in the kitchen, looking confused, gazing down at the box of Weetabix in his hands like he half expected it to explode.
The husband was a moron in that case. But even in the best of these situations, she had gleaned, men were useless. As soon as Allison was back from the hospital, the doula and the night nurse rolled in. Sam had never seen her in less than a turtleneck and chinos, but thirty seconds after meeting the doula, Allison was unbuttoning her shirt in the kitchen and placing her nipples into shot glasses of warm salt water, which the woman held in each hand.
Sam nearly said something when she saw the doula follow Allison into the bathroom. She wanted to warn her that Allison was not the type, that if she went in there, she’d be fired on the spot. But it happened too fast. The bathroom door swung open, then shut, giving Sam just long enough to see Allison’s bare knees.
She was on the toilet.
Dear God.
Sam pressed her ear to the door.
“This is a frozen maxipad soaked in witch hazel,” the doula said. “Stick it in your knickers. It will help with the pain.”
“You’re a miracle,” Allison purred. “I bled a lot just now. Here, have a look. Is this normal? Did I pop a stitch?”
The doula fed her watermelon and parsley to reduce the swelling on her ankles. Allison swallowed each bite like an obedient child.
The doula provided tips for what to do with the baby too, and these Sam tried to memorize. Stick a pinkie finger facing upward in a newborn’s mouth, and he’d stop crying. Swaddle him tight and he’d sleep three times as long.
* * *
—
Now, in George and Faye’s guest room, Sam lifted the cover of a green file folder. It contained an assortment of news stories—some clipped from actual papers, others printed out from online. She scanned the headlines:
A DRIVER’S SUICIDE REVEALS THE DARK SIDE OF THE GIG ECONOMY.
GNAWING AWAY AT HEALTH CARE.
MIDDLE-CLASS FAMILIES INCREASINGLY LOOK TO COMMUNITY COLLEGE.
THE END OF THE AMERICAN DREAM.
Each article was highlighted and underlined, with handwritten notes in the margins.
The folder beneath that one held only a yellow legal pad, every line filled. At the top of the first page were the words MY STORY (for Lizzy).
Sam started reading:
NOTES ON THE HOLLOW TREE: The idea that while America might seem to be progressing as ever before, in fact, all the support of decades past is gone.
You’ve heard all this by now in bits and pieces. But I wanted to get it down on paper, in one place. In case you ever take me up on writing the book…
The thing I should say to start with is this—ever since I was a teenager, my favorite thing to do in the world was drive.
Most guys in my position would have given up the actual driving part a long time ago. Not me. When the company was still alive, I ran a staff meeting on Thursdays, stopping on the way to pick up coffee and doughnuts. But outside that one hour a week, I was driving. I ate my meals in the car, logging a good twelve hours a day at least. I loved it.
But let me back up. For a while after high school, I worked in the paper plant like everyone else I knew. When the plant closed, I was twenty-eight, four years married, with a two-year-old kid. After that, I drove a cab, among other jobs—stock boy at Elmer’s hardware, seasonal work making Christmas deliveries for the post office, you name it. I was a moving man, a summer janitor at the middle school, and sometimes an electrician. (I had no formal training, but luckily no one ever asked.)
I split the cab with three other guys. It was white and smelled like someone else’s cigarettes. One day when I’m thirty-one, I pick up two women at the airport, dressed in black, clearly coming from the city. (No