still a half bottle of cava in the fridge from dinner. I don’t bother with a glass; I take it into the TV room, curling up sideways on the sofa. And I cry.
For all the reasons.
THIRTY-THREE
This Wednesday morning is exactly like last Wednesday morning except for Freddie’s absence. I get up, shower, pull on a plain blue jersey dress and boots. I putz around in the kitchen. Bread goes into the toaster; bread pops out of the toaster, transformed. Yogurt and muesli and juice wait on the counter. We eat, and I smile around a mouthful of toast.
Just another school day, that smile says. See you all in the afternoon.
“What’s for supper?” Anne asks, accustomed to me planning out meals in three-day chunks.
“Pasta,” I tell her. It’s not a lie. I’ll leave the box of rigatoni next to the stove with a can of crushed tomatoes and herbs and garlic next to it. The only detail I omit is that Malcolm will be cooking it, not me.
He leaves first, raincoat over one arm in case it rains, keys to his car in the other hand. We act out the same scene from all the other mornings of our marriage: a peck on the cheek, a “Have a good day,” and an exchange of smiles.
Anne runs out the door not long after Malcolm’s car vanishes around the curve. “See you later, Mom.”
“Later, honey,” I call, resisting the instinctual urge to bolt down the driveway and throw my arms around her.
Later. I wonder when that will be.
With the house empty, I accelerate into a sort of turbocharged mode, the kind of organizational frenzy everyone experiences when a mother-in-law calls to say she’ll be popping by in ten minutes. Clothes and shoes and underwear find a new home in a suitcase that smells vaguely stale after not having been opened in five years. I throw my makeup bag and brush and comb on top of the pile, zip it up, and heft it. Not too bad, room for a few books that will keep me company on the bus and maybe find their way into usefulness at State School 46. From the fridge, I grab two bottles of water, two apples, and a sandwich I made at three this morning. Then I think of Freddie, and add a few bags of oatmeal cookies to the snack pile.
My suitcase, briefcase, and lunch put me at my limit.
The instructions that came with my new identification card are clear—and not recommendations:
Three pieces of luggage per person, to include: one suitcase of carry-on dimensions, one personal item such as a handbag or briefcase, one clear plastic bag for soft drinks and snacks. No alcohol is permitted in any of your luggage.
I’m not sure I like the idea of going from regular wine drinker to teetotaler overnight, but the letter’s tone, clipped and precise as a nun’s in a Catholic school, makes me skittish.
You will present yourself at your designated meeting point (see attached) no later than 9:00 AM on your date of transfer. Upon arrival, go directly to the check-in desk to be registered.
You must carry your identification card at all times.
You will. Go. You must. All imperatives without even a “please” to soften their stiffness.
Automatically, I reach for my coffee mug and raise it to my lips. Not automatically, I set it back down when my hand starts to shake. Everything about this morning tells me it’s not the right time to give myself the caffeine jitters.
Malcolm left the radio on when he left for work, and now an interview with Petra Peller comes on the air, invading my kitchen.
“The Genics Institute,” Petra says, “is proud to announce the acquisition of a new subsidiary, WomanHealth, Incorporated. As you know, WomanHealth has been a champion of informed family planning for over a quarter of a century. WomanHealth is here for you,” she went on. “More importantly, we’re here for your children. For your children’s future. Even if those children are unborn.”
I’m thinking something more along the lines of, What the fuck is an