Separation Anxiety - Laura Zigman Page 0,12
into the sling to pet the dog. “He’ll come back. Boys always do.”
“Do they really?” I’m crying now, and so, I see, is Grace.
“Of course they do. They’re just scared. Underneath it all, they’re just little children in big bodies. They still need us.”
Grace hands me a tissue and keeps one for herself. We blow our noses, and as we do I look at her face, her skin, trying to get a sense of how old she is. Younger than me, I’m sure—everyone is now—but beyond that, I’m not sure.
“I just realized I’m standing here crying with you and I don’t know anything about you. Your life. What you do when you’re not here. Do you have kids?”
Grace looks away, wipes her nose. “It’s complicated.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s no one’s fault but my own.”
I have no idea what that means and no idea what to say next—I’ve never understood people who don’t like to talk about themselves—so I put the tissue in the sling for the dog to play with. Then I stand up as straight as I can, which, given the weight and position of the dog, makes me overcompensate by sticking my stomach out the way I did when I was pregnant.
“So how much time do I have?”
Grace sighs, looks up and away. “Another year or two. In my experience, by sixteen things start to turn around.”
“I meant for the payment.”
We both laugh at the misunderstanding, but I feel like all the molecules in my body have suddenly rearranged themselves into a snowflake of hope. There’s a clock on my heartache, and I’ve just started running it out.
“November fifteenth. That’s the drop-dead date for what’s overdue and the next payment. And,” she says, an idea suddenly occurring to her, “if you’re interested in housing some People Puppets, that could definitely reduce your payment.”
“Definitely. I’ll talk to my husband.”
“Great.”
“November fifteenth,” I repeat.
“Six weeks.”
“Six weeks,” I repeat again.
Grace gives me a quick hug. “It’ll work out.”
“Okay.”
“Hang in there.”
“Okay.” And then I add: “You, too!”
Grace turns and smiles, and when she does I reach into the sling and take Charlotte’s paw and wave it at Grace even after her back is turned and she is halfway down the hallway.
The Snoring Room
The snoring room is in the basement off the laundry area, a guest room/playroom that Teddy never actually used when he was little enough to need it because it felt too far away and separate from the rest of the house, which he didn’t like. As an only child, he had learned at a young age to entertain himself for hours, but he always wanted to know that he wasn’t actually alone. That there were other people in the house—even if those other people weren’t siblings—which is what he wanted more than anything in the world. (That’s why, when he was eight and I was, well, older than that, we got the dog.) There’s a bright orange modern sofa that converts into a bed without even folding out; a guest chair; two floor lamps; bookshelves, side tables, and Teddy’s old train table, which now functions as a coffee table.
It’s been a few days since my conversation with Grace about our tuition issue when I stand in the doorway and watch Gary pull from a giant purple bong. I used to come down here late at night to throw in a load or two of laundry, but after a few times of catching the muted but unmistakable moan and groan of online porn coming from behind the makeshift curtain room divider, it seemed safer and less awkward to use the machine during the day. With the curtain open now, the gurgling of the bong is deafening. Usually he uses a sleek little black vaping inhaler, but every now and then, when he comes home early enough, he likes to go old-school with smoke and dirty water and bubbles. He finally notices me, covering my ears melodramatically with my hands, and grins.
“Want some?” he croak-talks without exhaling, angling the bong in my direction.
“No thanks.” Gary smokes entirely too much pot these days, even though it’s the medically prescribed kind, formulated especially for his kind of debilitating anxiety, with all the THC removed—something I’d even managed to work into a few of my top-read Well/er posts. (“Is the ‘new pot’ for you?” “Why cannabis beats Klonopin for anxiety.” “If just seeing the word cannabis makes you anxious, keep reading.” “Yes, pot sommelier is a thing, and you need one.”) But, as usual, I don’t