“Just because we’re afraid doesn’t mean we should walk out on our lives.”
“Elliot did,” said Frank.
Elliot winced but kept his gaze fixed on his screen. After Keelan died, he’d called his parents from the hospital and driven to Lansdowne that same day. Some reflex of retreat had kicked in even before he’d taken the time to question why he was on the highway to Massachusetts. There was, of course, the practical yet not insurmountable problem of his contaminated apartment, but mainly what he’d felt on the road was an overpowering urge to get out of the city itself. After instructing his parents on a few precautions to do with segregating bathrooms and dishware, he quarantined himself in his childhood bedroom for three weeks, taking comfort in the plates of food that appeared at his door and in the sounds of home carrying on downstairs, feeling halfway between an inmate and an invalid. All things considered, he’d felt cocooned rather than confined during his second isolation. And when the twenty-one days had fully counted down, he’d capitulated to his mother’s uncharacteristically emotional plea and called his supervisor to request one week’s vacation. Through all the mayhem, his captain remembered Elliot had been exposed at the very first infection site. “Enjoy your family,” he’d said. “This isn’t the time to be losing our best men.”
Gretchen sniffed, and Elliot glanced up to check whether it was a sound of derision, disagreement, or impending tears. These days he couldn’t always be sure.
“That’s not the same thing at all, Frank. Ell was just here for his quarantine,” she said. No weeping, only dissent. “He has to get back to work in…how long now, honey?”
Maybe she had noticed the growing shadows under his eyes or the way he continued to avoid discussing his return to New York, but she asked him this same question every day. Elliot had yet to confess it out loud, but his reluctance to go back to the city increased with every passing hour. Now he wondered if his mother had implanted the doubt in the first place and was nourishing it faithfully with her own fears, as though coaxing it to grow. Before answering, he scrutinized her for some such agenda, but she only looked curious, guileless, perhaps forgetful.
“Three days,” said Elliot finally.
“So we still have a little time,” said Gretchen. “Three days. Unless of course…”
“Unless what, Mom?” The only reason to repeat the number was to hammer home the urgency of some sort of decision on his part. It was as though they were each waiting for the other to say it first. “Unless I decide not to go back?”
His mother only cocked an eyebrow. “Unless you’ve been thinking that you’d rather be with your family at a time like this. Otherwise, we can just wait until you go.”
Elliot said nothing, not wanting to admit just how far he had come around to her point of view.
“Sarah didn’t wait,” said Frank, oblivious to the silent standoff. “She left months ago. Quite rightly, in my opinion.”
“Yes, but that’s New York City, dear.” Gretchen tilted her head in the way that meant she was waiting for the other person to catch up. “This is Lansdowne.”
“You say that, but just wait until Candace from up the street is smashing in our door because she hears we have the last jar of peanut butter in Massachusetts.”
“Don’t be absurd,” said Gretchen, her voice flat. “We don’t have any peanut butter.”
Since coming out of quarantine, Elliot had found himself watching his parents with an eye to their growing frailty and inimitable quirks. His father was a bit thinner, his mother more slumped. They remained the moral and intellectual beacons that had dominated his childhood, but here and there the signal was interrupted by ambivalence and bickering. It didn’t help that the memories of Keelan dying in his arms were still so fresh—the oily sheen of his sweat, the grotesquely purpling skin, the guttural rasp of each hard-fought breath. And, worst of all, the faltering awareness that had seemed to return at the end to his pale blue eyes: a silent, anguished plea to be saved from drowning on dry land. The images came unbidden to Elliot during second helpings of Frank’s brisket, while watching British murder mysteries with Gretchen, and in the middle of the night, no matter whether he was sleepless or dreaming. His parents were basically the same age as Keelan. How long would they be able to carry on without him? And what