Songs for the End of the World - Saleema Nawaz Page 0,141

does it have to do with me?”

“Weren’t you paying attention? It’s Keelan’s daughter. Julia. She wants to bring her family to the cabin. That includes Dory.”

Elliot felt his lips go numb. “I’m surprised you’re bothering to consult me. You love Dory.”

“Yes,” said Gretchen, looking as if she was forcing herself to repress a sigh. “But you’re our son. Didn’t you once tell me that entitled you to preferential treatment?”

“I—I didn’t think you were listening.”

“Well, I was. So?”

“Do what you want,” he said. “I’m over it.”

“Good. I will.” His mother was never one for reading between the lines if she knew she wouldn’t like what she’d find there.

Elliot refreshed his inbox to see if there was a new email from Sarah, but he had no unread messages. He tuned out his parents as he scrolled down to check the date of her last communication. Sometimes he worried he was developing the same anxiety she’d battled for years. If she didn’t write every twenty-four hours or so, he found himself imagining their boat capsizing in a rogue wave. He knew from Sarah this was called “catastrophizing.” Worse, he was beginning to realize how easily concern could transform into paralysis—every course of action was potentially fraught with moral and mortal perils, waiting only for an anxious mind to bring them to light.

Before long, his parents were finishing breakfast and Gretchen was arguing they had a responsibility to take in as many people as they could. “If we can’t trust the state to do it, we have to take care of each other,” she said.

“Well, it’s the lifeboat dilemma, dear,” replied Frank. “How many can our poor cabin support?”

“It has more beds than we need, as you know perfectly well. And the food will be plenty, by the sounds of what they’re bringing. We’ll have to do our share, too.”

“Indeed, we will,” said Frank. “From each according to her abilities. To each according to his needs.”

Gretchen tapped her fingers on the counter. “Doesn’t that sound like fun, Elliot?”

“More than you know, Mom.”

She got up and began sorting the mail, which they had let amass in great slippery piles of bills, flyers, food delivery menus.

“Here’s one for you, Elliot,” she said, holding out a white envelope. “Did you think to have your mail forwarded? That’s clever of you. I was going to mention it.”

He reached out to take it from her. “I didn’t, actually.”

“Maybe someone from back in the day then? An old friend from school.”

Elliot turned the envelope over in his hands. It looked official, not personal. The logo on the return address—Genosys Family Resources—seemed familiar. “I haven’t lived here in over fifteen years.”

The phone rang, and his father answered it.

“It’s Julia,” said Frank, covering the receiver. “What should I tell her?”

Gretchen turned to Elliot. “It’s up to you,” she said. “But we leave tomorrow.”

* * *

Elliot stood on the doorstep of Keelan’s home, listening to the muted peal of the doorbell echoing inside the old Queen Anne house and looking at his own car parked in the driveway. He’d driven Keelan’s Volvo straight from the hospital to a high-tech car wash, where he’d used his police discount for an electrostatically charged aerosol decontamination of the vehicle. It had occurred to him on his drive out to Lansdowne that, in spite of the expensive cleaning, the car seemed unchanged besides a faint smell of disinfectant. The very business of living required a certain amount of trust.

Dory flung open the door. She was wearing a striped dress with a red belt, and her eyes behind her glasses were liquid green and staring at the sight of him. Her face, even half-covered by a mask, was comforting in a visceral way that caught him off guard. He’d told his mother he wanted to meet with Dory before deciding whether or not to invite her to the cabin. Now he wondered if he’d made a mistake.

“Elliot.” It was almost a whisper. “You’re here.” Then she was peering past him down the deserted street. “Is your mom with you?” she said, seeming flustered.

“Just me,” he said, standing well back from her even though he too was wearing his personal protective gear.

“I’m sorry Julia cornered her like that,” said Dory. She stood aside to let him in then locked the door. “We thought the bereaved daughter might make a better ask than the maligned ex-wife.”

“I haven’t maligned you.”

“Well, that’s something. Why don’t we sit down?” Dory motioned for Elliot to follow, then strode across the foyer and down the