but was so hypnotizing that J.D. didn’t seem to hear his brother screaming in the other room.
“Do you not hear your poor brother?” Claire said.
“What do you want me to do about it?” J.D. said. “He doesn’t want me. He wants you.”
Claire felt like smacking him, but J.D. was unconsciously mimicking his father. It was Jason who spoke to Claire like she was his feebleminded servant, Jason who conveyed the preposterous idea that Claire was the only person in the family responsible for Zack—perhaps because she was the one who had almost killed him. Claire peered into the guest room. The bed was empty and made up.
“Have you seen Daddy this morning?” Claire asked.
“He went to work,” J.D. said.
“Work?”
“Deadline, he said.”
“Right, but it’s Sunday. Day of rest.”
J.D. did not see fit to respond to this; he got sucked right back into his game.
“Where are your sisters?”
He did not answer this, either. Claire went into the baby’s room and lifted Zack out of his crib. He was red-faced and nearly inconsolable, hiccupy, hysterical. He was the saddest baby Claire had ever seen, and even after she picked him up he bellowed and struggled for breath, perhaps because he sensed she was not really there.
Ottilie came out of her bedroom wearing her nightgown over her jeans. There had been one inexplicable morning when she’d asked to wear this exact ensemble to school.
“Come on down in a few minutes,” Claire said. “I’m going to make breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry,” Ottilie announced.
“Doesn’t matter,” Claire said. “You have to eat.”
“I’m not hungry because Shea threw up in her bed and the smell made me lose my appetite.”
“Shea threw up in bed? No, she didn’t.”
Ottilie nodded her head at the closed bathroom door. “She’s in there.”
Claire put her ear to the door. She heard Shea, gagging and spitting.
She knocked. “Shea, honey, are you okay?”
Moaning.
“And it’s all over her bed,” Ottilie said. “And there’s some on the rug. It smells disgusting.”
“Okay,” Claire said, thinking: Jason working (to spite her, to punish her), Pan’s day off, one kid screaming, one kid puking, two kids aggressively unhelpful. Hurting head, heavy heart. No best friend anymore, and lover in Tortola. It felt just, though; it felt right. Claire thought of Father Dominic. This was her penance.
Claire jimmied open the door to the bathroom. She rubbed Shea’s back while Shea expelled the contents of her stomach into the toilet. (And Ottilie was correct, it did smell disgusting. It made Claire want to vomit herself; all those mini crab cakes churned in her stomach.)
“Any idea what it was, honey? Did you eat too much candy last night? Or too much greasy popcorn?”
“No,” Shea moaned.
No, which made Claire fear it was a virus that would mow down the family.
She stripped Shea of her pajamas and put her, naked, teeth brushed, into the bed in the guest room. The guest room linens were among Claire’s most valuable possessions—crisp, white, about six thousand thread count, embroidered with sage green thread around the edges. There were ten pillows on the bed, including two foam slabs encased in European shams that were emblazoned with the letter C. The guest bed was an extravagance; it was fit for a Turkish pasha, and Shea was so delighted to be allowed to snuggle, naked, beneath the fine, smooth cotton and the green chenille blanket and the fluffy down comforter that she seemed to perk up immediately. Either that, or she was experiencing the imminent sense of wellness one felt after vomiting. Claire hoped, prayed, that Shea would not vomit on the sheets. On the guest room nightstand was a glass pitcher and cup for water, which Claire filled in the bathroom. She set it down for Shea.
“Don’t drink too much right away, okay, honey?”
“Okay.”
“And if you feel sick, you have to promise me you’ll run to the bathroom.”
“I promise.”
Claire looked at her daughter. Her red hair was damp and matted and her round cheeks were flushed pink. Only her slender torso and two toothpicky (but deceptively strong) arms were visible above the bed’s fluff. Shea was a miracle, Claire thought, and her eyes filled with tears. All of her children were miracles, especially the one whimpering in her arms.
“I love you,” she told Shea.
“I know that,” Shea said, unaware of or unimpressed by Claire’s gush of emotion. “Can I watch TV?”
Yes, there was a TV in the guest room, hidden in a cabinet opposite the pencil-post bed. With so many amenities for guests, it was amazing they didn’t have more visitors