While I'm Falling Part 22

"I don't know why." Elise took another bite of pizza. She used her napkin to daintily wipe her mouth. "I've always given a hundred percent to everything I've done. I don't see why this should be any different." She gazed out the window, out at big snowflakes, falling slowly, meandering to the ground. It was clear, from her placid expression, that she considered the matter closed.

My mother leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Because of money," she said.

"Jingle Bell Rock" started up on the jukebox.

"Money isn't a problem," Elise said. "I just told you that."

"Your money. You need your own money."

Elise straightened her posture. "Our marriage is fine. I'm not you. Charlie isn't Dad." She took another bite of pizza. My mother still wasn't eating. But Elise, like my father, had no problem eating and arguing at the same time. It was like breathing to them.

"You don't know the future." My mother's voice wasn't loud, but her tone was so firm, so certain, that someone at another table turned around. She fixed her gaze on Elise. "You should keep working. At least part-time."

Elise waved the words away. "You haven't practiced law. You don't know what you're talking about."

"And you haven't been divorced. You don't know how that works, Elise."

Elise stopped chewing. She put her pizza down. She wiped her mouth with her napkin and looked away.

"Honey, I'm just trying to-"

"You're confusing me with you," she said. She looked back at my mother. "I'm the one who invests our money. My name is on every doc.u.ment. I balance our checkbook. It's a partners.h.i.+p. It's equal. And it will still be equal when I stay home."

My mother covered her eyes with her hands. After a while, Elise glanced at me, worried. I looked away. A lot had happened since she'd last called me from California. There was much she did not yet know. I did not think our mother was crazy. I was not certain she was even wrong.

Elise reached across the table and squeezed her arm, her expression softer now. "You big hypocrite," she said, smiling a little. I just want to be as good of a mother as you were. And you were so good, Mom. You're telling me you regret it?"

I leaned forward, shaking my head, trying to make eye contact with Elise. She thought her questions were nice. She didn't know just how bad things had gotten. She hadn't seen all our mother's things in the back of the van.

My mother looked up and shook her head. She did not appear especially pained. "No," she said. "No, I don't. I don't regret what I did. But I don't want you to do it."

Elise sat back slowly, her smile turned into a smirk. In her mind, she'd just won the argument. "That doesn't make any sense," she said.

My mother shrugged. She looked at Elise and then at me. She pushed her half-eaten pizza away from her.

"It doesn't," she said. "I know."

Shortly after dinner that evening, Elise pretty much had the same argument with my father. It was just louder. Poor Susan O'Dell sat blinking into her eggnog as my father got increasingly agitated by the idea of Elise becoming a stay-at-home mom. He stood up and paced around the dining room, almost b.u.mping right into the gla.s.s-topped table. Was she crazy crazy? he wanted to know. Did she not understand that she was brilliant and immensely talented brilliant and immensely talented? Did she forget how hard she had worked? Did she realize what she was throwing away?

Elise sipped hot chocolate and answered every charge. She only raised her voice when he interrupted her. And when she needed to talk to me or Susan, to ask us to please pa.s.s the cinnamon or the whipping cream, her voice was calm and polite. The louder he got, the more her gaze wandered, to her watch, to her nails, to Susan O'Dell's pretty and alarmed-looking face.

"Should we give them some s.p.a.ce?" Susan whispered, her eyes on mine.

I shook my head. "This is kind of how it goes," I said. I didn't actually say Get used to it, Get used to it, but I hoped she got the idea. She seemed nice enough. She was quiet, but alert-looking, with a suprising spread of freckles across the bridge of her graceful nose. She was maybe ten years younger than my mother. At dinner, she laughed appreciatively at almost everything my father said. He was charming. He told good stories. He pulled her chair out for her and asked her opinion on a recent ruling by the State Supreme Court. But after dinner, because of Elise, she got to see what he was like when he was mad. but I hoped she got the idea. She seemed nice enough. She was quiet, but alert-looking, with a suprising spread of freckles across the bridge of her graceful nose. She was maybe ten years younger than my mother. At dinner, she laughed appreciatively at almost everything my father said. He was charming. He told good stories. He pulled her chair out for her and asked her opinion on a recent ruling by the State Supreme Court. But after dinner, because of Elise, she got to see what he was like when he was mad.

"Was this Charlie's idea? Did he just want to take the job here, whether you could get one or not?"

"You're seriously asking me that?" Elise shook her head and yawned. She put her feet up in his empty chair. "How much eggnog have you had?"

They stared at each other.

"I can always go back," she said. "I get to keep my degree, you know. I also get to keep my brain."

My father did not smile. "You're stepping off the ladder, honey." He pointed down at her. "Don't kid yourself. They're not going to let you back on."

She met his eyes, her smile gone. She didn't like him pointing, maybe. She looked tired all at once. "I stepped off the ladder when I said I wanted to come home for Christmas," she said. "I stepped off the ladder when I asked for three days off instead of two."

I looked into the corner of the room, where my father had placed his poinsettia. Elise and I had placed all our gifts around it, almost hiding the plant from view. We'd a.s.sumed there wouldn't be a tree.

"Susan has a kid." My father nodded at Susan O'Dell, who looked suddenly ill. "Susan has a kid, and she always worked. She did it."

"I should go," Susan O'Dell said. She wasn't talking to anyone, just announcing it to the room.

"I changed my major," I said, with a similar volume and tone. "I'm not pre-med anymore. I'm doing English literature. I might go to grad school. For literature."

Everyone looked at me.

"I think I'll be happier," I added. "I'll try harder and do better. I'll always want to go to work, you know, if I'm doing something I love."

I lowered my eyes, studying my hot chocolate. My non sequitur had actually been thought out, though only for about ten seconds. I'd understood, all at once, that this was the time to strike. For one, Susan O'Dell's nervous presence was keeping my father somewhat in check. He was yelling, but not as much, and not quite as loudly, as he would have been if she weren't there. Furthermore, Elise's defection was so much more extreme. In a year, she would be a housewife. I would be in grad school. There was a big difference.

My father pressed both hands against the top of his head. He looked at Elise. He looked at me. "What the h.e.l.l is happening here?" He looked at Susan O'Dell. "Talk to them!" he said. "They need a strong role model. Now!"

I didn't like it, even if it was just a joke.

"We already have one," I said, my voice firm, before even Elise could speak. I was as mad as I'd been at the steak house, right before I'd gotten up and walked out. He was putting us all into boxes. I was with my mother and Elise, nothing like the bright and hardworking Susan O'Dell.

"Sorry," my father said, palms raised. "Sorry. I didn't mean..."

I didn't believe him. I knew what he'd meant. But I'd spoken, and he'd apologized.

Elise gave Susan a sympathetic smile. "Coming back next year?" She picked up her mug and stood, stretching on her tiptoes, and as she arched back, her s.h.i.+rt lifted, and I saw that her jeans were only zipped halfway, and a rubber band stretched between the b.u.t.ton and the eye of them. "He has some good qualities, as I'm sure you know." She walked around the table to where he stood, leaning in against his crossed arms to kiss him on the cheek. "You just have to know when to ignore him."

By the time she shuffled into the kitchen, I wasn't mad anymore. I was just impressed with the advice. I looked up at my father and smiled, raising my mug in Elise's direction. If he wanted to put me in the same box as my sister, well, that was fine with me.

Christmas morning, while I was still asleep, my mother called and left a message. Bowzer had had a bad night. He'd been okay when she went to bed, but at two a.m., she woke to his quiet whimpers. He was having trouble breathing. He'd messed on the bed. He'd always been such a clean, fussy dog; but he either couldn't, or wouldn't, stand up.

"The vet said he'd come in and meet me at his office. He said he'd be there by nine." She sounded tired, though she was speaking very quickly. "So I won't be here if you come over this morning." She sniffed and exhaled. "I'll call later, in the afternoon."

I closed my phone and woke Elise. She swatted me away at first, but as soon as she understood, she opened her eyes and sat up straight.

"I'll come, too," she said.

We dressed quickly. While she was in the bathroom, I heard footsteps downstairs and the jingle of keys. I pulled on my boots and ran down the stairs.

"We need to borrow your car," I said.

My father looked at me over the rim of a mug of coffee. He was wearing nylon running pants and a matching jacket. His car keys were cupped in his free hand. Either the gym was open on Christmas morning, or Susan O'Dell still believed that he had some good qualities, too.

He frowned. "I was just about to go-"

"Bowzer's dying," I said. "He's dying right now. We need to get over there. We need to borrow your car."

He squinted. He tilted his head. Later, I would consider that he was perhaps truly confused. Bowzer, in a different era, had meant something to him. You didn't let an animal sit tummy-up on your lap every evening for over a decade and not grow at least a little attached. But he hadn't seen Bowzer in over a year, and after he moved out of the house and into this neat condominium, he must have a.s.sumed that he would never see the dog again. So in a sense, for my father, Bowzer had already been dead for a year.

But if he was confused, he was also worried about me driving. He glanced out the window, at the morning sun s.h.i.+ning on a fresh layer of snow in the driveway. He might have been thinking of my accident in Jimmy's car.

I took a step toward him. "I'm a good driver," I said. "There's nothing wrong with my driving. This is important, Dad. Please."

I kept my eyes on his. I could have offered to let Elise drive. He could have suggested it. But both of us thought better.

He handed over the keys.

"Thank you," I said. "I'll be in the garage, warming it up." I moved past him, into the kitchen. "Tell Elise when she comes down?" I glanced over my shoulder to make sure he'd heard. The expression on his face stopped me. He looked sad. He was looking at the floor, frowning, his heavy brows pushed low.

"Dad? Do you..." I s.h.i.+fted my weight. It was a bad idea. It wouldn't work. And yet, Bowzer was the family dog. "Do you want to come, too? It would probably be okay."

He looked up at me, tears in his eyes. He shook his head and jogged up the stairs.

Dr. Bree told my mother she shouldn't feel bad. He didn't think she'd waited too long. As he said this, he filled two slim syringes and set them both on a metal tray. He was unshaven, wearing jeans and a blue hooded sweats.h.i.+rt. If he minded coming to his office on Christmas morning, he didn't let on.

"You brought him in just last month. And he was doing okay then." He had a latex glove on just his right hand, and he used his left to smooth down the fur on Bowzer's s.h.i.+vering back. My mother had brought him in wrapped in the afghan. She'd had me and Elise fold it over the exam table before she set him down. But the room was cold. The vet apologized; they'd turned down the heat for the holiday.

"It sounds as if things turned for the worse only recently." He looked up at my mother. "I think you've been good to him, Natalie. I would say you've done a pretty good job."

My mother nodded once. She was dry-eyed, quiet. She had one hand gently rubbing Bowzer's chest, the other unmoving between his ears. When Dr. Bree picked up the first syringe, she held her breath. Bowzer looked up then, his old eyes weakly peering up at the three of us.

"This one is just a sedative," he said. "Once it goes in, no more pain."

"Good dog," my mother whispered. "Good boy."

The only sound was his labored breathing. I leaned forward to rub his warm neck, my fingers grazing my mother's. Elise put an arm around her waist.

"Did you hear that?" she asked, ducking a little. "Did you hear that? Mom? I want to make sure. He said you did a good job."

We could leave the body there, the vet said. It would be cremated, the ashes scattered over his neighbor's farm, unless we wanted to make special arrangements. My mother shook her head. Scattered ashes would be fine. She asked if she needed to pay just now. She'd prefer it if he could send her a bill.

Even when it was just the three of us, walking back out to the van, she didn't cry. She kept her hands in the pockets of her coat, her purse slung over her shoulder. She'd left the afghan inside with Bowzer. She had nothing to carry out.

When we got to the van, she turned around. "Incineration. It's not a nice word."

I shook my head. "He didn't say incineration, Mom. He said cremation. It's different." I didn't know exactly how it was different, but cremation sounded much better.

She nodded, but she did not seem consoled. Her mouth was hidden by the red scarf, but her eyes looked worried. She'd done the right thing, of course. She had no money for special arrangements, and asking Elise to pay for it would have clued her in to our mother's circ.u.mstances. But now she was maybe thinking about fire, about images that might bother her later.

"Scattered ashes are nice," I said. The wind was blowing cold from the west. I put on my hat and stepped closer to the van. "Scattered over a farm, right? That's good." I shook my head, searching for words. I didn't want to say fertilizer. fertilizer. That was sort of the idea moving through my head, but I was looking for a softer word: I thought That was sort of the idea moving through my head, but I was looking for a softer word: I thought change; change; I thought I thought s.p.a.ce s.p.a.ce. "Like the dinosaurs," I said, my voice uncertain. "They turned into something else..."

Elise shook her head as if she felt sorry for me for trying to think. But my mother moved toward me quickly. She pulled her scarf down below her chin.

"I can't believe you remember." She leaned back, squinting. "You remember I taught you that when you were little? Do you remember that? We were in the car? Waiting for the train?"

Her face was full of happy expectation, so I nodded, though I had no idea what she was talking about. On that hard, cold day, I would have said anything to make her feel better. If she wanted to think she was the one who taught me about dinosaurs turning into coal and oil, fine. Maybe she was. I only knew it was true, and that it was for the best that they had all died when they did, so there would be room for everything good still to come.

Epilogue.

FOR MY NEPHEW'S first Christmas, I knit him a hat. I was still a beginning knitter, and it didn't come out the way I'd hoped: the rows were wavy on one side and straight on the other. But I'd measured right, and the hat fit snugly on his little head, which was still barely covered with s.h.i.+ny wisps of hair the exact color of my sister's. He was six months old. Elise and Charlie had named him Miles, after Charlie's father. first Christmas, I knit him a hat. I was still a beginning knitter, and it didn't come out the way I'd hoped: the rows were wavy on one side and straight on the other. But I'd measured right, and the hat fit snugly on his little head, which was still barely covered with s.h.i.+ny wisps of hair the exact color of my sister's. He was six months old. Elise and Charlie had named him Miles, after Charlie's father.

On Christmas morning, my hat sat on his head for maybe fifteen seconds before he yanked it off and started screaming.

"Don't take it personally," Elise said. Miles, still wailing in her lap, tried to grasp a blinking light hanging low on the tree. We were in our pajamas, sitting on the plush carpet of Elise and Charlie's enormous living room, which, Elise liked to point out, cost a mere fraction of what an enormous living room would have cost them if they had stayed in San Diego. She mostly pointed this out when my mother was around, though my mother had told her, several times, that she didn't have to justify anything.

"It's a great hat." Elise raised her voice so I could hear her over the crying. She held the hat up and smiled a little. The fuzzy ball on top was lopsided. "I like that you made it yourself. You gave him your time. That's sweet."

"You knit?" My father stood in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing the green turtleneck sweater that Susan O'Dell had given him for Christmas. He did not seem pleased or comfortable. My mother knew-we all knew-that my father hated turtlenecks. Susan O'Dell still did not. But Elise had invited Susan for brunch, and so my father was in the turtleneck, waiting. He looked at me over his coffee mug and frowned. "When did you start knitting?"

I stretched out my legs, leaning back on my elbows. "Since I realized I had no money for presents."

"Get used to it, Ms. Liberal Arts." He sipped his coffee and chuckled at his own joke. Elise looked at me and shook her head. Ignore ignore ignore. Ignore ignore ignore. That was not impossible. I really didn't care what my father thought of me knitting. I'd gotten myself a little stand that propped up any size book on a table, so I could read hands-free. In the last three months, I'd knit a hat for every member of my family-all while reading That was not impossible. I really didn't care what my father thought of me knitting. I'd gotten myself a little stand that propped up any size book on a table, so I could read hands-free. In the last three months, I'd knit a hat for every member of my family-all while reading Moby d.i.c.k Moby d.i.c.k, The Turn of the Screw, The Turn of the Screw, and and A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. When I got tired of reading, I would look down, surprised by how much my hands had accomplished. When I got tired of reading, I would look down, surprised by how much my hands had accomplished.

I didn't always read while I knit. In October, I put up signs in the elevators, and I soon heard from seven freshmen who either wanted to learn to knit or who knew a lot more about knitting than I did. We met every Tuesday at eight in the lobby of my floor. I got programming credit. And it was nice, for one hour a week, just to sit around and talk and, at the same time, get something done.

"It's a little...domestic, don't you think?" My father walked into the room and stood next to the tree, looking down.

"No flies on you," Elise said. "Knitting can only mean one thing." She looked down at Miles and then at me. "Veronica got knocked up, too."

She was making fun of him. I was not pregnant. I did not plan to get pregnant anytime soon. In January, I would take the GRE and apply to four graduate schools.