The Hazards of Sleeping Alone (8 page)

“I just didn't know if Walter might have to work on the weekends,” Charlotte goes on, voice wobbling as she tries to override the tears thickening in her throat. She yanks open the utensil drawer and fishes for two spoons. “If he might have to be at the—where is it?”

“Woodworking shop.”

“Right.”

“He's an apprentice.”

Apprentice.
It might be worse than “alternative learning environment.”

“He doesn't have to work weekends. His master is cool about his hours.”

His
master.
God Almighty.

“Well, that's good, isn't it?” She rattles the drawer shut with the palm of her hand. “Isn't that lucky? To have a master who's cool about his hours?”

And just as she feels her head might burst, she grabs the coffeepot and aims it over
YOU CAN' T BE COOL WEARING FUR.
As she starts to pour, her hand is shaking so badly the coffee splashes over the lip of the pot. Charlotte just stands there, pot in hand, as spilled coffee leaks across the counter. She watches as it hovers for a moment at the curved lip of the Formica, then begins drizzling steadily onto the floor.

“Mom!”

It's the sound of her daughter's voice, like some kind of Pavlovian trigger, that brings Charlotte back to life. She sets the pot down, rips a paper towel from the roll above the sink, soaks up the puddle on the counter, then crouches on the floor to blot the tiles dry. When she lifts her head, she notices a thin stain running down the front of the cabinet doors.

“I'm sorry,” Emily says, grabbing another paper towel. She's on her feet now, having abandoned her blanket in a pink heap by her chair. “Really, Mom. I didn't know it would get to you like this.”

Still crouching, Charlotte catches a glimpse of herself in the glass of the oven door. Her reflection is dark and mottled, but her eyes have the wide, panicked look she's seen staring back at her from countless mirrors on countless sleepless nights. In that moment, she realizes how ridiculous she's being. How much she's overreacting. What's important here is not what she wants. It's what Emily wants: whatever makes her happy.

Charlotte closes her eyes. She feels the anger that has been hardening behind her face begin to break up, soften into flesh again. When she opens her eyes, she finds Emily kneeling beside her, scrubbing at the cabinet doors.

For a moment, Charlotte lays her hand against her daughter's
cheek, then lets it fall away. “So,” she says. “What does Walter like to eat?”

The upside of guests, even unwanted guests, is the busywork. While going to the Super Fresh to stock up on Walter's favorite foods is not exactly how Charlotte pictured her first—and now, only—full day with Emily, it's better than staying home feeling resentful. It's an activity, a job to do, a way of spending time together. Still, as Charlotte drives by the shiny Bed, Bath and Beyond presiding over the Millville Mall, she can't help but feel a pang of regret, picturing the soap dishes and can openers she wanted to buy Emily as housewarming gifts.

In the supermarket, Emily steers. Charlotte walks beside her. It's the same way they used to navigate grocery stores when Emily was a little girl. Emily always liked to control the cart, which left Charlotte free to squeeze produce and compare prices. Today, threading through the aisles, Charlotte maintains an orderly running dialogue about Walter's food and drink preferences: soda (root beer),breakfast cereal (Apple Jacks),snack food (cheese popcorn),juice (apple),bread(rye).

“You talk like he's staying for a month.” Emily laughs.

Despite the purpose of their trip, it's fun shopping with Emily. Charlotte can't remember the last time they roamed a supermarket together, especially since Emily's diet became too complicated for mainstream stores. In high school, Charlotte used to give her money and send her off to Parkway Health Food, from which Emily would return home to stuff the refrigerator with soy, tofu, tabouli, tempeh.

“I'm assuming Walter's a vegetarian,” Charlotte says, as they pull to a stop in front of Meats & Seafood. Above the glass cases, the wall is swimming with a mural of blue fish that
bears a disconcerting resemblance to Charlotte's bathroom tile.

“Nope.”

“Nope?” She is shocked. She can't imagine Emily could eat with, much less fall in love with, a meat eater. “Really?”

“I've tried to talk him out of it, believe me.”

This part doesn't surprise Charlotte, having been on the receiving end of a countless number of Emily's boycott campaigns. Plastic. Leather. Cleaning products tested on rats. She knows how relentless Emily can be and can't help but feel a hint of warmth toward Carnivore Walter, simply for his refusal to bend.

Back at The Heights—this is what Emily has taken to calling it, like a prime-time TV drama—they are heading toward L1, grocery bags clutched to their hips, when Charlotte hears: “Well, hello there!”

It is her neighbor, Ruth O'Keefe, a widow who lives alone with her cat and never stops talking. The day Charlotte moved in, she stopped by to “say a quick hello,” and an hour later Charlotte had said less than ten words and was holding a bundt cake topped with a nonpareil smile.

“Hello, Ruth,” Charlotte says, not breaking stride.

“Gross,” Emily mutters. “What is that thing?”

She is referring to Ernie, a fat golden cat resembling a butterball turkey, straining awkwardly from a leash as Ruth hurries toward them.

“Seriously,” Emily says. “Is that a—”

“Hello!” Ruth descends, yanking Ernie to a stop. She looks expectantly at Emily. “I'm Ruth!”

“Ruth,” Charlotte says, “this is my—”

“Emily,” Emily says. “Nice to meet you.”

“She's my daughter,” Charlotte adds.

“Oh! How fun! A mother-daughter visit! Emily, this is Ernie. Ernie, say hi to our new friend.”

Emily raises her eyebrows at Charlotte.

“Come on, Ern, don't be shy,” Ruth says. When the cat still doesn't speak, she shakes her head in genuine confusion. “I don't know what's wrong with him. Usually he'll meow for new people. Come to think of it, he's seemed a little under the weather all day.” Charlotte shifts her bag to the other hip.

“I sense these things, you know,” Ruth goes on. “It's like with a child, you can just tell when something's off even if they don't say it.” She appeals to Emily. “The vet says it's amazing, the way I read this cat.”

“I wouldn't worry,” Emily says. “He looks fine to me. But hey, if you don't mind my asking—what's up with the leash?”

This is more than all the incentive Ruth needs to launch into the numerous rationales behind leash-walking Ernie: quotes from magazines, assessments by veterinarians, a catalog of Ernie's strikingly doglike qualities. “He can heel and roll over,” she says. “Sometimes he even fetches my slippers. The vet says he's never seen anything like it.”

Emily nods, the expression on her face carefully engaged, but Charlotte can see the laughter simmering beneath it. And in that moment, she realizes what makes having Emily here so wonderful: it reinforces the difference between Charlotte and the kind of people who live at these kinds of places. Sad people, single people, people who live alone in condos with cats on leashes, wishing their children would visit more often. With Emily here, Charlotte has a partner. Someone to echo her reactions, confirm her opinions. To set her apart.

“We really better get inside,” Charlotte says, nodding her chin at the bags.

“Oh, sure,” Ruth says. “Well, it was fun to meet you, Emily. Hopefully we'll run into you again, won't we, Ern?” She bends over the cat's thick golden head, cups her hands around her mouth, and whispers: “Say bye-bye, Ernie! Say bye-bye!”

Thankfully, Ruth draws the line at actually voicing Ernie. Charlotte and Emily rush for the door before laughter overtakes them.

“What
was
that thing?” Emily says, giggling.

“Ssshh!” Charlotte splutters. “Not until we're inside.”

“But what was it?”

“A cat.”

“That was no cat.”

“Of course it was.”

“Mom, that woman was insane.”

“Be nice. She's a widow.”

“An insane widow.”

They huddle in the doorway while Charlotte wrestles with her locks. She can't remember the last time she felt this giddy. She grabs her mail and pushes open the door. Emily is behind her, peering into B. Morgan's mailbox. She plucks out the pink Victoria's Secret catalog poking from the top.

“Emily!” Charlotte hisses. “Put that back!”

“Why? Whose is it?”

“Well, hers, obviously.” Charlotte steps into the foyer and beckons Emily inside. “B. Morgan's.”

“B? Is that her real name or does it stand for something?”

“I have no idea what it stands for.”

“You don't?”

“I've never met her. I've never even seen her.”

“That's weird.”

“Is it?” It hadn't struck Charlotte as weird. She heads for the kitchen, Emily trailing behind her, resuming her normal volume. “You don't think it's weird you've never seen the person who lives directly upstairs?”

“Not really. She seems to go out most nights. Weekends she must sleep late, I guess.”

“Maybe she's a hooker.”

Charlotte feels a tug at her lungs. “What?”

“I mean, long shot, but it would explain her schedule. And her, you know, nightlife.” Emily heaves her bags onto the counter. Without looking at Charlotte's stricken face, she says, “Mom, please don't freak out. I'm sure she's not. I'm just saying.” She dips a hand into her bag and pulls out the Victoria's Secret.

After a dinner of arugula salad (Charlotte's own improvisation), pasta alfredo, and pistachio ice cream, Charlotte hums while cleaning up. Emily is on the couch in the living room, paging through
People.
With her daughter here, even simple, everyday actions—loading the dishwasher, wiping down the counters—feel steadier. Slower, somehow. Maybe this is what it feels like to be mindful.

“No
way,
“ Emily moans from the living room.

“What?” Charlotte turns off the sink. “What is it?”

“J. Lo broke up with her husband? And she's dating Ben Affleck? Already? How long was she married to the other guy, like two weeks?”

Charlotte's read the article already (it was more like ten months) but plays along. “Was that all?”

“I thought I did quick relationships,” Emily clicks her tongue ring. “But that's nuts.”

By the time the dishes are finished, it's nearly 11:00
P.M.
Charlotte's eyelids are heavy, but she doesn't want to go to bed yet. Because after tonight—what? Walter will be here until Emily leaves on Sunday. Charlotte's mind flips ahead to Thanksgiving: Emily will be in Seattle. And now that she's unbound by divorce agreements and visiting schedules and academic calendars with their reliable winter and spring breaks, her vacations will be even less predictable. Take next summer—the openendedness is enough to make Charlotte feel faint.

She strides into the living room, stops at the foot of the couch, and announces: “Let's stay up all night.”

Emily lowers the magazine. “Excuse me?”

“We can make tea. Or—there's beer in the fridge.” This being the six-pack of Sam Adams Summer Ale they had picked up for Walter. “I can heat up last night's leftovers if you want.” “You mean the Thai food you pretended to like?”

“I didn't pretend to like it. At least I was eating it.”

She feels a ripple of tension as soon as she says it, a palpable movement in the room. The last thing she wants is to drag up last night's would-be eating disorder. She ignores it, hoping Emily will do the same.

“Come on,” Charlotte says, perching on the sofa arm. “Let's do it. Let's stay up all night.”

Emily raises an eyebrow.

“It'll be fun! We can talk, I'll make tea. We can eat the Thai food straight out of the boxes,” she adds, because this seems a very sleepoverish thing to do.

“Okay,” Emily says, with an amused smile. “But can I ask why?”

“Because it'll be fun! Remember that night you came home from Seattle?”

Emily's face furrows. “Which night that I came home from Seattle?”

Charlotte pauses. The night she's referring to, the summer of Emily's sixteenth birthday, the night she stayed up late playing music and brewing coffee, was so special to Charlotte, she's not sure she can handle knowing Emily has forgotten.

“Which night?” Emily prods. “There are tons of nights I came home from Seattle.”

Tons?
Charlotte is jarred, tongue-tied. It's a sensation she's grown used to whenever Emily mentions Seattle. Even after all these years, she's incapable of having a conversation about Joe or Valerie or the month of August without analyzing every word of it, every nuance, so the conversation moves in fits and starts, tapping one insecure nerve and then another, like the hammer the doctor uses to search your knee for reflexes. Now, Emily's saying that she's been to Seattle
tons
of times feels like an assertion of her closeness with Joe. When really, if you think about it, there haven't even been that many return trips. Certainly not
tons.
If she wanted to get literal, it would be return trips from Thanksgiving and return trips from August vacations each year from the time Emily was thirteen to twenty-one. That's eight years, two return trips a year. Sixteen total. Plus Joe's wedding. Seventeen.

“It was the year you turned sixteen,” Charlotte ventures, carefully. “The year you brought home all that coffee.”

Emily frowns.

“You had all that music with you—those new CDs. You talked about Kurt Cobain?”

“Mom, oh my God.” Emily laughs. “I can't believe you remember that.” Then she picks up the
People,
as if the mere mention of Nirvana reminded her of the wealth of pop culture sitting dormant on her lap.