So okay, maybe not American.
Later, I take Eli to the new dollar store to get a plastic colander. He runs up and down the aisles ecstatically. “Who made all these things?” he asks me. “The Invisible Hand,” I tell him.
* * *
…
“I’m worried about you,” Ben says. This because I said something I thought I only thought. Eli was hounding me about his cereal. Where was it? Why didn’t I get it? Why couldn’t I go back to the store? I hate everyone, I said.
Mildly, I’d argue, but not mildly enough apparently, because Eli burst into tears.
So now Ben announces that they are going to go on the trip with his sister. They are going whether I come or not. Three weeks. They’ve never been away that long. I repeat that I can’t go and he packs them up in a weird, ominous silence.
But as soon as Ben gets to his sister’s house, he calls me. “How is it going?” I ask. “We miss you,” he says.
* * *
…
I have the dog at least. And maybe a little crush too. The guy from the bus came into the library today. He’s been wandering in and out of the stacks all morning. Now he’s talking to one of the regulars, that woman whose nails look bitten to the quick. “Don’t eat plants with milky sap. The exception is dandelions,” he tells her. He goes outside to smoke.
By the time I go to lunch, he’s nowhere to be seen. I give the woman on the bench her dollar. It’s muggy out. I can feel the sweat pooling under my arms. No one’s looking at you, as my mother used to say.
When I get home, Henry is lying on the couch staring at the ceiling. I find a show that has nothing to do with either of us. We watch, eating huge bowls of chocolate pudding. A contestant faces the camera and talks about her hopes and dreams. Why are people on reality shows always setting their intentions? Is that like prayer for pharmaceutical reps?
* * *
…
It feels weird in the building now with Ben gone. Like people are looking differently at me. For example, I can’t tell if the drug dealer wants to sleep with me or just with everyone. He gives off sort of an ambient vibe.
He likes me better ever since he saw me come home the other night at two a.m., stumble drunk. He passed me in the lobby as I tried and retried to use my mailbox key. You good? he asked. I’m good, I said. He went upstairs, but after that he always holds the elevator door for me even when I am halfway across the lobby.
* * *
…
It is important to remember that emotional pain comes in waves. Remind yourself that there will be a pause between the waves. That’s what Margot told Henry. We’ve been trying and failing to do the homework.
“It’s unbearable,” Henry says. “It’s barely bearable,” she corrects him. He is supposed to record the worst of his visions. “Write it down in first person. Use clear details,” she tells him.
Later, I hold Iris while Henry tries to do it. Oh, his eyes—it hurts to look at them. He stumbles, starts over, reads from the beginning.
I leave the baby in the car while I go into the store. It is so much bigger than I expected. I keep wandering up and down the aisles, putting more and more things into my cart. It is so full I even fill up the seat part where the kid is supposed to sit. Suddenly, I remember Iris and run outside. It is a sweltering day and all the windows are closed. There are people standing around the car, trying to break in. A man is hitting the window with a hammer, but it won’t break. A woman is screaming. The police come and they smash it open. They give her CPR, but she is already dead. I am standing in the crowd. Then they realize I am her father.
I kiss the baby’s head where the soft spot is. “Good,” I tell him.
* * *
…
That robot Samantha is in the news again. She was on display at a tech conference in Europe. But too many men tried to test her at once, and by the end of the day she was heavily soiled and had two broken fingers. Her inventor was shaken; he had to ship her back to Spain to be fixed. Luckily, her voice box still worked. I am fine, she said. These people are barbarians, he told a reporter.
Buddhist practice includes the notion that we have all been born many times before and that we have all been each other’s mothers and fathers and children and siblings. Therefore, we should treat each person we encounter as if they are our beloved.
* * *
…
I’ve been thinking more about my doomstead. Choosing people for it is tricky. First, you must assess their character. Will they lead, will they follow? Will they dominate others the moment this becomes possible? Are they alpha? Beta?
My dog, I was told, is neither. She is a climber, which means she will show deference to any alpha dog, but if she has a chance she will creep up farther and farther on the bed until she is found out and pushed down again. The beta would just automatically stay at the foot of the bed.
Second, you must balance the skills of the people you choose. Is one handy? Is one musical? Is one medical?
Third, you must figure out how to tell them you have drafted them for your doomstead.
* * *
…
Sometimes I slip up and allow myself for a moment to think of what is wrong with Henry. If he were to get really high and those thoughts came. Then there is the press of strangers against me and I’m up the stairs and into the sunlight again.
* * *
…
We watch the season finale of Extreme Couponing together. This time the shopper gets her total down to $2.58. Everyone in the store cheers as the train of silver carts is wheeled out to her car.
Earlier in the show, they had given her backstory. This woman wore a dress and lipstick every day to work, but she wasn’t afraid to climb into dumpsters to retrieve discarded circulars. The host of the show noted that she’d recently converted her house to storage for bulk buys and now lived with her family in their half-finished basement.
* * *
…
My mother sends me a picture. She took a bus with her prayer group to a detention center in the next state. They were not allowed to talk to the people being held there, but they stood outside the barbed wire fence and sang in hopes of cheering them. The picture is of a spindly tree outside the fence. Apparently, it is the only tree visible from the prison. They hung their cross necklaces on its branches before they left.
You are not going to have to walk thirty-four miles with your child on your back.
But if I did.