Eight seconds after she presses the bell, Mattie’s mother opens the door, smiling. “Miss Stephens?”
“Sorry to drop by unannounced.”
“No, please, come in.”
Photos of the girl overwhelm the living room—on walls, on tables, on bookshelves, their daughter’s every year, it seems, well captured. “We go a little wild with the pictures,” says Mrs. Quarles, noticing the biographer notice.
“You have a fabulous child, so why not?”
“I doubt Matilda would agree. She says the number of pictures is, quote, demented. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Oh no, please, I’m not staying long, I—needed to—” Breathe. “Before Christmas Mattie asked me for more comments on an essay draft, but things were so busy that—Well, now that the holidays are over, I want to give her the feedback.”
“That’s unusual,” says Mrs. Quarles.
“When a student puts in the extra effort that she does, I’m willing to do some extra too.”
“But she’s not here.”
“Oh?”
“She’s at the conference.”
The biographer is clearly meant to understand what Mrs. Quarles means by the conference. “Oh?”
“You knew she was going, didn’t you?”
“To the—conference?”
“She told us you nominated her.”
“Of course. I must have mixed up the dates.”
“I have to say,” says Mrs. Quarles, “she didn’t give us many details about this thing.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That it’s a Cascadia history conference for high school students, and only one student from any given school is nominated to attend.”
“That’s right,” says the biographer.
“Not as prestigious as the Math Academy, she said, but it will still look good on her applications.”
Damp swoosh down the biographer’s throat, into her ribs.
Is the baby gone?
Her mouth is full of bits from the planned speech—chewy clichés. I can give it a good home. I mean her. Or him. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.
“Yes,” mutters the biographer, “it’ll be impressive.”
“And they’re all staying at the same hotel in Vancouver? Is there adult supervision?”
The biographer stands up. “I’m pretty sure they have supervision, yes. Sorry to interrupt your evening.”
“You’re pretty sure, or you’re sure? Mattie hasn’t been answering my calls. And I can’t find anything about the conference online.”
“That’s because of its, um, principles? The people who run it are committed to students spending less time on computers, so they work only on paper, through the mail.”
Mattie’s mother is an intelligent woman, yet she appears to accept this.
The biographer walks slowly back to her apartment.
Archer Stephens may not be getting a namesake.
Her brother’s blue lips on the kitchen floor.
The gravelly whine in his voice when he said he wasn’t high.
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m not.”
“You are!”
“Jesus, I’m not—you’re so paranoid.”
But his pupils were the barest dots in the pale green; mouth ajar; tongue slow. She knew the signs, was becoming something of an expert; and yet, and still, Archie’s denials undid her. Dad said, “You’re being duped!”—he was never much help, aside from the time he put up five grand for bail. She said, “I’m not paranoid; you’re pinned!” and Archie said, “Because it’s sunny, my friend.” Possibly it was not sunny at all, but the biographer wanted to believe him. Her Archie, her dear one, no matter how buried, was still in there.
Shut up, she tells her monkey mind. Please shut up, you picker of nits, presser of bruises, counter of losses, fearer of failures, collector of grievances future and past.
At the kitchen table she opens her notebook to the For which I am grateful page. Adds to the list:
28. Two working legs
29. Two working hands
30. Two working eyes
31. The ocean
32. Penny on Sunday nights
33. Didier in the teachers’ lounge
34.
But fuck this shitty list. She’s sick of being grateful. Why the fuck should she be grateful? She is angry—at the amendment laws, the agencies, Dr. Kalbfleisch, her ovaries, the married couples, the term-house procedures. At Mattie for getting pregnant at the drop of a trilby. At Archie for dying. At their mother for dying. At Roberta Louise Stephens for trying so hard.
Rips the gratitude list out of her notebook, lights it in the sink with a match. She hasn’t yet fixed the smoke alarm.
Mattie told her mother the conference was in Vancouver. She could have said Portland or Seattle.
By now she will have reached the border. If she manages to get across, manages to find the clinic, manages to produce a convincing Canadian ID, the abortion will happen tomorrow.
She might not get across, of course.
She might be stopped.
Don’t hope she’s stopped, you monstress.
But she does.