“Uh, okay…,” I said, caught off guard by her chilly demeanor. “Can you tell me what time the party is going to start?”
“Two.”
Nothing else. She seemed to be trying to make me feel purposely uncomfortable.
“All right,” I said slowly. “I assume you sent my parents and Marge and Liz an Evite, but I’ll confirm with them just in case.” When she didn’t answer, I went on. “And you’re still planning to stay in the guest room, right?”
“Yes, Russ. I’m staying in the guest room. We’ve already talked about this.”
“Just making sure,” I said before she abruptly ended the call.
I let out a long, slow breath. Despite the truce of the previous weekend, it seemed that all bets were off again.
CHAPTER 22
The Eye of the Storm
As a kid, I always loved thunderstorms.
Marge thought I was a kook, but when thunderstorms approached, I would feel an electric sense of anticipation, akin to what my dad felt before the World Series. I would insist on turning out all the lights and would move the armchairs closer to the big picture window in the living room. Sometimes, I would even toss a bag of popcorn into the microwave, and, together, Marge and I would snack while we watched the “show.”
In the darkness, we would sit riveted as lightning split the sky in two or flickered in the clouds like strobe lights. During the best storms, the strikes would be close enough for us to feel the static electricity, and I would notice Marge gripping the armrest of her chair. Always, though, we would count how many seconds passed between a flash of lighting and the thunder, tracking the progress of the storm as the center drew near.
In the South, thunderstorms don’t usually last very long. Typically, they would pass in thirty or forty minutes, and when the last rumble of thunder faded away we would reluctantly rise from our chairs and turn on the lights, going back to whatever it was we’d been doing before.
Hurricanes were a different story, however. My ever-cautious dad always boarded up the big picture window, so we couldn’t watch the full extent of the spectacle. But I remained fascinated by the apocalyptic winds and torrential rain… and especially the approach of the eye – that surreal moment when the winds abated entirely and it was sometimes even possible to see blue skies overhead. But the calm is only temporary, for the back half of the hurricane still lies in wait and with it, sometimes even greater destruction.
Which, I wonder, is more analogous to life? Or, rather, to my life that terrible year? Was it a series of violent storms, bursting in quick succession? Or was it a single massive hurricane, with an eye that lulled me into believing I’d survived intact, when, in fact, the worst was yet to come?
I don’t know.
All I know for certain is that I hope never to experience another year like it, for as long as I live.
London loved her birthday party. The bouncy castle was a hit, she clapped with delight when she saw the cake, and she had fun playing with her friends, especially Bodhi. Emily brought him by, but didn’t stay, claiming that she needed to meet with the gallery owner to finalize some things for her upcoming show. Another one of the kids’ parents had already promised to bring Bodhi home. She apologized for not sticking around, but I think we were both eager to avoid any awkwardness with Vivian.
Earlier that morning, while Vivian was ferrying London around – she’d driven the SUV from Atlanta – I made a trip to the pet store and set up the aquarium in her room; I chose several colorful fish, and stuck a bow on the glass. When Vivian and London returned from art class, I had London close her eyes as I led her to the threshold of her room. She squealed when she opened them and catapulted across the room toward the aquarium.
“Can I feed them?”
“Of course,” I said. “I’m sure they’re hungry. Let me show you how much food to give them, okay?”
I tapped some food into the lid of the plastic container and handed it to her. She poured it into the fish tank, mesmerized as the fish raced to the surface and started devouring the food. When I glanced over my shoulder at Vivian, I saw that she had her arms crossed, her mouth a tight crease.
At the party, however, Vivian was all smiles with everyone, including me and my entire family. She asked my mom to pitch in when she cut the cake, and when London opened a box filled with Barbie accessories from Marge and Liz, she urged London to go over and give them a hug, which London did.
Marge leaned in afterward, muttering under her breath. “She’s acting as though nothing has changed between the two of you at all,” which upon reflection made me even more nervous than Vivian’s earlier, chilly demeanor.
After the party, Vivian took London to the mall; with Halloween coming up, she took it upon herself to help London choose a costume. I used that time to clean up the house, filling garbage bags with paper plates and cups, and wrapping a tray of leftovers to put in the fridge. With that completed, I decided it might be best to make myself scarce for the rest of the evening, and left for my office.
I worked into the evening, focusing on the presentations for the law firms that had contacted me. As London’s bedtime approached, I texted Vivian, asking if it was time to read to London, only to receive a terse response a while later that London was already asleep.
I stayed late at the office that night, but rose early on Sunday to go for a run and shower. I was having breakfast and coffee when I heard Vivian moving around in the guest room upstairs. Though I lingered in the kitchen, wondering if she might want to talk about how well the party had gone, she never made an appearance.