May We Be Forgiven

There have been phone calls behind their backs.
    “What about the children? Where should the children go?” Jane’s parents ask on a conference call.
    I don’t like the children, I’m thinking to myself, but remain silent.
    “They can stay with me,” Jane’s sister, Susan, says. “We have an extra room.”
    “An office,” Susan’s husband says.
    “There’s a bed,” Susan says.
    And twins on leashes looking for trouble. I am thinking of Susan’s toddler terrorists, who are in constant motion, often running towards a precipice. I imagine Susan and her husband on vacation with the children, having contests on the beach where they let the twins loose and see who can catch one first.
    “They have a dog,” I say.
    “You’re allergic,” the mother reminds Susan.
    “Well, it’s too much for my parents,” Susan says. “Two mentally disturbed teenagers.”
    It’s too much for the children as well. They would be driven crazy governed by grandparents who spend most of their time discussing the consistency of their bowel movements and whether or not they should drink more prune juice.
    I ignore the reference to mental disturbance—they are no more or less disturbed than the rest of us.
    “The children need to be in their own home,” I say.
    “We have lives,” Susan says. “We can’t give up everything, and besides, I don’t even like that house, I never liked it.”
    “It’s not about the house,” I say.
    As we’re talking, I climb the stairs to the master bedroom. I’ve already made the bed, and moved the “matching” lamp from George’s side of the bed into the closet. As much as anything can look normal, it does. I take a plant from the kitchen windowsill and put it on the night table on Jane’s side of the bed.

    N athaniel gets home first; the car pulls into the driveway, and he climbs out, dragging an enormous duffel bag behind him.
    With one hand on Tessie’s collar, I hold the kitchen door open. The dog is relieved to see the boy.
    “Hi,” I say.
    He doesn’t answer. He puts his bag down and talks to the dog. “What is going on around here, Tessie?” he says, mussing her ears. “What is it, girl? It’s madness!”
    He turns to me. “Can I give her a biscuit?”
    “Sure,” I say, not expecting to be asked. “Give her a cookie, give her two. Are you hungry? Do you want a sandwich?”
    Without waiting for an answer, I take things out of the refrigerator and pile them on the table: bread, cheese, turkey, mustard, mayo, tomatoes, cornichons, the same things Jane and I were snacking on all last week. I get him a plate, a knife and fork and napkin.
    “Aren’t you having anything?” he asks, after he’s built his sandwich and is about to sink in.
    “I’m not hungry.”
    “Do we have any cream soda?” he asks. It seems odd at a time like this to ask for something so specific. Digging around in the fridge, I find, on the bottom shelf, in the back, a six-pack of Dr. Brown’s. I take out two.

    A shley arrives with only a small My Little Pony rolling suitcase that’s clearly a holdover from her childhood.
    She is immediately down on her knees with the dog. “Tessie,” she says. “Oh, Tessie.”
    “Would you like a sandwich?”
    “A glass of milk,” she says.
    I pour one for her.
    She sips. “It’s on the edge,” she says.
    I nod.
    “The milk, it’s going bad,” she says.
    “Oh,” I say. “We’ll get some more.”
    There is silence.
    “Is Dad coming home?” Ashley asks, and I don’t quite know what to say.
    “No,” I offer.
    “Where is our car?” Nate asks.
    “I don’t know if your mother mentioned it, but this whole thing started when your father had an accident. The car is in the shop, but I’ve got mine. Do you want to go to the hospital?”
    The children nod. They’ve not gone upstairs. They’ve done nothing but pet the dog.
    As we head out, I feel a flash of childhood memory, my uncle Leon pushing me out the door, his knuckles digging into my back, my bones taking the knuckle with a great impression, fear and dependency. It still hurts.
    I hold the door for the children. “Take your time,” I say.
    At the hospital, walking from the car across the parking lot, Ashley slips her hand into mine.
    “What is it going to be like?” Nate asks.
    “Your mother is in Intensive Care, so it’s very bright. She’s hooked up to a lot of equipment; there’s a machine helping her to breathe, and she’s got an IV in her arm which gives her