“I’m going out to the car.”
“…Okay.”
He sat at the table, staring at his ring, listening for the sound of her car to drive away, wondering how long it might take for her to make another move toward him. Or away. He thought of his mother, saying how, after her husband had died, she still listened for his car. Griffin’s father had had a heart attack in the middle of the night, and the day after the funeral Griffin had sat with his mother on the sofa in the living room, the blinds drawn, holding her hand as she wept without speaking for nearly an hour straight, the racking kind of sobs that hurt the observer nearly as much as the one weeping. Then, abruptly, she had stopped. She had blown her nose, sighed hugely, and stood up. She’d said, “I am going to lie down on my bed, under my blue satin quilt, for a day and a night. Do not disturb me. Do not ask me anything, and do not ask me for anything. I’m going to remember every good thing I can think of about your father, and I am going to remember every bad thing. And then I’m going to come down to the kitchen and make some eggs and fried potatoes, and start living what’s left of my life.” He remembered how he’d felt, witnessing that moment of extreme sorrow and strength.
And then he heard the door opening again, heard what must have been Ellen’s suitcase banging into it. That suitcase was heavy; it was always hard for her to handle. He started to get up to help her, but then did not. Rather, he did not move at all. He surveyed his surroundings: the wooden table where he sat, the four ladder-back chairs grouped around it. The fruit bowl over on the counter, low on bananas; he’d get more tomorrow. He looked at the cupboards, thought about how he now knew where everything was: the wok, the pie plates, the allspice, the plastic wrap, the small stash of Band-Aids bound tightly together with a green rubber band, the little calendar that kept track of doctor’s and dentist’s appointments. He looked up at the black square of kitchen window, and saw the reflection of the top of his costumed head. He stood, the better to see himself wholly, and then, with a feeling of a soft turn-over at the center, gave a small wave. Goodbye to this costumed self; and, in fact, to all manner of disguise. He was himself for her to take or leave; either way, he would be all right.
“Griffin?” Ellen called softly.
“In here.” He sat back down and took off his beard, his glasses, and his red hat, put them on the kitchen table. And then he leaned back and waited for her to come to him.
Elizabeth Berg, Say When
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