Anna and Jane whispering to each other; but if they heard me outside the door, the whispering would stop. Later, when I would ask Jane what they'd been discussing, she'd shrug and wave a hand mysteriously, as if their only goal was to keep me in the dark.
Yet because she was my firstborn, Anna has always been my favorite. This isn't an admission I would make to anyone, but I think Anna knows it. There's a special bond between us. Lately, I've come to believe that even in her silent years, she had been fonder of me than I realized. I can still remember times when I would be working in my den, and she would slip through the door. She would wander around the room, scanning the bookshelves and reaching for various objects, but if I addressed her, she would slip back out as quietly as she'd come in. Over time, I learned not to speak, and she would sometimes sit in the office for an hour, watching me as I scribbled on yellow legal tablets. If I looked up, she would smile complicitly, as if enjoying this game of ours.
Currently, Anna is working for the Raleigh News and Observer, but I think she has dreams of becoming a novelist. In college, she majored in creative writing and the stories she wrote were as dark as her personality. I recall reading one in which a young girl becomes a prostitute to care for her sick father, a man who had once molested her. When I set the pages down, I wondered what I was supposed to make of such a thing.
She is also madly in love. Anna, always careful and deliberate in her choices, was also selective when it came to men, and thankfully Keith has always struck me as someone who treats her well. He's a resident in orthopedics at Duke Medical School. I learned through Jane that for their first date Keith took Anna kite flying on the beach near Fort Macon. Later that week, when Anna brought him by the house, Keith came dressed in a sport coat, freshly showered and smelling faintly of cologne. As we shook hands, he met my eyes and impressed me by saying, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lewis."
Joseph, our second born, is a year younger than Anna, and again, we have little in common. He's taller and thinner than I am, wears jeans to most social functions, and when he visits at Thanksgiving or Christmas, he eats only vegetables. Like Jane, he was empathetic even as a child and he chewed his fingernails worrying about others. They've been nothing but nubs since he was five years old. Needless to say, when I suggested that he consider majoring in business or economics, he ignored my advice and chose sociology. He now works for a battered women's shelter in New York City, though he tells us nothing more about his job. I know he wonders about the choices I've made in my life, just as I wonder about his, but despite our differences, we get along well. It is with Joseph that I have the conversations that I always wished to have with my children when I held them as infants. He is highly intelligent; he received a near perfect score on his SATs and his interests span the spectrum from the history of middle-eastern dhimmitudes to theoretical applications of fractal geometry. It goes without saying that I am often at a disadvantage when it comes to debating him, but it is during such moments that I am especially proud to call him my son.
Leslie, the baby of our family, is currently studying biology and physiology at Wake Forest with the intention of becoming a veterinarian. Instead of coming home during the summers like most students, she takes additional classes with the intention of graduating early, and spends her afternoons working at a place called Animal Farm. Of all our children, she is the most gregarious, and her laughter sounds the same as Jane's. Like Anna, she loved to visit me in my den, though she was happiest when I gave her my full attention. As a youngster, she liked to sit in my lap and pull on my ears; as she grew older, she liked to wander in and share funny jokes. My shelves are covered with the gifts she made me growing up: plaster casts of her hand prints, drawings in crayon, a necklace made from macaroni. She was the easiest to love, the first in line for hugs or kisses from the grandparents. I was not surprised when she was named the homecoming queen at her high school three years ago.
She is kind as well. Everyone in her class was always invited to her birthday parties for fear of hurting someone's feelings, and when she was nine, she once spent an afternoon walking from towel to towel at the beach because she'd found a discarded watch in the surf and wanted to return it to its owner. Of all my children, she has always caused me the least worry, and when she comes to visit, I drop whatever I'm doing to spend time with her. Her energy is infectious, and when we're together, I wonder how it is I could have been so blessed.
Now that they've all moved out, our home has changed.
Where music once blared, there is nothing but stillness; while our pantry once shelved eight different types of sugared cereal, there is now a single brand that promises extra fiber. The furniture hasn't changed in the bedrooms where our children slept, but because the posters and Peg-Boards have been taken down--as well as all other reminders of their personalities--there is nothing to differentiate one room from the next. It is the emptiness of the house that seems to dominate. Was this, I pondered, the root of Jane's sadness?
It was clear to me that forgetting an anniversary had not suddenly changed the way Jane felt about me. Perhaps even my forgetfulness was simply a symptom of everything that had changed between us. We'd started out as a couple and been changed into parents--something I had always viewed as normal and inevitable--but after twenty-nine years, had we somehow become strangers again? We rose at different hours, spent our days in different places, and followed our own routines in the evenings.
Our conversations of late tended to run out of steam after the first few exchanges, but I attributed this to the simple notion that after so many years, we could pretty much anticipate each other's responses. After the latest news about the kids had been shared and the local gossip related, we usually drifted off in desultory fashion to watch television or read.
No matter how hard I strained that night, I couldn't pinpoint when exactly our conversations had become so predictable. It must have occurred gradually, and I must have taken this for granted, because in all honesty, I couldn't recall the last time Jane and I had done or talked about anything unexpected.
You can imagine, then, my surprise two weeks later when Jane made an announcement over dinner.
"Wilson," she said, "there's something I should tell you." A bottle of wine stood on the table between us, our meals nearly finished.
"I was thinking," she said, "of heading up to New York to spend some time with Joseph."
"Won't he be here for the holidays?"
"Yes, but that's not for a couple of months. And since he didn't make it home this summer, I thought it might be nice to visit him for a change."
I reached for my wineglass. "That's a good idea," I agreed. "We haven't been to New York since he first moved there."
In the back of my mind, I noted that it might do us some good as a couple to get away for a few days. Perhaps that had even been the reason for Jane's suggestion.
Jane smiled briefly before lowering her gaze to her plate. "There's something else, too."
"Yes?"
"Well, it's just that you're pretty busy at work, and I know how hard it is for you to get away."
"I think I can clear up my schedule for a few days," I said, already mentally leafing through my work calendar. It would be tough, but I could do it. "When did you want to go?"
"Well, that's the thing . . ." she said. "What's the thing?"
"Wilson, please let me finish," she said wearily. She drew a long breath. "What I was trying to say was that I think I might like to visit him by myself."
For a moment, I didn't know what to say.
"You're upset, aren't you?" she asked.
"No," I said quickly. "He's our son. How could I get upset about that?" As if to underscore my equanimity, I used my knife to cut another bite of meat. "So when were you thinking about heading up there?" I asked.
"Next week," she said. "On Thursday."
"Thursday?"
"I already have my ticket," she explained.
Though she wasn't quite finished with
her meal, she rose and headed to the kitchen. By the way she avoided my eyes, I guessed she had something else to say and wasn't quite sure how to phrase it. A moment later, I was alone at the table. If I turned, I could just see her face in profile as she stood near the sink.
"Sounds like it'll be fun," I called out, with what I hope sounded like nonchalance. "And I know Joseph will enjoy it, too. Maybe there's a show or something that you could see while you're up there."
"Maybe," I heard her say. "I guess it depends on his schedule."
I heard the faucet run, and rising from my seat, I brought my dishes to the sink. Jane said nothing as I approached.
"It should be a wonderful weekend," I added.
She reached for my plate and began to rinse, her eyes still focused on her task.
"Oh, about that," she said.