"Hi, Mom," Genevieve said cheerfully. And Grace looked up and smiled, a bit too pleased to see her.
"Hi," Andi said. She looked around. "Where's the remote?"
Grace said, unconcernedly, "Over on the bed."
The remote was a long way from either of the girls, halfway across the room in the middle of the bedspread. Hastily thrown, Andi thought. She picked it up, said, "Excuse me," and backtracked through the channels. On one of the premiums, she found a clinch scene, fully nude, still in progress.
"You guys," she said, reproachfully.
"It's good for us," the younger one protested, not bothering with denials. "We gotta find things out."
"This is not the way to do it," Andi said, punching out the channel. "Come talk to me." She looked at Grace, but her older daughter was looking away-a little angry, maybe, and embarrassed. "Come on," Andi said. "Let's everybody organize our school stuff and take our baths."
"We're talking like a doctor again, Mom," Grace said.
"Sorry."
On the way down to the girls' bedrooms, Genevieve blurted, "God, that guy was really hung."
After a second of shocked silence, Grace started to giggle, and two seconds later Andi started, and five seconds after that all three of them sprawled on the carpet in the hallway, laughing until the tears ran down their faces.
The rain fell steadily through the night, stopped for a few hours in the morning, then started again.
Andi got the girls on the bus, arrived at work ten minutes early, and worked efficiently through her patient list, listening carefully, smiling encouragement, occasionally talking with some intensity. To a woman who could not escape thoughts of suicide; to another who felt she was male, trapped in a female body; to a man who was obsessed by a need to control the smallest details of his family's life-he knew he was wrong but couldn't stop.
At noon, she walked two blocks out to a deli and brought a bag lunch back for herself and her partner. They spent the lunch hour talking about Social Security and worker compensation taxes with the bookkeeper.
In the afternoon, a bright spot: a police officer, deeply bound by the million threads of chronic depression, seemed to be responding to new medication. He was a dour, pasty-faced man who reeked of nicotine, but today he smiled shyly at her and said, "My God, this was my best week in five years; I was looking at women."
Andi left the office early, and drove through an annoying, mud-producing drizzle to the west side of the loop, to the rambling, white New England cottages and green playing fields of the Birches School. Hard maples boxed the school parking lot; flames of red autumn color were stitched through their lush crowns. Toward the school entrance, a grove of namesake birch had gone a sunny gold, a brilliant greeting on a dismal day.
Andi left the car in the parking lot and hurried inside, the warm smell of a soaking rain hanging like a fog over the wet asphalt.
The teacher-parent conferences were routine-Andi went to them every year, the first day of schooclass="underline" meet the teachers, smile at everyone, agree to work on the Thanksgiving pageant, write a check to the strings program. So looking forward to working with Grace, she's a very bright child, active, school leader, blah blah blah.
She was happy to go to them. Always happy when they were over.
When they were done, she and the girls walked back outside and found the rain had intensified, hissing down from the crazy sky. "I'll tell you what, Mom," Grace said, as they stood in the school's covered entry, watching a woman with a broken umbrella scurry down the sidewalk. Grace was often very serious when talking with adults. "I'm in a very good dress, and it's barely wrinkled, so I could wear it again. Why don't you get the car and pick me up here?"
"All right." No point in all of them getting wet.
"I'm not afraid of the rain," Genevieve said, pugnaciously. "Let's go."
"Why don't you wait with Grace?" Andi asked.
"Nah. Grace is just afraid to get wet 'cause she'll melt, the old witch," Genevieve said.
Grace caught her sister's eye and made a pinching sign with her thumb and forefinger.
"Mom," Genevieve wailed.
"Grace," Andi said, reprovingly.
"Tonight, when you're almost asleep," Grace muttered. She knew how to deal with her sister.
At twelve, Grace was the older and by far the taller of the two, gawky, but beginning to show the curves of adolescence. She was a serious girl, almost solemn, as though expecting imminent unhappiness. Someday a doctor.
Genevieve, on the other hand, was competitive, frivolous, loud. Almost too pretty. Even at nine, everyone said, it was obvious that she'd be a trial to the boys. To whole flocks of boys. But that was years away. Now she was sitting on the concrete, messing with the sole of her tennis shoe, peeling the bottom layer off.
"Gen," Andi said.
"It's gonna come off anyway," Genevieve said, not looking up. "I told you I needed new shoes."
A man in a raincoat hurried up the walk, hatless, head bowed in the rain. David Girdler, who called himself a psychotherapist and who was active in the Parent-Teacher Cooperative. He was a boring man, given to pronunciations about proper roles in life, and hard-wired behavior. There were rumors that he used tarot cards in his work. He fawned on Andi. "Dr. Manette," he said, nodding, slowing. "Nasty day."
"Yes," Andi said. But her breeding wouldn't let her stop so curtly, even with a man she disliked. "It's supposed to rain all night again."
"That's what I hear," Girdler said. "Say, did you see this month's Therapodist? There's an article on the structure of recovered memory…"
He rambled on for a moment, Andi smiling automatically, then Genevieve interrupted, loudly, "Mom, we're super-late," and Andi said, "We've really got to go, David," and then, because of the breeding, "But I'll be sure to look it up."
"Sure, nice talking to you," Girdler said.
When he'd gone inside, Genevieve said, looking after him, from the corner of her mouth like Bogart, "What do we say, Mom?"
"Thank you, Gen," Andi said, smiling.
"You're welcome. Mom."
"Okay," Andi said. "I'll run for it." She looked down the parking lot. A red van had parked on the driver's side of her car and she'd have to run around the back of it.
"I'm coming, too," Genevieve said.
"I get the front," Grace said.
"I get the front…"
"You got the front on the way over, beetle," Grace said.
"Mom, she called me…"
Grace made the pinching sign again, and Andi said, "You get in the back, Gen. You had the front on the way over."
"Or I'll pinch you," Grace added.
They half-ran through the rain, Andi in her low heels, Genevieve with her still-short legs, holding hands. Andi released Gen's hand as they crossed behind the Econoline van. She pointed her key at the car and pushed the electronic lock button, heard the locks pop up over the hissing of the rain.
Head bent, she hurried down between the van and the car, Gen a step behind her, and reached for the door handles.
Andi heard the doors slide on the van behind her; felt the presence of the man, the motion. Automatically began to smile, turning.
Heard Genevieve grunt, turned and saw the strange round head coming for her, the mop of dirty blond hair.
Saw the road-map lines buried in a face much too young for them.
Saw the teeth, and the spit, and the hands like clubs.
Andi screamed, "Run."
And the man hit her in the face.
She saw the blow coming but was unable to turn away. The impact smashed her against her car door, and she slid down it, her knees going out.
She didn't feel the blow as pain, only as impact, the fist on her face, the car on her back. She felt the man turning, felt blood on her skin, smelled the worms of the pavement as she hit it, the rough, wet blacktop on the palms of her hand, thought crazily-for just the torn half of an instant-about ruining her suit, felt the man step away.