Sighing, I put down my econ textbook, stood up, and opened my bedroom door. Sure enough, there was Heidi, Thisbe in her arms, looking at me with a perplexed expression.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she said. ‘I had a concrete reason why I came up here! And now, I have no idea what it was. Can you even believe that?’
I could. In fact, Heidi’s forgetfulness had become as much a part of my routine as my morning coffee and late, late nights. I had done the best I could to keep myself segregated, my own life in Colby as separate from hers and my dad’s as possible, considering we were living under the same roof. But it was no use. Two weeks in, and I was hopelessly intertwined, whether I liked it or not.
Because of this, I was now fully aware of the fact that my dad’s mood depended entirely on how his writing went that day: a good morning, and he was cheerful the rest of the day, a bad one and he skulked around, sullen and muttering. I knew all the ups and downs of Heidi’s ongoing postpartum issues, such as the forgetfulness, insane mood swings, and how she worried on multiple, complex levels about every freaking thing the baby did, from sleeping to eating to pooping. I was even fully versed in Thisbe’s dayto-day life, from the crying (which was ongoing, it seemed) to her tendency to get the hiccups right when she was finally falling asleep. Maybe they were equally aware of me, as well, but I doubted it.
Because of all this, I’d actually come to kind of enjoy – sometimes even crave – the few hours I spent at Clementine’s every day. It was a chance to do something concrete, with a beginning, middle, and end. No wild emotional swings, no wondering aloud about someone else’s bathroom habits, and no hiccuping. The only thing that kept it from being perfect was its close proximity to Esther, Leah, and Maggie and all their various dramatics. But at least they left me alone when my door was shut.
Now, I looked at Heidi, who was still standing there, her brow furrowed as she tried to remember why she’d come upstairs. Thisbe, in her arms, was awake and staring up at the ceiling, most likely debating when she wanted to start screaming again. ‘Did it have something to do with work?’ I asked her, as I’d learned that a few prompts could sometimes trigger her memory.
‘No,’ she said, shifting Thisbe to her other arm. ‘I was downstairs, and thinking that I had to get the baby down for a nap soon, but it’s been so hard because she’s been switching it up so much, so no matter what I do she gets overtired…’
I tuned out and began mentally reviewing the periodic table, which usually kept me occupied during these soliloquies.
‘… so I was going to try to put her down, but then I didn’t, because…’ She snapped her fingers. ‘The wave machine! That’s what it was. I can’t find it. Have you seen it around?’
I was about to say no. Two weeks ago, when I’d first arrived, I would have, with no guilt or even a second thought. But thanks to the intertwining, I said, ‘I think it might be on that table by the front door.’
‘Oh! Wonderful.’ She sighed, looking down at Thisbe, who was yawning. ‘Well, I’ll just go grab it and we’ll hope for the best. I mean, yesterday I tried to put her down at this same time, she was clearly exhausted, but of course the minute I did she started up. I swear, it’s like…’
I began easing the door shut, slowly, slowly, until at last she got the hint, stepping back and turning toward the stairs. ‘… so wish us luck!’ she was saying, when I finally heard the knob click.
I sat down on my bed, looking out at the beach below. There were a lot of things about being here that I did not understand. And I was okay with that. But the wave machine? It drove me nuts.
Here we were, mere feet from the real, actual ocean, and yet Heidi was convinced that Thisbe could only sleep with the sound of manufactured waves – turned up to the highest setting, no less – supplied by her noise machine. Which meant that I had to hear them all night long as well. It probably would not have been that big a deal, if it hadn’t made it impossible to hear the real sea. So I was there, in a beachfront house, listening to a fake ocean, and this just seemed to sum up everything that was wrong with this situation from start to finish.
Outside, I heard footsteps again, then a door opening and shutting. A moment later, sure enough, the waves began. Fake, loud, and endless.
I stood up, grabbing my bag, and stepped out into the hallway, moving past Thisbe’s barely open door as quietly as I could. At the top of the stairs, I paused, looking into my dad’s study, the door to which he always kept slightly ajar. He was at his desk, facing the wall, as usual, a Diet Coke can and a whole apple next to him. So it had been a good day.
Like I said, I’d become versed in my dad’s habits. And by using my talents of observation, I’d figured out that he took an apple up to his office every day after lunch. If it was a good day, he always got too immersed in what he was doing and didn’t eat it. On a bad one, though, the core was bitten down to nothing, nibbled to death, sometimes even in two pieces. On a whole-apple day, he emerged at dinnertime cheerful and talkative. On an apple-core day – especially a two-piece core – you did best to steer clear, if he even came down at all.
Most days, though, I wasn’t around for dinner anyway, as I left at five or so to head to Clementine’s, where I grabbed a sandwich as I worked until closing. After that, I usually walked the boardwalk for an hour or so before coming home to get my car and taking off for another three or four.