style="font-size:15px;"> Cynthia embraces her.
“Hello, darling.” Cynthia never fights with Lauren.
Cynthia has always been a freelance therapist, no degree or title required. She had taken a 16-year-old boy and helped turn him into the man who stands before her today. She has no biological children. Michael, and his sister Eve’s, birth mother had been a woman named Janice, who loved her bottles of liquor in the basement to resolve her problems. She had passed away from heart failure on a cold October night long ago, but Harlan and Michael had both made their peace with her. Janice’s words of wisdom, delivered from her occasional pulpit of sobriety, still float to Michael occasionally. The radiance and love of Cynthia’s guidance has been his lighthouse on the distant shore, the smoke on the horizon in the wilderness.
Harlan hugs Lauren next, ensuring his arms do not squeeze.
Harlan knows his son can be a manipulative bastard at times, but he loves him and doesn’t care for the baggage. Harlan knows his son’s dreams rest in the woman he’s embracing, and that she is aware of her power.
“Thank you for hosting us today, Lauren.” Harlan says, the summer air in his voice.
“You’re very welcome! We always love having you here.” Lauren replies.
“Hey, let’s not say our goodbyes, they just got here.” Michael puts an arm around Lauren’s shoulders. She smiles at his touch and looks to him. Alex lights up.
The moment, with Michael’s arm around Lauren, Michael’s parents peering at them reservedly, Alex standing to the side smiling at the boards of the porch, would be worthy of a camera. A picture should’ve been taken and prominently framed in a McGregor museum, as an eternal landmark in all of their lives, one where a fleeting second holds happiness.
Soon it shall be gone forever.
4
In the McGregor household, food is prepared in the kitchen, and eaten in the same room; the family does work in the dining room; the living room is in the hearth room and the hearth room is a place where chairs sit next to a wood stove and are never used. The island acts as a post for the cook to look out over their court at their expectant constituents. Turning around, one can use either the stove or the sink to prepare food. Lauren becomes upset if Michael tries too hard to change the way in which the kitchen is situated. She always prepares the house to be as if a Home Living magazine is coming for a photo-shoot the same day. With each cleaning session, she scrapes away the mold and mildew of her childhood. If only she could hold her emotions in a tank, perhaps under multiple layers of concrete, she might feel better with the reflection she sees in every clean glass.
The kitchen table infuriates Alex, who, when he tries to write on top of it, always finds his pencil slipping into the table’s cracks. The table is a quilt of plastic and wood, with sections of squares held together by a peculiar, adhesive connective material. During his homework, Alex always pets Roxy when he should be writing and pokes the material when he should be finding the answer to an algebraic equation.
The family seat themselves around the table. Harlan and Cynthia sit on one side, with Michael at the head of the table and his back to the window. Lauren sits across from him. Alex sits in view of Harlan and Cynthia, in the middle of his parents. The family is eating sandwiches constructed from components prepared by Lauren—the finest mayonnaise, cheeses, and meats available. While eating, the talking recedes.
A bird chirps in the distance, its rhythm repeating every couple of seconds as a miniature heartbeat. A proportioned breeze of summer air floats through the window, tinged with the smell of fresh cut grass nearby. Harlan’s overcoat drapes the back of his chair.
Swallowing, Michael takes a nice swig of cool milk.
“So,” Michael asks, looking at his father and mother. “Have we heard anything from Eve lately?”
“Nope.” Harlan responds.
Michael looks back at his sandwich quizzically, as if it’s suddenly turned alien.
“Funny, she usually calls around this time of year. April, August, and December.”
Cynthia and Harlan both nod mechanically.
Michael takes another bite. “I’ve thought about giving her a call. It’s been a couple years since I’ve tried.”
“She won’t answer you, you know.” Harlan says.
“I know, but I always think it’s worth a shot.”
“Why doesn’t Aunt Eve talk to us?” Alex asks. His sandwich has fallen partially apart. A ketchup bottle stands next to his plate, a trusty companion.
“Your Aunt can be an odd person at times, Alex.” Michael explains.
“Why is that?”
“She thinks that what she has out in California is better than what she could have here.” Michael reasons, choosing his words like how a golfer chooses the correct club for a swing.
Alex nods, and adds more ketchup to his plate.
Roxy, the Corgi, sits and pants at Harlan’s side, hoping that he will drop a piece of sandwich. The dog is lovingly hungry, a fixture at every meal.
“She’ll have to come home one of these days.” Harlan says. He points a finger at Alex from the side of his roll.
“You promise me something, kid. Don’t move too far away from home. Your parents care too much to let you get too far away from them.”
“I don’t think I’d want to move far away. I love it here, with my friends, and my school.”
“Friends and school are one thing. Family is another. As my own father used to say, at the end of the day, when your job and the rest of your life deserts you, the people who stay to listen to you bitch about it are the ones that really love you.” Harlan playfully taps Cynthia on the shoulder.
“Watch your language, you dirty old man!” She scolds him.
“Who are you calling dirty?” The mayonnaise from his sandwich drips down his chin.
“I just wish she’d come around again. I miss her all the time.” Michael says.
“She just doesn’t understand the value of family, Michael.” Cynthia replies, casting a warm look to Alex.
Lauren looks out the window, into the yard. An object prods at the wall of her mind. She can hear it tapping, like rain on the roof upstairs.
Jim Atkins.
“Well,” Harlan said, taking a drink of his own. “She’ll understand it after one of us is gone.”
Lauren stands abruptly, the chair shooting back from the table, the rest of her sandwich now abandoned on her plate. She walks away in a brisk step, one hand over her mouth, her footfalls padding over the floor becoming fainter and fainter. The rest of those at the table watch her leave—Harlan with his hands raised, Michael shaking his head, Alex’s heart beating fast. Cynthia rises and follows her slowly, casting a glare of pure disappointment back at Harlan. Alex stands up as well, but Michael motions for him to stay. Harlan keeps his hands
