Coco leans back too, looks at the spotless pink tablecloth, and again there’s that fresh sense of delight she’s been feeling since Monday morning. This time it’s not only the dinner to come but the conversation. It is as though her mother, the topic of conversation, is lying there barely touched in the middle of the clean pink tablecloth. Elisabeth de Wit—wonderful conversation material even without an approaching demise—will remain in this company’s thoughts all evening. The glasses are filled, the knives sharpened. Coco smiles and gazes ahead contentedly, looking forward to a predictable discussion, but one which will remain endlessly entertaining. Whatever course the story takes—a story in which she herself has a role to play—she will be the youngest, she will be the child, she will be innocence. Yes, this is what satisfaction feels like.
Before the first basket of prawn crackers is empty, they wonder, as they always do when Elisabeth is the topic of conversation, whether it’s autism or, at the very least, Asperger’s? It’s an old question, they’ve been there many times.
‘But there’s never been a diagnosis, has there?’ Hans asks.
‘It’s never caused her any trouble,’ her father says, ‘and Coco only went there one day a week and that was all right, so, well…’
‘There was never any discussion,’ Miriam begins, ‘about where Coco would live. Otherwise we would have had to mention it, of course.’
‘You did talk to her?’
‘I didn’t. Wilbert did, of course.’
‘It still seems odd to me,’ Coco says, ‘suddenly getting a five-year-old.’
‘I always said to Wilbert: Coco is welcome. Your daughter comes first.’
‘She always said that.’
‘It’s still a bit odd.’
‘Perhaps Elisabeth felt it was better too,’ Miriam says. ‘I don’t want to pass judgement. But it was quite a surprise that she agreed so readily. I still remember Wilbert going round to suggest that Coco should live with us. I was at the shop. I thought: this is going to be a nightmare. But no.’
‘No,’ Coco says, ‘I meant odd to suddenly get a kid.’
‘Oh, that. No. No, I didn’t find it odd at all.’
‘It’s not something you can just shrug off, you know,’ Hans says.
‘I’d known her for a long time of course. Wilbert would bring her to the shop if things got to be too much for Elisabeth, and I’d look after her.’
‘What would happen—when things got to be too much for Elisabeth?’ Hans asks.
‘Oh, a lot…’
‘Handy,’ Coco says, ‘having Miriam babysit.’
‘I was happy to.’
‘Staying home alone all the time with a toddler is quite dreadful, they say.’
‘She was working too,’ her father says.
‘Yes, part time.’
‘Why do you always stick up for your mother?’ Hans asks.
‘I don’t.’
‘Her lack of empathy may be a medical condition,’ Hans says, ‘but she’s an adult who is aware of that condition and should at least try to do something…’
‘No!’ Coco shouts too loudly. ‘That’s not right! Her trying is exactly what makes it so terrible! When she’d suddenly phone, oh Christ, that was terrible. Thought she should speak to me.’
Silence descends. Miriam and her father look at each other.
‘What?’ Coco asks.
‘We thought it was a good idea for her to phone you from time to time,’ Miriam says.
‘Was that your idea?’
‘Our idea.’
‘Yes,’ her father says, ‘Miriam thought it was a good idea.’
‘You thought it was a good idea?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘We can’t blame your mother for doing her best,’ Miriam says.
The young waitress lights the plate warmers and Coco says to her father, ‘You married her.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘Was she attractive?’ Hans asks.
Miriam says, ‘She’s still an attractive woman.’
‘She’s…’ her father says, ‘also a very easy woman in a certain way.’
‘What kind of a way?’ Coco asks.
‘She doesn’t expect much.’
‘Bah,’ Miriam says, ‘cancer.’
‘Are you going to call her?’ Coco asks.
‘Me?’ her father asks.
‘Yes,’ says Miriam, ‘you have to say something.’
The food is served by the young woman and the older woman. It doesn’t fit on the table.
‘We’ll bring over another little table,’ the older waitress says.
‘Chinese is always too much,’ Hans says.
‘I think it’s quite serious,’ Coco says. ‘She was carrying a whole bag of medication.’
‘You have to call her,’ Miriam looks at her father. Her father is filling his plate. The sole ends up on the extra table.
‘Enjoy your food,’ only the older waitress says.
‘She doesn’t have anyone, of course,’ Miriam says. She loads up Coco’s plate before starting on her own.
‘I could go and live with her,’ Coco says, joking, ‘then I’d be nice and close to the university.’
‘Coco,’ Hans says, ‘you aren’t responsible for her happiness.’
Coco is about to take a bite but lets the spoonful of rice and satay hover in mid-air. She doesn’t like Hans’s tone and she doesn’t want to have to say that she was joking.
She says it again, all serious now, ‘I could go and live with her. It’s a big house.’
‘Coco,’ Miriam says, ‘your mother is a grown woman.’ She talks loudly.
‘You don’t owe her anything,’ her father says, pointing his finger at her.
‘Listen
