They May Not Mean To, But They Do

25

Some people had implied, even said outright, that it would be a relief for Joy when Aaron died. Tactless, Molly had thought then. But now that her father was gone, she wondered. The stress of looking after Aaron had been so fierce. Without it, Joy seemed calmer, softer. Even on the phone from California, Molly could sense it, as if her mother’s voice, her whole temperament, were gently muted.

Daniel, who went to see Joy every day after work, confirmed this.

“How is she?” Molly asked him. She often called when she knew he would be at the apartment.

Daniel, phone to his ear, poked his mother, who sat beside him at the dining-room table. “Mom,” he said, “Molly wants to know how you are.”

“As well as can be expected,” said Joy.

He nodded. It had been three weeks. “As well as can be expected,” he said into the phone.

“Oh good!”

He wasn’t sure what was to be expected in three weeks, but he did not say that to Molly. It was hard for her, being so far away. It was hard for him, too, being so close.

Joy had been quiet in those three weeks. She didn’t complain. It was almost as if Aaron’s death were a liberation, once the funeral and all the hubbub associated with it were over, if a sad smile and general acquiescence to everything Daniel said or proposed meant liberation. He hoped it did. Yes, he was sure it did.

When he told his mother he had to get home, he saw her panic for a second. Then she said, “Off you go.”

“Sorry I can’t stay for dinner.”

Joy looked confused, as if dinner were a rarely performed ritual.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Daniel said.

“Tomorrow?”

Joy shuffled in her slippers to the front door.

“Mom, are you okay? Really?” He held both her hands and kissed the top of her head from what appeared to him a great distance. She seemed to have decreased. Not just in height, but in volume.

“Absolutely.”

“Oh. Okay. Good. You’re a trooper.”

“Absolutely,” she said.