Paullina Simons - A Song in the Daylight

And there they were. The back door slammed, the backpacks thumped to the floor, shoes flew off. They bounded into the kitchen, opened the fridge and … “There’s nothing to eat in this house,” said Emily, slamming the refrigerator door. “Mom, we gotta go. Last week we were almost late to my lesson and I don’t want to be almost late again.”

“Okay, honey,” said Larissa. “I’ll hurry with dinner, so you won’t be almost late again.”

First was cello. Then karate for Michelangelo and guitar for Asher. Mondays were busy.

“Track is starting next month,” said Asher from the back. “I’m joining.”

“Is that before or after karate? Is that before or after band?”

“It’s with , Mom.”

“Is that before or after the orthodontist at five tonight?”

“With, Mom. With.”

Ezra had called when she was out, saying he needed to talk to her, but when she called back he was out and Maggie was cryptic on the phone, saying only that he would talk to Larissa Saturday night at dinner.

When Jared got home, he took one look at her and said jokingly, “Oh, hon, don’t get all gussied up on my account.” Her plain face, her unsmiling mouth didn’t deter him from kissing her, tickling her, from heartily eating the hamburger pie she made, from taking the garbage out, and getting the poster board for Asher’s project on hooligans, from looking at the eight boxes taped and stacked against the bedroom wall and saying, “Whoa. Whoa right there. What in the world have you been doing? Is that why you didn’t answer the phone all day?”

And then it was night and everyone was asleep, everyone but Larissa, who sat in bed, with a People magazine in her lap, staring at her peacefully sleeping husband, the vampire hunter, and the carousel spinning round and round in her head was it will soon be gone and no one will ever know how much she had loved it all .

The external life is all Larissa knows, most of the time. She married the man she fell in love with in college. She loved him because her friends were either hippie potheads like Che, or sesquipedalian book chewers like Ezra, but Jared had the unbeatable combination of being both, plus a baseball jock. There was something so adorably sporty and cerebral about him. He wore baseball caps and black-rimmed glasses and pitched until his arm gave out, but couldn’t live without baseball, so he got a job teaching English and coaching Little League, and then, according to Ezra, completely sold out and got an MBA, instead of the long-planned PhD in fin de siècle American Lit, but the difference between the two terminal degrees meant that Larissa and Jared weren’t broke anymore, and Ezra and Maggie were.

They bought a gray-colored sprawling colonial farmhouse on Bellevue Avenue on a raised corner lot overlooking the golf course, the kind of house that dreams are made on, the house of twelve gables and white-painted windows adorned with black shutters. Through the pathways and the nooks thirty clay pots sprouted red flowers summer and winter—pansies, impatiens, poinsettia.

Larissa and Jared owned sleek widescreen televisions and the latest stereo equipment. In the game room, they had a pool table, a ping-pong table, an ice hockey table; in the backyard, a heated pool and a Jacuzzi. Their closets were organized by two professional closet organizers (how was that for a job description), and three times a year a file organizer came over to assess their files. Jared paid the bills. He drove a Lexus SUV, she her Escalade. Their appliances were stainless steel and there was marble in their bathrooms. The floors were parquet, the countertops granite, the lights recessed and on dimmers. The sixty windows that needed to be professionally cleaned four times a year were trimmed in white wood to match the crown mouldings.

She lived a mile away from Summit’s Main Street, and five minutes drive from the upscale Mall at Short Hills, with Saks, Bloomies, Nordstrom, Neiman Marcus and Macy’s. It had valet parking, sushi and cappuccino, a glass ceiling, and every store worth shopping in.

The children, who were once little and required all her time, were now older and required slightly more. Emily had been the perfect child at eleven, playing championship volleyball and all-state cello, but now at nearly fourteen was exhibiting three of the five signs of demonic possession. The flying off the handle at absolutely nothing. You couldn’t say anything to her without her interpreting it the wrong way and bursting into tears. The taking of great offense at everything . The disagreeing with everything . She had become so transparent that recently Larissa had started asking her the exact opposite of what she wanted. “Wear a jacket, it’s freezing out.” “No, I’m fine. It’s not that cold, Mom .” “Em, don’t wear a coat today, it’s supposed to be warm.” “Are you kidding me? You want me to freeze to death?”

Michelangelo had manifest gifts of artistic ability. A note from his first grade art teacher read: I think he is showing real promise . He drew a donkey in geometric shapes, even the tail. Kandinsky by a six-year-old. Or was it just his name that fooled his parents into delusions of gifts? Che was wrong about him. He might not have been an angel, with his obdurate nature and single-minded pursuit of his own interests, but he sure looked like an angel, with his cherubic halo of blond curly hair and sweetest face.

No one was particularly sure what Asher did. Today he played guitar, yesterday took karate, tomorrow would run track. Or maybe not. Asher spent every day just being in it, and when it came to New Year’s resolutions he was the one who could never think of anything to write because he would say, “I don’t want to change anything. I have a perfect life.” He was the one who a month ago, at almost thirteen, refused to make a Christmas list because, as he chipperly put it, “I really don’t want that much.” He wanted one thing: an electric miniscooter. If Larissa and Jared could have, they would’ve gotten him the scooter in every color available, black, lime, lilac and pink. Here, we couldn’t decide which color to get for you, have all four of them, Merry Christmas, darling. The blood of angels flowed through Asher’s veins. He should’ve been named Angel.

Jared maintained Asher resembled Larissa in temperament and looks. Larissa knew: only in looks. Emily, on the other hand, wanted nothing to do with being in any way like her mother, perming her hair, coloring it blue. Larissa was usually impeccably put together; Emily made a point of looking like hardcore indie Seattle grunge. Larissa didn’t play any musical instruments, Emily did. Larissa loved theater, Emily hated it. Larissa frowned for Emily’s sake, but shrugged for everyone else’s. If that’s rebellion, I’ll take it, she said. I’d rather blue hair than grandchildren.

Larissa wished Che could know her children. She missed Che. They grew up together in Piermont, had known each other since they were three or four. Larissa loved Che’s mother, a funny little lady who smoked a ton and cooked great. They were always broke, but somehow Mrs. Cherengue found the money to ship Che’s dad’s body back to Manila. The mother and daughter flew to the Philippines for the funeral. That was fifteen years ago. Larissa was barely pregnant with Emily. She was devastated and sore for years. How could you leave me, Che? What about us living parallel lives? What about us seeing each other every day? What about our friendship?

But Che remained in Manila (“It feels a little bit like home, Lar, what can I say?”), and then her mother got sick and died. Larissa cried for months after she heard. Larissa’s own mother, Barbara Connelly, said, “I hope you’re going to cry like this when I kick the bucket.” That comment went pointedly unanswered.