Matthew Thomas - We Are Not Ourselves

And then, somehow, Connell did feel it: what it was like to have brought joy to people and done something extraordinary. He never let himself imagine outcomes like that. He didn’t want to open his eyes.

“I want you to really feel it,” his father said. “And I want you to remember that feeling, because it is as real as any experience you will have in your life. Will you remember?”

Connell nodded with his eyes closed.

“You have to use your imagination,” his father said.

Connell could feel his mind opening like a flower in bloom. If he wasn’t afraid to consider the impossible — that he would be a Major League ballplayer people would talk about for years — then in imagining it, he would not need to live it; he could have it, along with whatever else he wanted.

“Okay,” Connell said. He could hear people passing by. He didn’t peek, but he could see them going past, what they were wearing, the looks on their faces.

“Do you feel powerful?”

“Yes,” he said, and he did; he had stepped outside time.

“Are you angry right now?”

“No.”

“Are you afraid?”

“No.”

“Do you know that I love you?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Open your eyes,” his father said, but Connell waited a bit, because something told him they would never be back where they were. “Let’s go find your mother.”

The kitchen cabinets were installed on a Friday. When Eileen came home from work after a week that had threatened never to end, and saw their pristine white surfaces, she stood leaning against the island she’d always coveted, looking around in frank amazement. Then she began opening doors and running her hand for pleasure over the sanded interiors. She couldn’t wait to head to the Food Emporium. Ever since she’d emptied out the cabinets in preparation for their dismantling, she’d anticipated with great relish this restorative trip.

The next morning, she waited for the countertop man to arrive with his enormous slabs. She had settled on Corian, because granite was too expensive and she’d be damned if she’d live with Formica again. Then at the last minute she’d called and changed the order to granite.

She had thought she might like to watch them put the slabs down on the cabinets, but as the fabricator and his assistants hauled them up the back steps she realized she preferred that magical feeling of seeing the job complete, which she’d gotten as a child whenever she’d come home from school and seen the lines her mother had put in the carpet by vacuuming.

She snaked her way up and down the aisles of the supermarket, filling her cart with anything she could think she’d ever need. She hadn’t even gotten through dry goods before the cart was so full that she had to check out, bring the bags to the car and start over. After this second round of shopping, not only was the trunk full, but also the back seat, the passenger seat, and the floor areas. She couldn’t see in any direction except straight ahead and in the driver’s side mirror. She felt the engine laboring to get her home.

She pulled into the driveway and honked for Connell to come down and carry the bags. She went upstairs and gaped at the glossy countertops. She walked their length, running her hands over their cool surfaces, amazed at how they kept going and going.

Connell came up with the first bags and lay them on the island. “What gives?” he asked.

“What?”

“You planning for a disaster?”

“I bought some things,” she said defensively.

She started putting them away. Connell made an endless circuit from the garage to the kitchen. When he had nearly finished, and bags were arranged in a ring around the island, Ed walked into the kitchen and flew into a frenzy. He started grabbing items from the refrigerator and throwing them into the trash can.

“We eat too much!” he yelled. “This is too much food!”

“Would you please control yourself?”

“We need a new regime around here,” he said. “We’re getting fat. There are going to be changes. One meal a day! No more than one!”

“This should last us about a decade, then,” Connell said.

“Get rid of it!” Ed shouted as he left the room. “All of it!”

Eileen followed him out. “You can throw it all out if you want,” she called up the stairs, to his retreating back. “That’s fine by me.” She was trying to stay calm, not to sink to his level. “All it means is I’ll have to spend more to replace it. I want every inch in that pantry filled.” He disappeared into the bedroom. “I don’t care if you starve to death, the rest of us in this house are going to eat.” He didn’t answer. “Like kings!” she shouted. “We’ll eat like kings!”

In recent weeks, Ed had taken a hammer to places of rot in the drywall all through the basement, so that it looked like a target in a shooting range. In the minefield of the living room, he’d made a bigger mess, ripping up floorboards almost indiscriminately. The drainpipes were clogged. The garage door had stopped working. They’d suffered another flood in the basement after a heavy storm. And now that the cabinets and countertops were in, Ed refused to hire a single contractor to help.

He sat beside her at the wheel, seething in the mismatched outfit he’d passive-aggressively donned after she’d barked at him for half an hour to change out of his dirty undershirt and get a move on. They were going to the McGuires’. Ed was beset by distraction as he drove, drifting between lanes and slamming on the brakes to stop just short of stalled traffic.

“Would you pay attention? You’re all over the road.”

“I know how to drive,” he said. “I’ve been driving for”—he paused—“since I was sixteen.”

They’d left late and hit a bad jam, and by the time they arrived they were quite late indeed. Ed sat in the car after he’d shut it off. She stood outside the car, waving him out. Then she opened her door again.

“Are you coming?”

The light in the foyer went on; one of the McGuires would soon be at the door. She climbed back in the car. Maybe she had to try another approach. She drained the impatience from her voice. “What’s wrong?”

“Just give me a minute,” he said. “I can’t think straight with you talking.”

“Honey,” she said as gently as she could, “we don’t really have a minute.”

“Who’s going to be there again?”

“Just us. Us and Frank and Ruth.”

“That’s good,” he said. “We see too many people.”

They hadn’t seen anyone since they’d moved, but this wasn’t the time to argue. “You’re right,” she said. “I’ll scale back. We’ll just focus on the house for now.”

“Thank God.”

“Now, can we get inside?” She handed him the bottle of wine. Ruth opened the door and gave them both kisses. Ed’s hand was shaking as he handed the bottle over; she saw Ruth notice it.

Dinner was ready and they took their seats right away as Ruth shuttled dishes in. Eileen tried to help her, but Ruth told her to sit. Frank opened the bottle to let it breathe. She felt herself begin to relax.

“How’s the money pit?” Frank asked. “You find where they buried the bodies yet?”

This was where Ed would say something snappy and the two of them would be off.

“It’s fine,” Ed said flatly. “Coming along.”

“Ed’s been busy trying to get rid of the rot from the flood.”

“Funny enough, I’ve been taking a continuing ed course in the history of water,” Frank said. “Irrigation, water transport. We haven’t gotten to floods yet. I’ll let you know when we do. Maybe I can give you some tips.”