Janice Lee - The Expatriates

Dr. Stein, her face small and concerned in the reduced Skype window of Margaret’s laptop, said, “Go out for lunch. Take a walk. Work. Do something.”

Margaret assented but then realized she had no idea how to get back into work mode or whom she would reach out to to have lunch. She never even got back to the Litchfield people on that spec project her friends had sent her way. She had zero desire to call someone to have lunch. The truth is that once you have three kids and a husband, you don’t really need friends. She didn’t, at least. They were a perfect unit, a self-sufficient ecosystem, like those green plants in glass spheres that produce oxygen and water and feed themselves forever in a perfect balance of waste and sustenance. Until fate came down with a giant, destructive swipe and shattered it forever.

But friends. Back to the point.

“How do I do that?” she asked Dr. Stein.

“You’ve been out a few times to lunches and things, right?”

“Yes, but those have been more”—she searches for the word—“general. I could leave when I wanted.”

“You need to make connections with people. You have Clarke and Daisy and Philip, but you need to go outside as well.”

“Why?”

“You need to start living as normal a life as possible. Live as though it’s normal, and slowly it will become so.”

Who would she call? Frannie Peck? Hilary Starr? Any of the well-meaning class mothers who dropped off food and ferried her kids to the birthday parties and soccer games she couldn’t face? Can’t she just stay here in this room that has become her sanctuary?

Even as she sinks lower into the too-rapidly cooling bathwater, she knows she cannot. The children are at home, Clarke too. She forgot to tell Essie that the washer repairman was coming, and Essie may deny him entry and cost her the appointment fee. There is a FedEx package to be picked up that will probably not make it to the door. She forgot to call to make the appointment for Philip’s haircut, and he will be shaggy for the party. And she has to make friends.

Life presses on her from all angles, and she is not ready to accept it.

When she emerges from the bath and puts on clothes, she feels fortified, a little, as if she has acquired a small buffer for what is to come. Which is Clarke’s party. An onslaught of friendly strangers, eager to connect and gladhand and drink and breathe unwelcome intimacies into her ear. These are the people she is supposed to be friends with, the people who will give her normalcy and support.

Back home, Margaret moisturizes her skin and walks around naked to let her skin dry so she won’t stain her new dress. She bought it last week in town, a gossamer purple shift with silver sequins, knee length, a bit flapper. When she pulls it out, Clarke whistles.

“Great dress,” he says.

She smiles. She wants this to be a good night for him.

“Are you excited?”

“It’ll be fun,” he says. “Thank you.” He is almost dressed, knotting his tie. “Are Daisy and Philip ready?”

“I’ll go check.” She goes downstairs, pulling on a thin cotton bathrobe. She had bought it outside her little flat, and the memory of that moment, alone, purchasing this item, stays with her as she descends the stairs. She finds Daisy wrestling with a blow-dryer, a new development for her growing girl.

“You want help with that?” she asks. Daisy nods, and she stands while Margaret combs out sections of her hair and dries them smoothly. She looks at her daughter in the mirror, her arms and buttocks thickening ever so slightly — a sign of the impending storm to come.

When Daisy was six, a scrawny girl with twiggy limbs, she had been into gymnastics. Once she sprang into a handstand and a shower of glitter, sequined barrettes, and pink plastic beads fell out of her pockets. Margaret was filled with wonder and gratitude that this strange unicorn being was hers. Having a girl meant sparkling rings and fake jewels twinkling from every crevice of your house, the chemical smell of nail polish, the high, sweet pitch of her voice. She loved it so much, and she sees the end of this era coming — the chaos waiting to erupt onto Daisy’s skin, the scramble of hormones to make her moody and silent. She aims hot air at her daughter’s hair and wishes for time to stop, for just five minutes. She closes her eyes to stop tears.

“Mom,” Daisy says. “Mom.”

Margaret opens her eyes.

“Mom, don’t.”

It’s a plea. She can see that Daisy needs her to be steady, to give her ballast.

“It’s okay, darling,” she says. The hot air blasts onto her hand, feeling almost like a burn. She shifts the blow-dryer. “Do you want French braids?”

“I’m not six, Mom,” Daisy says. “I’m just going to wear the new headband I got.”

“Okay.”

She goes to check on Philip, who’s reading a book on his bed.

“Do you know what you’re going to wear?” she asks.

“It’s fancy, right?” he says without looking up.

“Yes, so a collared shirt and a blazer, please. Long pants.”

“It’s so hot out, Mom!”

“It’s your dad’s fiftieth, Phil. I’ll find you a good shirt.” She goes through his shirts. Many don’t fit anymore. “You are growing so fast,” she says. Next to Philip’s drawers are G’s clothes, untouched. She leaves them alone. She picks out a shirt and hands it to him. “Get dressed,” she says.

She goes back upstairs.

“How do you feel?” she asks Clarke.

“Old.”

“You look good.”

“Thanks.” He pulls her in for a kiss. “Hey,” he says, releasing her and looking at her face. “We good?”

“Yeah, we’re good,” she says. Working on good.

“Mom!” she hears from downstairs. “An airplane’s gone missing. Turn on the TV.” Daisy does have a highly attuned ear for disaster. Maybe Courtney’s mother, from that benefit lunch, was onto something. This is a change wrought by what happened. Before, Margaret had been surprised by her children’s lack of empathy or understanding. When she had wept at a news story or while watching a documentary, they had asked her why she was sad if she didn’t know the people or if just one person had died. Their smooth, guiltless countenances had struck her speechless.

She and Clarke turn on the television but can’t find anything — just soccer matches and financial talk. They go to the computer and read of a Malaysian plane that never arrived at its destination.

“Oh, no,” she says. “Those poor families.”

“It’s just disappeared,” Clarke says.

They pause, and then they silently agree to move on. This is how it is, Margaret thinks, when it’s not about you or your family. You have a horrified moment, your eyes fill, you say a silent prayer, but it’s possible, even likely, that you will smile in the next hour. But now she feels grateful for the disaster slipping past her, leaving her unscathed. These are the small mercies she waits for now.

HILARY HAS INVEIGLED Olivia into being her date for Clarke’s party.

“Think of it as charity,” she said. “I really don’t want to go by myself.”

“Why are you going at all?” Olivia asked.

She doesn’t know why. She feels like going out, she supposes, having been a hermit for several weeks.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But tonight I want to put on a pretty dress and go out and have a glass of wine.”

“You expats have so many of these parties,” Olivia said. “Welcome parties, going-away parties. It’s like you never left college.”

They are getting ready together in the bathroom, Olivia having brought over her clothes and a bottle of champagne. Hilary is playing music, trying to get in the mood.