Tara Ison - Rockaway

“Well, maybe when you go home again. .”

She brushes the idea away with an oily hand. “I’m too old for David. He was just a kid. All starting out and eager and excited about everything. He was like a little boy.”

“And so now you’re dating Methuselah.”

“Ha.” She mock-raps her knuckles on Emily’s belly.

“Ha ha.”

“Just see what happens with this one. Sounds like he adores you.”

“No, I don’t think he does. Maybe part of the time.”

“Maybe he’s frightened.”

“I think he’s just wildly conflicted. I think he’s a mess. Hey, it’s summer, it’s the beach, it’s something to do. Just fun, like you said.”

Emily nods. She puts her hand over Sarah’s, and they rub her belly together a moment. She gazes out the living room window toward the garden. “We should probably bring in the rest of the Swiss chard soon, if it’s still good. It’s been so hot, everything’s just about compost by now.”

“I’ll go out later,” Sarah says. “We should finish what’s left of the raspberries, too. Before the birds do.” She gets up and tugs open a window, draws the muslin curtains apart to catch any of the late afternoon breeze. They listen to the rasping pulse of insect wings.

“Emily?” Michael enters, looking dazed and rumpled, carrying Elijah pouched in front of him like an infant marsupial. “Honey, are you having the new baby now?”

“No.”

“Then, can you take him? He’s hungry. And I really need a nap. Can this be my time for a nap?”

“Yeah, hand him over,” Emily says wearily. Michael pulls the baby free from the pouch’s straps, and Sarah passes him to Emily.

“Come here, baby boy,” says Emily. “Baby, baby boy. . hey, where’s Rachel?” she calls.

“Aggie took her to feed the ducklings,” he calls back, as he stumbles from the room.

Emily settles Elijah around her bulk, and molds her nearest breast toward him. She brushes his lips with a brown, pulled-long nipple; he clamps on happily.

She watches Emily nurse. She likes watching this, the world goes sleepy and peaceful. This, is pretty. This would be nice to draw, she thinks, those soft, intimate lines. Maybe there’re some colored pencils around somewhere. Rachel must have a drawerful of paints and brushes, maybe do it as a watercolor.

“Should I stop with the oil?” she asks.

“No, we should go the whole twenty minutes.”

“Okay.” Sarah resumes looping her hand around hard, around, around. The light’s good for another hour, she thinks. I could even get some fresh eggs from the henhouse, mix up some kind of organic tempera paint. Saturated colors. Very Giotto, very Madonna-and-Child. .

“Just promise me if anything does get started, you’ll be careful. Don’t let this happen to you.” Emily looks down at the tracks of oil on her belly, shiny as rain-slicked pavement, and Sarah smiles.

“Don’t worry. That, I am religious about. And I’m still on the pill, anyway, so. .” Emily looks mildly disapproving. “I know, I know. Don’t say it.” She thinks about moving Emily closer to the window for a better composition. Taking her long hair out of that ratty braid, letting it float and curl over her shoulders in golden light. So pretty. Like a della Francesca.

“You know, my homeopath has all these natural hormonal birth control things. If you want to talk to her. And I could show you how to check your mucus, know when you’re fertile, know when it’s safe.”

“No, thanks. I’m not taking any chances.”

“I just hate you being on that stuff all these years. What it could be doing to your body.”

It’s better than these stretch marks of yours, Sarah thinks, but doesn’t say. Better than ripping up your body, yes. “I’m not worried,” she says.

“And how it might affect your system, down the road. If you ever change your mind about kids.”

“Now that, I’m really not worried about,” she says.

“Yeah.” Emily smiles. “You sort of already have two kids.”

“Exactly.”

“It’s funny. I was thinking about that, after we talked the other day. How there’s this weird paradox in your life.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there’s your parents, and what happened after Aaron. You had to grow up so fast, to take care of them. And that made you so—”

“I know, I know. You think I shouldn’t feel so responsible for them.”

“No, responsible about them.”

“All right, whatever. I agree. It’s highly dysfunctional.” She gives an elaborately resigned shrug. “But it’s not forever.”

“No, that’s not it. I was thinking how it also keeps you, it’s kept you, your whole life, in this place where you get to stay the child. At the same time.”

Her oil-rubbing hand on Emily’s belly stops. “What do you mean?”

“Well, parents are a kid’s whole emotional focus, right? That’s what home is. Parents create this emotional space the child can live and feel secure in. An extension of the womb. And venturing out of that is frightening. To separate, and be out in the world. Having to create all that space for yourself. Forge your own path. You’ve never had to do that. I’m being figurative, but—”

“But Em, that’s not true! Come on. .” She hears her voice waver, and tries to lighten her tone, go lilting and carefree. “I am here , look? Right? I have ventured from my literal and figurative home. I have forged. I’m not a child.”

“I know, that’s what I was getting to. You took this huge leap, and now you’re, well, unstuck. I guess I’ve always been more worried how you’d deal with stuff after they’re gone. When that focus is taken away, all that investment, like, then what’s Sarah going to do? On her own, with all her own life to live on her own terms. And now you’re doing it. I’m really proud of you.”

You know what real sin is? she remembers. Inertia. Refusing the responsibility for your own life .

She looks away from Emily’s encouraging smile. It feels so condescending, her praise. Her pity. “I don’t get why you had to be so worried, Em. Of course I’m doing it. It just had to be the right time.” She rubs, firmly, circling, circling. “I told you about my shell painting, right?”

“Yeah. It sounds beautiful.”

“The paintings , I mean. I’ve started a whole series, actually.” She clears her throat, pictures her single canvas, her lonely little shell. The untouched blots of drying paint on her palette. Her faceless, empty canvases turned away and leaning against the walls of her room. “It’s all about shells and hidden undersea lives. What can live without air, then dies when it comes to the surface. Challenging our assumptions about what sustains and nourishes us. That kind of paradox.” She waves her hands in the air, in what she hopes demonstrates paradox and insight. “Very elemental.”

“I can’t wait to see them.”

“It’s amazing, how everything’s really coming along now. Being away from home, being here, it’s all been so. . generative. Really defining. So don’t worry about me, all right? I’m fine. I’m doing it. I’m in the groove.”

Emily nods, thinking. “The truth is. .” she pauses, “you were always the talented one. You were blessed that way. I used to be so jealous.”

“Oh,” Sarah says. She looks away from Emily’s gaze, pushes her hands back onto her belly. “Well, thanks.”

“So, when’s the exhibit happening? Is there a date set? Michael and I can escape the kids for a few days maybe, come out for it? I’d love to be there.”

“It’s not really that definite, yet. I’ll want to show her all the work I’ve done here, the whole series, first. The woman with the gallery. Consult with her about the details, the framing, the installation. It’s still way down the road. Don’t worry, I’ll let you guys know.”