“No … no fish …just some sun and sand, and a little swimming.” The house smelled wonderful, she had made popovers too, and mashed potatoes and sweet corn, everyone's favorites, even Annie's. But the familiar stab of pain at the thought of her seemed a little less acute tonight. Talking about her to Maribeth had helped, and he wished he could share that with his mother, but he knew he couldn't. “Where's Dad?”

“He said he'd be home at six. I guess he got delayed. He'll be home any minute. I told him dinner was at seven.” But an hour later, he still hadn't come home, there was no answer when she called him at work, and the roast was well done by then, and her mouth was set in a thin line of fury.

At eight-fifteen she and Tommy ate, and at nine, his father walked in, obviously having had a few too many drinks, but in very high spirits.

“Well, well, the little woman cooked dinner for a change!” he said jovially, trying to kiss her, but missing even her cheek by several inches. “What's the occasion?”

“You said you'd be home at six o'clock,” she said, looking grim, “and I told you I'd have dinner on the table at seven. I just thought it was time this family started having dinner together again.” Tommy panicked at her words, but it didn't look as though that was going to happen again anyway, at least not for a while, so he decided not to worry prematurely.

“I guess I forgot. It's been so long since you cooked, I didn't even remember.” He looked only mildly apologetic, and made an effort to seem more sober than he was as he sat down at the table. It was rare for him to come home drunk, but his life had been pretty bleak for the past seven months, and relief in the form of a whiskey or two hadn't seemed so bad when offered by two of his employees.

Liz served him up a plate, without saying another word to him, and he looked at it in surprise when she handed it to him.

“The meat's pretty well done, isn't it, dear? You know I like it rare.” She grabbed the plate from him then, and poured all the food on it into the garbage can, and then banged the empty plate in the sink with an expression of disappointment.

“Then try coming home before nine o'clock. It was rare two hours ago, John' she said through clenched teeth, and he sat back in his chair, looking deflated.

“Sorry, Liz.”

She turned around at the sink then and looked at him, even forgetting that Tommy was there. They always seemed to forget him. It was as though, in their minds, he had left with Annie. His needs no longer seemed to be of importance to anyone. They were too desperately distraught themselves to ever help him.

“I guess it doesn't matter anymore, does it, John? None of it does. None of the little niceties that used to seem so important. We've all given up.”

“We don't have to,” Tommy said softly. Maribeth had given him hope that afternoon, and if nothing else, he wanted to share it. “We're still here. And Annie would hate what's happened to us. Why don't we try and spend more time with each other again? It doesn't have to be every night, just sometimes.”

“Tell your father that,” Liz said coldly, and turned her back on them as she started to do the dishes.

“It's too late, Son.” His father patted his shoulder and then disappeared into their bedroom.

Liz finished the dishes, and then, tight-lipped, put up the new bookcase with Tommy. She needed it for her schoolbooks in the fall. But she said very little to her son, except about the project they were working on, and then she thanked him and went to the bedroom. It was as though everything about her had changed in the past seven months, all the softness and warmth he had known had hardened to stone, and all he saw in her eyes now was despair, and pain, and sorrow. It was obvious that none of them were going to survive the death of Annie.

John was asleep on the bed with all his clothes on when she walked into the room, and she stood and looked at him for a long moment, and turned and closed the door behind her. Maybe it didn't matter anymore what happened between them. She'd been to the doctor several months before and he had told her there wouldn't be any more children. There wasn't any point even trying. There had been too much damage when Annie was born. And now she was forty-seven years old, and she had always had a hard time getting pregnant, even when she was younger. This time the doctor had admitted to her it was hopeless.

She had no relationship with her husband anymore. He hadn't touched her since the night before Annie died, the night they'd convinced each other all she had was a cold. They still blamed each other and themselves, and the thought of making love to him now repulsed her. She didn't want to make love to anyone, didn't want to be that close to anyone again, didn't want to care about anyone, or love that much, or hurt that much when she lost them. Even John, or Tommy. She was cut off from all of them, she had gone completely cold, and the iciness only masked her pain. John's pain was a lot more blatant. He was in agony. He desperately missed not only his beloved little girl, but his wife, and his son, and there was nowhere to go with what he was feeling, no one he could tell, no one to bring him comfort. He could have cheated on her but he didn't want sex with just anyone, he wanted what they had had before. He wanted the impossible, he wanted their life back.

He stirred as she walked around the room, putting away her things. She went into the bathroom, and put her nightgown on, and then woke him before she turned the lights off.

“Go put your pajamas on,” she said, as though she were talking to a child, or perhaps a stranger. She sounded like a nurse, caring for him, not a woman who had once loved him.

He sat on the edge of the bed for a minute, clearing his head, and then he looked up at her. “I'm sorry about tonight, Liz. I guess I just forgot. Maybe I was nervous about coming home and starting all over again. I don't know. I didn't mean to ruin anything.” But he had anyway. Life had ruined things for them. She was gone, never to return to them again. They would never ever see their little Annie.

“It doesn't matter,” she said, not convincing him or herself. “We'll do it again sometime.” But she didn't sound as though she meant it.

“Will you? I'd really like that. I miss your dinners.” They had all lost weight that year. It had been a rough seven months for all of them, and it showed. John had aged, and Liz looked gaunt and unhappy, particularly now that she knew for sure there would never be another baby.

He went into the bathroom and put his pajamas on then, and he smelled clean and looked neat when he returned to lie beside her. But she had her back to him, and everything about her felt rigid and unhappy.

“Liz?” he asked in the darkened room. “Do you suppose you'll ever forgive me?”

“There's nothing to forgive. You didn't do anything.” Her voice sounded as dead as he felt, and they both looked it.

“Maybe if we had asked the doctor to come that night … If I hadn't told you it was just a cold …”

“Dr. Stone says it wouldn't have made any difference.” But she didn't sound as though she believed it.

“I'm sorry,” he said, as tears choked him, and he put a hand on her shoulder. But she didn't move, if anything she seemed even stiffer and more distant from him after he had touched her. “I'm sorry, Liz …”

“So am I,” she said softly, but she never turned back to him. She never looked at him. She never saw him crying silently in the moonlight, as he lay there, and he never saw her tears sliding slowly into her pillow. They were like two people drowning quietly, in separate oceans.

And as Tommy lay in his bed that night, thinking of them, he figured there was no hope left of ever getting them back together. It was obvious to him that too much had happened to them, the pain was too great, the grief too much to bear or recover from. He had lost not only his sister, but his home, and both his parents. And the only thing that cheered him, as he lay there, thinking about them, was the prospect of seeing Maribeth … he thought of the long legs and the bright red hair, the funny old shirt she had worn, and their race on the shores of the lake … he thought of a thousand things, and then drifted off to sleep, dreaming of Maribeth walking slowly down the beach at the lake, holding hands with Annie.

Chapter Five

On Sunday, he took her to see From Here to Eternity with Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr after work, and they both loved it. He sat very close to her, with an arm around her, and they ate popcorn and candy bars, and she cried at all the sad parts, and they both agreed afterwards that it was a great movie.

He drove her home, and they made plans for the following Wednesday afternoon, and she asked him casually how dinner with his parents had been, although she'd seen him in the meantime, she had forgotten to ask him.

“Not so great actually,” he said, looking pensive, “actually pretty rotten. My dad forgot to come home. I guess he went out with some guys from work. Anyway, the roast beef got overcooked, my mom got really mad, and my dad came home drunk. Not exactly your perfect evening.” He grinned, it was so bad you had to be philosophical about it. “They're pretty mad at each other most of the time. I guess they're just mad at the things they can't change, but they don't seem to be able to help each other.”

Maribeth nodded, looking sympathetic, and they sat on her front steps for a while. The old lady who rented the room to her liked to see Maribeth enjoy herself, she really liked her. She told Maribeth all the time that she was too thin, which Maribeth knew would not be the case for long, and in truth wasn't even for the moment. She had already started gaining weight, but she still managed to conceal it, although the apron she wore at work was starting to bulge more than it had in the beginning.