God is an Astronaut Read Free Page A

bothered to hide it, and I prefer my own scuttling, tail-between-my-legs defensiveness to Liam’s go-for-broke maneuvers, thank you very much.
     
    “I just told you I don’t know,” I said. “If I knew who she was, why would I have told her my name was Priscilla?”
     
    “Well, she’s sure as hell going to wonder about that the next time we run into her,” Liam said. “Jesus Christ, Jess.”
     
    Which is true, but this is the least of our worries. It was only the beginning of a disastrous conversation, which became more disastrous with each passing mile. We were discussing what we should tell our children—whether to lie to them, whether to come clean, and if so, how much. Corinne is still safe, I think, but someone will say something to Jack—a teacher, some little know-it-all runt on the bus. It’s only a matter of time.
     
    There’s something about trying to sum up your own take on a terrible truth, when you have to pare it down to something a five-year-old and a ten-year-old can—I was going to say “understand,” but that isn’t the right word, it isn’t even close. It reminds you that you don’t know shit. I was in favor of “Certain things are nobody’s fault.” Liam was more in line with “Human error inevitably makes its way into all our best efforts.” Barreling along at seventy miles an hour on the freeway, we were going round and round about semantics and I don’t even want to think about what else until Liam finally slammed his hand on the dashboard and said, “Tell them whatever you want, Jess, tell them whatever you want.”
     
    Pretty much useless, all this, I guess. I wonder how you are, you and your elegant pines. That adjective is yours, and I think of it from time to time. Pines are elegant—none of that deciduous fuss and muss. The days up there are probably still—what?—seven hours long, but the sap has probably already started rising. You might tell me, you know, if you felt so inclined, but maybe you don’t.
     
    Anyway.
    Jess
    From: Jessica Frobisher
    Sent: Saturday, March 22, 2014 5:46 am
    To: Arthur Danielson
    Cc:
    Bcc:
    Subject: Re: synonyms for sad
     
     
    There are forty-four, according to Merriam-Webster. You fell way short of that, and I beat you by two—only after dolorous came to me in a flash of inspiration during my drive home. It’s probably best if we don’t compare lists and don’t go back to see exactly which ones we missed, no? There was no insinuation in that deciduous remark of mine, none whatsoever. Ha! Seriously though, Arthur, watching the trees, I am struck by what a messy and arduous business it is. That’s all I meant. Forcing those buds out every spring, thousands of them, only to lose them all when the fall rolls around again. Not for the faint of heart.
     
    I did put your question to Paula. There was a man once who came up with fifty-one synonyms, she said. That’s the record. He was forty-three years old, she said, and in the throes of such despair that he was no longer even able to tie his own shoes. When they stuck him in the MRI machine they saw that the topography of his brain was riddled with dark pockets, like shantytowns—whole neighborhoods that had just gone off the grid. My sister delivers anecdotes like these with an admirable matter-of-factness.
     
    Glad to hear the work is going well, O man of few words.
     
    From the woman of many.
     
    ~j
    From: Jessica Frobisher
    Sent: Monday, March 24, 2014 11:02 pm
    To: Arthur Danielson
    Cc:
    Bcc:
    Subject: Re: marauding and other activities
     
     
    Believe it or not, yes. If Liam had time these days to be anything other than frantic, he would probably be mildly annoyed to discover that the greenhouse is the one thing I’ve actually made progress on during the past week. I wrote myself a greenhouse to-do list and taped it up on the calendar, smack dab on top of all of Jack’s rocket