Love Anthony Read Free Page B

house. And change, however small, was never Anthony’s friend.
    She peeks into the envelope and sees a folded piece of stationery.
Found these three under the couch.
Love, David
    She smiles, thanking him for taking the time to send her three rocks, for knowing she’d want them. And the Love, David . She knows these words aren’t throwaway or insincere. She still loves him, too.
    The rest of Anthony’s rocks are in his box, now in her bedroom. It was one of the few things she insisted on bringing with her on her final trip over, and it was no small feat getting it here. She lugged it, sweating and questioning her sanity, from the backseat of David’s car to the ferry in Hyannis, from the ferry to the taxi in Town, from the taxi to her bedroom here. More than once she thought about dumping the rocks overboard on the way over, freeing herself from the physical and emotional burden of carrying all the damn rocks. But they’re Anthony’s damn rocks. Beautiful damn rocks collected from the beach and obsessively lined up in rows by her beautiful boy, now artfully displayed in the glass bowl on the coffee table.
    So the damn rocks came with her. She left behind her cookbooks, her collection of books she helped edit at Taylor Krepps, all of her novels. She didn’t take any of the furniture, the appliances, or any dishware. She left Anthony’s clothes still folded in his drawers, his bed unmade, his Barney DVDs in the TV console cabinet, all of the educational toys he never played with, his toothbrush in the holder in the bathroom, his coat on the hook by the front door.
    She brought her clothes, her jewelry, her camera, and her computer. And she brought her journals. Someday, she’ll have the courage to read them.
    She also left all of her photographs—her college album, their wedding and honeymoon albums, the collection of arty shots she used to take of sunsets and trees and seashells, the best of which adorn the walls of their house, Anthony’s baby album. She left it all with David. She feels as if that life didn’t happen to her. It happened to some other woman.
    She kept only one picture. She looks up at the eight-by-ten photograph framed, matted, and hung on the wall over the fireplace, that one picture that took many hours over many days of patient waiting to get. She remembers how she sat cross-legged in front of the refrigerator, camera over her face, finger on the button, ready to click, waiting. Waiting. Anthony passed by her many times, skipping on his toes, squealing and flapping his hands. Each time she held her breath. She didn’t move. He didn’t look at her.
    One day he sat down only a couple of feet in front of her and spun the back wheel of a toy truck with his index finger for at least an hour. She didn’t get up and demonstrate how to play with the truck appropriately. See, Anthony, the truck goes vroom, vroom . She didn’t redirect him. She didn’t move. He didn’t look at her.
    With each attempt, her knees, arms, and ass would eventually ache and scream for her to shift position. Her mind would try to talk her out of it, too, mocking her for wasting another morning sitting on the floor like an idiot. She ignored herself and sat, silent, unthreatening, invisible.
    Then finally, it happened. He looked directly into the lens. He was probably thirsty, looking to the refrigerator, wanting juice. It was probably a complete accident, but she clicked the button before his eyes darted away. She looked at the LCD display, and there they were. His eyes! Wide-open windowsinto a shiny, clear day. Not disconnected or wandering eyes. Deep, dark, melted-chocolate-brown eyes belonging to her little boy, looking at his mother. Seeing her.
    She sits on the living-room chair with the mail in her lap and loses herself in his eyes, wiping tears from hers, grateful for the chance to look into them and see real meaning, even if she doesn’t understand what that meaning is, even if it was only one moment in almost