The Inseparables Read Free Page B

her shoulders falling. “At the end of the story, she dies.”
    Oona nodded. “Yes,” she said, sounding only a little disappointed. “She does die.”
    “See? This is not helpful. These stories of poor cocaine addicts are not helpful for me.”
    Oona had two hands on the suitcase. It was a small black thing, bought for thirty dollars at a discount store, nothing great. She had thought it was ridiculous that Harold would have packed so far ahead of their trip, especially considering that he was a famous procrastinator, always leaving these most crucial tasks for the last moment.
    “I’m afraid to open it,” Henrietta said. “That’s why it’s still here.”
    Henrietta thought she saw Oona readying a response, something typical for her. “Afraid? But why?” Oona might say. “What could possibly be inside that you would be afraid to find? It’s probably just what’s normally in a suitcase. With Dad, it’s probably just, you know, an extra pair of underwear. Or, at best, a boring book about the history of butter.”
    Instead, Oona walked across the room and hugged her.
    It wasn’t what was probably inside, Henrietta felt like saying. It was what was potentially inside. This was an important distinction. All this time she had allowed herself to think that there was something special, or something surprising that had made Harold pack it up two weeks early. At first, after he was gone, she figured he did it because he was bored. With the restaurant closed he was home with nothing to do, so why not pack up early? But Harold did not do these kinds of things. Her Harold—the same Harold who that last year had grown a white beard, who had attempted to teach himself Ancient Greek, and had expressed an interest in learning how to play the banjo—this Harold simply was not practical enough to have done something like this. And so she’d begun to think that there must have been a different reason why he’d done it.
    The coffeemaker chimed. Oona poured herself a cup, drank half of it, and then refilled it just as quickly.
    Henrietta shook her head. “How long have you been awake straight?”
    Oona looked at her wristwatch. Usually she worked nights. Now that she was in the middle of a divorce she worked days and nights. “Many, many hours,” she said.
    “How much caffeine have you had?”
    “Tankards’ worth,” Oona said. “Gallons, probably.”
    “You need to sleep. It’s not good for you to—” Henrietta stopped herself. She had fallen back into this recently. Motherhood for her had always been a conflict between proper concern and far too much worry. Widowhood had only made this worse.
    Oona looked down at the suitcase. “Maybe we could open it together.”
    Henrietta took a deep breath.
    “Just let me know, Mom. I can do it with you. Whenever you want. I can help.”
    Across the room, Oona’s phone began to ring. She gave off an exhausted sigh. “One sec, Mom,” she said. Over these last six months Henrietta had learned that the noise of her daughter’s phone corresponded with another human’s injury. This was how it went: someone’s bones broke, the phone rang, and then Oona rushed off to repair the mess. Oona walked slowly toward her phone, which was on a table across the room. It was an old house and it loudly bore the weight of every step inside it. Henrietta used to be able to differentiate between her daughter’s feet and her husband’s. From the living room she watched Oona take the call. Dr. Olyphant, she said. She had turned forty years old this year, a number that was difficult for Henrietta to consider. For the occasion, Oona had allowed a white streak to emerge in her hair, running from the point of her widow’s peak back across her head, like a skunk’s tail. Henrietta wondered whether it was because of the death or the divorce or both. She sat on the sofa, waiting. The fact was that Henrietta did not want to move without her daughter. She had thought to suggest that they get a