We Are Not Ourselves. Matthew Thomas
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make more. You’ll save again.”
“It’s a bad investment.”
“It’s an investment in life,” her father said. “If this is what you want, this is what you’re getting. It beats the piss out of a beer truck, I’ll say that. Maybe I’ll get one myself. Or I could get one of those convertible types over there. What did he call that one? The GTO? I could drive your mother around in it. Do you think she’d take to it?”
For a moment, he sounded serious, and Eileen wanted to say, Daddy, I think she would, but instead she just said, “Now that is a terrible investment,” and asked him whether cherry red or navy suited her better.
She could buy used and save for the future, or she could make a statement about where she thought her life was heading, and shape the perceptions of others about that trajectory, and maybe sway the future by courting it.
“What the hell do you think I’m going to tell you?” her father said.
She went with cherry red.
She was at the table when her mother got in from work.
“Studying again?”
Eileen barely grunted in reply. In shedding herself of her effects, her mother had dropped her keys on Eileen’s splayed notebook. There were so many keys packed onto the interlocking rings; each represented a room, or several, that her mother had to clean. Eileen slid them off the notebook as if they were coated in pathogens.
“Why don’t you put those books aside for five minutes,” her mother said. “You can drive me and my friends.”
“Drive where? Which friends?”
“My meeting friends.”
Meeting friends, Eileen thought crankily. She almost makes it sound pleasant.
“Take my car,” she said, not looking up from her book.
“I’m nervous to drive it.”
Her mother had only had her license for a year, and she was shaky on the road. The Tempest was still brand-new.
“I’ve got a test.”
“We started a car pool,” her mother said. “I said I’d pick everyone up this week.”
“And how had you planned on doing this, exactly?”
“Come on,” her mother said. “It’s getting late.”
The first stop was in Jackson Heights. She was surprised to pull up outside one of the co-ops; she’d always imagined that people of means were spared some of the sadder aspects of man’s nature. As soon as her mother left the car, Eileen took out her textbook. She was planning to study at every stop, even with others in the car. There wasn’t time for the squeamish propriety of small talk; the fact that she had submitted to this depressing task was enough.
When her mother returned, there was a brightness in her voice.
“Hiram,” she said to the man getting in the backseat, “this is my daughter, Eileen.”
“So I guess you’re Charon tonight.”
“Eileen,” she said.
“Charon. The ferryman. On the river Styx.”
“Oh,” she said. “Right.”
“Shuttling the dead.”
He had bumped his hairpiece on the doorframe in getting in; instead of adjusting it with a furtive hand, he had taken it off completely and was resetting it with such nonchalance that it seemed he wore it not to disguise his baldness but to bring it out in the open.
“You’re very much alive, Hiram,” her mother said, beginning to titter. “Though I can’t say the same for that rug you’re wearing.”
“I’m supposed to give you a tip,” he said. “How about this: avoid men in borrowed hair.”
“Sound advice,” Eileen said.
“Tell it to my wife. Not that I had this when she met me. You should have seen the locks. I was Samson.”
In the rearview mirror she watched him look contemplatively out the window. He returned her gaze alertly, as if he was used to being watched.
“Beware of women bearing scissors,” he said, chuckling. He was in on some private joke that made even the heaviest things weightless. “Beware of three-drink lunches.”
“One-drink lunches,” her mother said.
“Well, if we’re going to hell, at least we’re doing it in style. This is a beaut.”
“Thank you,” Eileen said.
“You’ve got it backwards,” her mother said. “We’re leaving hell.”
“Yes, yes,” he said agreeably. “We’re in purgatory, but we’re hopeful. Or if we’re not hopeful, at least we’re not succumbing to despair. Or if we’re succumbing to despair, at least we’re in this beautiful car.”
Her mother was buoyant as she rang bells and led her meeting friends to the car, where she peppered them with chatter to put them at ease. Eileen couldn’t bring herself to open the book even when it was only Hiram in the car. She ended up having a marvelous time. In even a few minutes with some of them she could see they radiated hard-won perspective. She made three trips; then she parked up the block and watched in the mirror as her mother and the final quartet, a spectrum of widths and heights, disappeared down into the church basement.
On the way home, after they’d dropped everyone off, her mother blew smoke through the cracked window and talked with a quick and ceaseless fluency. Upbeat as her mother seemed, Eileen saw that the corners of her mouth were being pulled down, as though by a baited hook. She could tell that her mother didn’t entirely believe in her own forgiveness. Eileen wasn’t sure she believed in it herself, even though she’d been the one to grant it, through tears, after her mother had sat her down at the kitchen table and unearthed mistakes Eileen had successfully buried and said how sorry she was for them. Her mother had worked hard to kill the past, but it clung to life in Eileen’s mind, in the thought that this apparently solid form might dissolve back into the liquid that had seeped into every corner of her childhood, bringing disorder and rot. The smell of the past, that irrepressible smoke, was spoiling the air between them, where, in the absence of others to filter it, an acrid cloud now hung.
“Roll that down further, please.”
Without a word, her mother did as asked. She stared straight ahead, smoking and avoiding Eileen’s gaze as she used to at the height of her drinking days. Eileen pulled over and got out to roll down the rear windows. She stood briefly outside the car gazing at the back of her mother’s head, which for a strangely exhilarating moment looked as if it belonged to someone else. Whatever her mother was going through, Eileen would allow herself to care only so much about it. She had her own life to worry about. Life was what you made of it. Some of the houses she’d dropped these people off at would have been enough for her, so why couldn’t they be enough for them? If she lived in one of these houses, she wouldn’t need to get into another woman’s car and head to a damp lower church for a meeting. She could look at her fireplace, her leather sofa, her book-lined drawing room; she could listen to silence above her head; she could peer in on empty bedrooms lying in wait for fresh-faced visitors, pleasantly useless otherwise. It would all be enough for her to put a drink down for. And yet there these people were. The fact that they were there, that everything they owned wasn’t enough somehow, disturbed her, suggesting a bottomlessness to certain kinds of unhappiness. She shook the thought from her head like dust from an Oriental rug and decided that a house would have to be enough.
She