The Invisible Circus - Jennifer Egan [38]
The waiter arrived to replenish the wine, and Phoebe left for the bathroom. She stared in the mirror at her white face and gray, nervous eyes and wondered what she was so afraid of. Finally she returned to the table, threading her way among couples toward the solitary figure of her mother. Jazz played, the sound like insects diving against a lightbulb.
The appetizers had arrived. Phoebe attacked her foie gras, barely looking up. She speared a bite for her mother, who swallowed it distractedly. Her own dish lay untouched.
“Mom, why don’t you eat?”
Her mother gave a tense laugh. “I’m afraid,” she said. “Isn’t that funny?”
“Of what?”
“Telling you. My news.”
Phoebe was flushed from eating so fast. Sweat trickled from her underarms, seeping into her silk dress. “Then maybe you should wait.”
Her mother studied her. “That’s an odd suggestion.”
It was hopeless. Phoebe let the last bite of foie gras slide down her throat and slowly wiped her mouth. “Never mind,” she said. “I know what it is.”
“I’m not sure you do, Phoebe.”
“Jack?” Her throat was dry. “You and Jack?”
Her mother inclined her head as if Phoebe had spoken too loudly. “I’ll be damned,” she murmured, lifting a fork to poke at her crab salad. Phoebe waited uneasily to be asked how she knew, but apparently her mother was too rattled to wonder. “Well,” she said with an empty laugh, “so much for my big announcement.”
Phoebe wished she’d simply feigned surprise. Several moments passed in silence. “For how long?” she finally asked.
“A month or so. A little less. At first I couldn’t believe it myself. I wanted to make sure it was something real before I told you, so I wouldn’t shock you over nothing.”
“Wow,” Phoebe said. “You and Jack.”
“I can imagine how bizarre this must seem,” her mother went on, with more confidence. “After so many years, all my joking and complaining about him. But I think when you see us together—he’s a wonderful man, I can’t tell you how happy he makes me.”
There was no need. Before Phoebe’s eyes a metamorphosis was in progress, her own mother merging seamlessly with a glamorous stranger from old photographs. Apparently that other woman had lain in wait all these years, beneath her mother’s wistfulness. She’d been biding her time.
“What I thought,” her mother said, finally beginning to eat, “was that maybe we could all do something together this weekend, go somewhere nice, Mount Tamalpais or Stinson, have Barry drive up—”
“Barry knows, too?”
“I told him today. We had lunch together.”
“I’ll bet he was thrilled,” Phoebe said, surprised by her own bitter tone.
Her mother looked startled. “He was pleased for me,” she said, then fell silent. “Anyway, how does that sound?” she asked, tentative now. “A drive somewhere, the four of us?”
“It sounds fine,” Phoebe said. “Just, it seems so … weird. You and Jack.”
Her mother took Phoebe’s sweating hand in her own long fingers, smooth and cool as bandages. “I know it, sweetheart,” she said. “Believe me, if someone had told me a year ago this would happen, I’d have said they were out of their mind. But I think if you saw us together …” Phoebe’s look must have discouraged her, for her mother withdrew her hand. “Please keep an open mind,” she said. “That’s all I ask.”
“I’ll try.”
“Sweetheart, you make it sound as if I were asking your permission,” her mother said gently. “You realize that’s not the case.”
“Of course,” Phoebe said miserably. “Who cares what I think?”
Her mother watched her in silence. Phoebe glimpsed herself through her mother’s eyes—a problem, a wrinkle to be dealt with. She was filled with sudden, angry frustration. “So what about Dad?” she said. “Does he just fall by the wayside?”
“Phoebe, your father died thirteen years ago! I think by any standard this would be considered a respectable mourning period.”
In spite of herself Phoebe smiled. Her mother smiled, too. It’s already over, Phoebe thought, none of this makes any difference. She felt a wave of panic. “But