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By Root 1268 0

now and then to take pleasure in the rainbow of paper or a finished job. Downstairs he heard the murmur of voices as his mother and Caroline Gill worked out what to do. He realized, with a deep sense of shame, that his pity for Phoebe, like his mother’s assumption of her dependence, had been foolish and unnecessary. Phoebe liked herself and she liked her life; she was happy. All the striving he had done, all the competitions and awards, the long and futile struggle to both please himself and impress his father—placed next to Phoebe’s life, all this seemed a little foolish too.

“Where’s your father?” he asked.

“At work. He drives a bus. Do you like Yellow Submarine?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

Phoebe smiled a wide smile and put the album on.

September 1, 1989

NOTES SPILLED FROM THE CHURCH, INTO THE SUNLIT AIR. To Paul, standing just outside the bright red doors, the music seemed almost visible, moving among the poplar leaves, scattering on the lawn like motes of light. The organist was a friend of his, a woman from Peru named Alejandra, who wore her burgundy hair pulled back tightly in a long ponytail and who, in the bleak days after Michelle left, had appeared at his apartment with soup, iced tea, and admonishments. Get up, she told him briskly, flinging open curtains and windows, sweeping dirty dishes into the sink. Get up, There’s no use mooning around, especially not over a flautist. They’re always flighty, didn’t you know that? I’m surprised she lit down here as long as she did. Two years. Honestly, it must be a record.

Now Alejandra’s notes cascaded like silver water, followed by a bright crescendo, climbing, hanging suspended for an instant in the sunlight. His mother appeared in the doorway, laughing, one hand resting lightly on Frederic’s arm. They stepped together into the sunlight, into a bright rain of bird seed and petals.

“Pretty,” Phoebe observed, beside him.

She was wearing a dress of silvery green, holding the daffodils she’d carried in the wedding loosely in her right hand. She was smiling, her eyes narrowed with pleasure, deep dimples in both plump cheeks. The petals and the seeds arched against the bright sky; Phoebe laughed, delighted, as they fell. Paul looked at her hard: this stranger, his twin. They had walked together down the aisle of this tiny church to where their mother waited with Frederic by the altar. He’d walked slowly, Phoebe attentive and serious beside him, determined to do everything right, her hand cupped around his elbow. There were swallows winging in the rafters during the exchange of vows, but his mother had been sure of this church right from the beginning, just as she’d insisted, during all the strange and unexpected and tearful discussions of Phoebe and her future, that both of her children would stand with her at her wedding.

Another burst, confetti this time, and a wave of laughter, rippling. His mother and Frederic bent their heads, and Bree brushed bright specks of paper from their shoulders, their hair. Bright confetti scattered everywhere, making the lawn look like terrazzo.

“You’re right,” he said to Phoebe. “It’s pretty.”

She nodded, thoughtful now, and smoothed her skirt with both hands.

“Your mother is going to France.”

“Yes,” Paul said, though he tensed at her choice of words: your mother. A phrase you’d use for strangers, and of course they all were. This, finally, was what had pained his mother most, the lost years standing between them, their words so tentative and formal where ease and love should have been. “You and me too, in a couple of months,” he said, reminding Phoebe of the plans they’d finally agreed on. “We’ll go to France and see them.”

An expression of worry, fleeting as a cloud, crossed Phoebe’s face.

“We’ll come back,” he added gently, remembering how scared she’d been by his mother’s suggestion that she move with her to France.

She nodded, but she still looked worried.

“What is it,” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Eating snails.”

Paul looked at her, surprised. He’d been joking with his mother and Bree in the vestibule before the wedding,