She’d told servicemen on their way overseas that she loved them when she didn’t, sad young men who did not always come back. Dora had enjoyed the way they used to cling to her, as if she mattered more than anything else. She remembered one young man from Pennsylvania who was headed to France. He had cried after they’d made love because he was so afraid to die. So she knew about risk, how any of those trysts could have resulted in pregnancy, how the wife could have discovered the affair. And worse. When her own children were small she’d had an affair with Bill’s partner, an affair that lasted almost two years. She’d even considered leaving Bill for him. Talk about risk. There were dinners with the man and his wife, even a week long vacation together in Puerto Rico with all of their children. Like the foolish people they were, Dora and the man had met every night on the beach and made love while Bill and Gloria looked over them from the twenty-eighth floor of the Old San Juan Hotel.
But all of that was nothing compared to Dan. Dora liked to blame Melinda for what happened but she knew the truth: it was drugs that took her son from her. He and Melinda drifted around a world that Dora could not even imagine. They moved from job to job and city to city so much that entire months passed when she couldn’t even find them. Landlords had no forwarding address, operators had no new numbers. Finally the night came when Dan called Dora, waking her from a fitful sleep. He was leaving Melinda, he’d told her. He was checking into rehab. “I have to save myself,” he’d said, and she heard the desperateness in his voice. Dora still could feel the way dryness gripped her throat that night. She’d hung up and drunk glass after glass of water, unable to quench the horrible thirst. Before she hung up she’d told him that she would pay for treatment, if that’s what it took. She told him it was about time he’d realized where Melinda had led him. “If you leave her,” she’d said, “you can come back here and start over. You can even bring the boy.” It wasn’t until a week later, when she got the call that he was dead, that Dora regretted all she hadn’t said that night. She hadn’t said she was proud of him for finally realizing he needed help. She hadn’t told him she loved him.
“Gran!” Peter shouted, and he ran over to her.
That was when Dora felt the hot butter on her leg, burning her as it dripped from the pan. She let the boy take the fish from her and lead her to a chair. Already an ugly blister appeared on her calf, and smaller ones ran down to her ankle like a trail of tears.
“I’m all right,” she said.
But she stayed seated, feeling the hot pain surge through her as Peter grabbed a dishtowel and ice cubes. She watched him move through the kitchen as if she were watching a movie. His own strong calves under khaki shorts, the golden hair on his arms. A stranger, kneeling at her feet, pressing a cool cloth to her burns.
“Thank you,” she said.
He nodded.
Dora took her hand and placed it on his bent head. She kept it there until he looked up, searching for a clue that she was fine. The thing was, Dora did not want him to go away from her. She didn’t want to let go.
“Another minute,” she lied. “Just another minute.” Again Dora rested her hand on his head.
CHECK THE CHILDREN. Stumbling, Dora pulled on her robe and walked barefoot down the dark hallway. She should get a nightlight, she thought as she pushed open the door to Tillie’s room. A nightlight to keep everyone safe. Tillie’s bed was a mess, the summer quilt in the tumbling blocks pattern was on the floor, the sheets a knot beside it. Not at all like Tillie, Dora thought, her heart racing. She took another step into the room before she remembered. Tillie was in California. That’s where she lived. Dan’s boy slept here now.
Her heart still beating fast, Dora dropped onto the chair at Tillie’s old desk, where photographs of Tillie as a teenager stared back at her. She had taken ballet forever, then without warning switched to modern dance. Even though Dora never really enjoyed those later performances, she’d enjoyed watching her daughter. In one of the pictures, Tillie sat on the grass at Roger Williams Park, strumming a guitar, grinning. Braless, the outline of her nipples poked through the cotton tee shirt. Dora lifted the picture to look closer.
Right after Dan had died, that very next winter, Tillie had a breast cancer scare. They’d done a lumpectomy, some radiation. Dora had flown out to San Francisco to be with her, had driven her through the maze of unfamiliar streets to doctors and hospitals, keeping her tone upbeat even as her gut ached with fear. When Madeline Dumfey drove Dora to Logan Airport for her flight to San Francisco, she asked her if she felt life was being unfair to her. Bill gone. And Dan. And now Tillie sick. Dora had been surprised by the question. Life unfair? She had known three big loves, she had borne two children, she had traveled as far as China, she was old and alive, she had her own health. She had listed these things to Madeline. “But to lose everyone,” Madeline had said. “Really, Dora, you must let yourself get angry. You must.” Someone, Dora no longer remembered who, had once said that one death was a tragedy, but many deaths were a statistic. Dora told Madeline this and Madeline had blinked back at her in that way she had, part disbelief, part disgust. “Really, Dora. That’s a terrible thing to say.”