Astrid’s hair is dripping onto her legs and the floor, and she looks more like a mermaid than a person. I hope I look that way too.
“No, thank you,” Astrid says. We stand over the package and watch it. It does nothing, of course. It’s a package, not an animal.
“What about me?” Marla says. There is nothing on the kitchen counter for her.
“I’m sure you’re next!” Dad says. He is guzzling coffee and says he wishes he could take the day off to hang out. He thinks this is a very cool turn of phrase that will make us think he is a friend and not a dad, but he’s got on his long jean shorts and “Don’t Take New Hampshire for Granite” sweatshirt, which is some extremely sad joke, and a Mets cap that looks too new to be cool. When he wears that hat, people ask him if he’s from New York. He’s not.
He says he’s not really from anywhere. When he’s asked about it, he launches into some story about wandering men without homes and the classic trope of orphan stories and the difference between stories set in specific places versus those set in vague settings. Conversations with Dad always turn into academic discussions, never into personal talks.
When we were little, Mom used to say he rode in on a white horse, like a prince. We believed her for a while. He looks like he could be a prince. Or a duke, at least.
“Why am I last?” Marla says. Dad takes hot chocolate off the shelf and grabs five mugs and a carton of milk and starts mixing and heating. It’s not exactly a summer drink, and none of us actually want hot chocolate right now, but at least he’s sort of trying to take care of us, so no one complains.
“Save the best for last!” Dad says, which is actually insulting to the rest of us, but we don’t get prickly about it, because we’re used to this kind of comment being thrown around to make Marla happy.
“I wrote her a letter and asked her questions,” Marla says. “I sent her a drawing of me and her hiking in Arizona together. It took me all afternoon.”
“She hasn’t been there that long yet,” Dad says. “Maybe she didn’t get your letter yet.”
“Why don’t you open the package, Marla?” Astrid says, watching her like she’s a thing that might explode. “I’m sure it’s for all of us.” Marla shakes her head, and we watch the milk for a few moments in silence. When it’s done, Dad puts a steaming mug of cocoa in front of each of us. Marla doesn’t take a sip.
“She probably assumes we’re all sharing everything,” Eleanor says. “And we are! Everything! Of course!” It’s too much. My ears hurt from the screeching enthusiasm.
“Can you please open it so we can all move on?” Marla says at last. Dad moves behind Marla and rubs her shoulders, but she shrugs him off, her eyes not moving from the package on the counter. He doesn’t seem to know what else to do to help the moment be less awful, so he heads out to the porch.
“Let me know if you need anything,” he says. We need so, so much.
Astrid dives in. She opens the package with the finesse of a small puppy. She tears at corners where there is thick tape, ignores the “Open Here” arrow, and turns a perfectly square box into a pile of cardboard. There’s an envelope on top, and Eleanor picks that up. She reads out loud,
“Astrid and El:
Some souvenirs from Arizona!
It is nice here. Calm and sort of quiet, but the good kind. I miss you terribly and promise I will be home in time to compete in the Sand Castle Contest with you.
When you go to the lake, watch your sisters. Marla isn’t very good in the water, and Silly is reckless. You know that already, of course, but I’m a mother, and mothers remind you to do things.
I’m still your mother.
In one year or five we’ll all remember this as a good summer, one that mattered.
Be good. Especially you, Eleanor.
Love, Mom.”
Neither Eleanor nor Astrid goes through the rest of the box.
“You can have it,” Eleanor says, handing the whole thing over to Marla.
“I’m tired,” Astrid says. They both disappear into their room. I’d follow them, but Marla is going through the objects very carefully, and when Marla’s careful, it makes me nervous.
In the package Marla finds more bracelets, which she immediately slips onto both wrists. There’s also a book called The Roles We Play, which, according to the picture on the front, is about sad siblings and sadder parents, so I guess we’re not the only ones. There are a couple of Arizona pens and a bug encased in amber and some stones that look historical instead of pretty.
“I’m keeping it all,” Marla says.
I don’t want to think too hard about Mom packing all the objects into the box, or whether she thinks they’re enough to make up for everything else.