I don’t think about her at all. I don’t think about Willow.
Zoe departs for school, and the day comes and goes. I hardly take notice. Other than a quick lunch with Chris, the baby and I don’t leave home. We spend much of the day in the rocking chair, my strides calculated, rhythmic as Ruby sleeps on my lap, soundly, like a newborn babe. I can think of little but the shape of her eyes, can do little but count the milia on her nose. I watch as, out the window, the sun rises and then moments later, it begins to set, slipping beneath the massive skyscrapers that dot the city sky, staining the gauzy clouds a deep pink, a navy blue, a tea rose. Out the window, people awaken, commencing their workday; they return home, a second later, the day through. Breakfast, lunch and dinner come and go; my phone rings, there’s the bleep of the intercom system—someone or something beckoning me from the first floor—and yet I can’t be bothered, won’t be bothered, can’t take my eyes off the baby as she sleeps, and then awakens; sleeps, and then awakens, foraging in the folds of a fitted dress when she wants to eat and it’s then, and only then, that I rise from the rocking chair and prepare a bottle for her to consume. As afternoon gives way to evening, I watch Ruby sleep while crepuscular rays fill the sky, straight lines that spill downward from the descending sun. Shafts of light, the Fingers of God.
I don’t mind the clock, completely oblivious to the aluminum hand that spins around the circular face, pointing at this Roman numeral, and then that. This Roman number, and then that. I hear neighbors in the hallway, coming home from work; I smell their dinners wafting under the door and through the walls: enchiladas and baked chicken, pork chops. My phone rings, and then rings again, but I can’t be bothered to rise from the chair and answer it, convincing myself it’s merely some telemarketer, or an automated message from Zoe’s superintendent about some upcoming meeting at the school which doesn’t concern me, pertaining only to graduating seniors or to the parents of students with special needs.
And then the front door bursts open, suddenly, violently, and there Zoe stands in her pink jersey and pink shorts, her feet cloaked in a pair of muddy cleats. Her shin guards are on, the hot-pink socks that stretch all the way to her knees caked with mud. Her hair is woven into a double French braid, a unifying hairdo one of the team mothers has taken to giving the Lucky Charms each and every game day, complete with some kind of homemade scrunchie that matches their uniforms.
And she demands, “Where were you?” while tossing her backpack to the hardwood floor with a thud. She’s glaring at me from the open doorway and I watch as, behind her, a neighbor passes by with a pizza box in hand, trying hard to ignore the angry tone of Zoe’s voice. The smell of it drifts into the room to greet me, and it’s then that I realize I’m hungry. “You missed my game,” she says, not giving me a chance to come up with some counterfeit response to the initial question. I forgot or I got caught up at work and couldn’t leave.
Instead, all I can manage is, “I’m sorry,” knowing the words sound fraudulent because, in fact, they are. I’m not sorry, not sorry that I missed Zoe’s game because then I wouldn’t have had this time with Ruby, rocking here in this chair with Ruby in my arms.
“I tried calling you,” she says. Her hands are placed on her hips, and there’s a pout on her face. She looks to the kitchen and back again, aware that I’ve started nothing for dinner, aware that in the near twilight, I’m all but sitting in the dark. She flips a light switch on over the kitchen table, and I find myself blinded by the light, waiting for my eyes to adjust.
The baby lets out a moan, and I coo, “There now,” wondering if it’s the bright light or the surly tone of Zoe’s voice that upsets her.
“Why didn’t you answer your phone?” Zoe barks out then. “I tried calling you. You missed the game. You missed the game completely,” she cries and for a second, I picture it: Zoe, at her game, with the rest of the Lucky Charms, refusing to acknowledge her mother’s presence, as is the case each and every game. It’s quite the quandary, it is: she doesn’t want me there, and yet, she doesn’t want to be the only one without a mother in tow.
But I don’t answer this. I don’t answer Zoe’s question: Why didn’t you answer your phone? Instead, I ask, “How did you get home?”
“Do you hear me, Mom?” she asks, and I realize that I don’t like that tone of her voice one bit. That sour tone of voice she’s taken with me as if she’s in charge and I’m the pliant one.