“Oh yeah,” Jennifer says. “It hurt.”
“I hate jellyfish,” Milo says angrily. “Jellyfish are jackass.” He turns away in high dudgeon and marches over to the octopus.
“He said jackass,” Ben says gleefully, and then skips after Milo. “Milo, you said jackass!”
“Slow down,” Megan calls, as Jennifer says, “Sorry.” Megan makes a no-worries face and follows the boys. Jennifer lingers a moment, watching the jellyfish contract and expand, oblivious of the world’s opinions. She likes to watch them drifting, glowing under the tank lights. They know nothing of danger. They have no curiosity at all.
Milo says, “Mommy,” and Jennifer, startled, looks down to see him watching her from a few feet away, hands on hips and a scolding expression on his face. “You have to stay with the group.”
“You’re right,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
“We don’t want to lose you,” he says, and she presses her lips together so she won’t laugh. The preschool recently took a field trip to a nature center, which is, she assumes, where he got this language. “Come on,” he says, still in his chiding grown-up voice, and then turns and sprints off, abruptly a child again, nearly knocking over a woman to whom Jennifer has to apologize.
She catches up to them by a large tank housing a swarming school of silver fish. They flash. They flit. They go this way, then that. Both boys stand with their little hands against the glass, opening and closing their mouths, glub glub, and giggling at each other. Megan says, “They’re lovely, aren’t they,” with a weird longing in her voice, and Jennifer makes a noncommittal sound, not because she doesn’t agree but because, these days, not committing is her habit.
Milo turns to Megan suddenly, his sweet little face as severe as a frown can make it, and says in the deep voice he uses when he’s being serious or confessional, “My dad went fishing.”
Jennifer goes hot, then cold. She wants to retort, No, he didn’t, but she bites her tongue. For a moment she’s uncertain—did Tommy like to fish? She has no memory of that. Is it possible Milo remembers something she doesn’t? Is it possible Milo remembers?
Megan gives her a searching look, hovering on the edge of apologetic. “He was just telling us some things about his dad.”
Jennifer tries to smile, but she can feel that the smile is a stricken, frozen one. “Like what?”
“Oh . . .” Megan is visibly nervous. “Just, you know. He drove a pickup truck.”
“He did!” Milo insists hotly, as if someone’s disputing it.
Jennifer puts her hand on his head. “Yes, he did,” she says, trying to sound soothing. “You’re right, honey.” But how does he remember that? How does he know? Zoe took the truck, and Milo hasn’t seen it or Zoe in more than a year. He does not remember Zoe. He doesn’t even remember his own last name.
“He built things,” Milo adds, like this is proof.
“That’s right.” Jennifer looks at Megan and says, “He did woodwork. Built-in bookshelves. Cabinets.”
“I know,” Milo says.
“Yes,” Jennifer says. “I guess you remember.” But he doesn’t, he doesn’t, he doesn’t. He doesn’t remember. That is the foundation on which this life is built.
Ben pulls back from the fish and takes off, and Milo’s face lights up with excitement, Tommy abruptly discarded. He swings one arm back, like a pitcher winding up, and launches himself into pursuit. “Boys!” Megan calls. Then she sneaks a look at Jennifer, hesitates. “Is your husband . . .”
“Dead?” Jennifer says. “Yes, he’s dead.”
“I’m sorry,” Megan says. “I didn’t know. I’d assumed you were divorced.”
“It’s okay,” Jennifer says. “It’s been a couple years. Whatever Milo says, he doesn’t really remember him. He was only two when Tommy died.”