The cutting would continue for the rest of his childhood, perhaps two or three times a year, when he felt overwhelmed with anticipation, but his parents never recorded these events in their findings. Preston, for his part, kept the cuts in places that were hidden from view. The one time he had cut too deeply, he had even stitched up the wound himself with a needle and thread to prevent a trip to the emergency room, and his parents had been ostentatiously grateful for his kindness. But, for the most part, the cutting became a way to occasionally assert that, despite what his parents thought, they did not entirely own him. He would slice into his skin, show his parents the result, and they would know what it felt like to be shocked by the actions of someone you loved.
He had stopped in college, once he found Marla, and so it made sense to him that, right after the funeral for Marla and his son, Dr. Grind drove to a drugstore and purchased the supplies necessary to continue the practice. When he felt the overwhelming emotions take control of him, the pain greater than the training he had learned from the Constant Friction Method, he would cut into himself and find that weird peacefulness, almost druglike, that came over him and made it possible to get through another goddamned day. He had brought the pouch with him to the complex, a compulsion that he could not eliminate, and he now felt a sense of pride that he had made it this long before needing it.
Dr. Grind changed into his pajamas, though he had no designs on sleep. He wanted so badly to walk back into the sleep room and pick up one of the babies, to hold their warmth against him, to ease them back into sleep. He understood, without much effort, what Ellen had wanted when she took Marnie into her arms. When you felt adrift, when you wondered if you were doing the right thing, there was nothing better than holding something small and defenseless and telling them, over and over again, that you would care for them, that nothing bad would happen as long as you were there. Instead, Dr. Grind simply lay in his bed and waited for the rest of the world to awaken, when he could walk freely among his family and do whatever was needed to keep things together.
chapter eleven
the infinite family project (year two)
Izzy, as hungover as she’d ever been in her life, bourbon swirling through her bloodstream, stirred crumbled bacon and diced jalape?os into her cornmeal and flour mixture as a photographer from Time magazine took pictures of the process, as if Izzy were a celebrity chef and not some kid trying to make an entire meal from scratch for her family. All she was worried about was keeping her own sweat out of the food, which was more difficult than she had expected, but the photographer kept asking her questions about the complex, the babies, the parents, the weird AstroTurf buildings, snapping another picture after every question, Izzy certain that every photo would show her grinding her teeth in agitation.
The details of the night before, hazy as a dream, kept returning to her, stabbing her with embarrassment. Her creeping paranoia made her expect a visit from Dr. Grind, telling her that he knew all about her actions last night and that she needed to pack up her belongings and leave the project. Her son, Dr. Grind would inform her, would stay with the Infinite Family.
It had been Alyssa’s birthday, and Izzy, even with all the expectations of the party for Time, had made a cake, German chocolate, Alyssa’s favorite. The whole family sang “Happy Birthday,” the kids cackling, their fingers wriggling, wanting only to eat something sweet. Afterward, Izzy and some of the other parents cleaned up the kitchen and then helped prepare the children for bed. Izzy had immediately returned to the kitchen, going over the menus, doing prep work, rethinking each recipe. By the time she looked up at the clock, it was nearly midnight, and she instantly felt exhaustion flood her system. She cleaned up her station, wiped down the counter, and walked out of the kitchen to find that the lights were still on in the TV room. Izzy crept down the hallway and peered through the window to find seven of the parents still awake. Benjamin, who was holding a cocktail shaker, saw Izzy and smiled, inviting her inside. She shook her head, but then Alyssa and Ellen also noticed Izzy and emphatically gestured for her to join them. Izzy, so stressed about tomorrow’s party, saw that all the parents held a drink in their hands and decided she needed to unwind.
“Izzy!” Alyssa shouted. “Benjamin is making whiskey smashes. We’ll have to pump and dump, but it’s totally worth it. Have a drink.”