“Thursday,” Bj?rnar corrected me.
“Thursday. And tomorrow is Friday, and then it’ll be the weekend.”
“When’s tomorrow?” Alva asked.
“After today.”
“Tomorrow is after today?”
“Yes.”
“Huh. Can I use the iPad?”
“OK.”
She zoned out, focusing intently on the screen while raising spoonfuls of Cheerios to her mouth with one hand and holding the other under her chin to catch any dribbles. Jenny stared blearily out the window. Ebba was putting cherry tomatoes into her lunch box one by one. Bj?rnar was reading the paper across the table from me and wrinkling his nose at the fair-trade coffee. It did taste like muddy water.
I drank them in with my eyes.
This was it.
Right now, when everyone was relatively content and no one was screaming because they had to put on their jacket or shoes. Right now, when everyone was present and no one had remembered they had PE or swimming yet. This moment of harmony and peace. Of security. I wanted this to go on and on, to last.
But then I started thinking that someone actually did have PE or swimming today. And then I noticed Bj?rnar glance at the time and I knew the moment was already over.
The way it’s always already over.
2
It turned out there was at least a glass of Barolo left in the wine bottle that I had added to the bag to return for the deposit, and when I hoisted the bag into the car, the deep-red liquid drenched my jacket sleeve.
“What’s that wet stuff?” Alva asked as I fastened her seat belt.
“Mama spilled some wine.”
“Yuck,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
I opened both car windows all the way to air out the alcohol smell, which quickly permeated the car.
“Close the windows! I can’t hear my show,” cried Alva. “Close the windows!”
I didn’t close the windows until we were on our way up the last hill, approaching the preschool.
“I didn’t get to hear about the spider,” she whined as we walked inside.
“You can play it again when we drive home,” I replied and set her boots in her cubby before we walked into the classroom.
“Good morning,” I said to the teacher in the cheerful voice I always reserved for those whose goodwill I depended on.
“Good morning,” she said. “What did you bring to school today, Alva?”
“Was she supposed to bring something?”
“Oh, no, she didn’t need to. But she could have brought something, because it’s show-and-tell today.”
Alva shuddered and a rock sank in the pit of my stomach.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I said in a way I hoped sounded casual, running my hand over Alva’s cheek. “We’ll just bring something the next time.”
“But I wanted to bring Fluttershy!”
“I know.”
For a few seconds I considered going home and getting the plastic horse she was referring to, but I put it out of my mind.
“We’ll just bring an extra toy the next time you have show-and-tell,” I told her.
She stared up at me with her big, wet eyes. I smiled encouragingly, set her on the teacher’s lap, and practically ran out into the hallway, where Alva’s classmate Rachel was busy pulling things out of her bag and putting them into her cubby.
“Look what I have,” she told me, and proudly pulled out the red horse with the green mane whose twin lay abandoned and alone in the toy box in Alva’s bedroom.
“Fluttershy,” I said.
“What did Alva bring?”
“Nothing.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want to see what I can do?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s that smell?”
“I don’t know.”
“I smell something . . . Yuck, what is that?”
“Wine,” I said tiredly.
“Wine?”
I was about to explain about the bottle and the deposit and the Barolo when the teacher stepped into the hallway.
“Are you still here?” she said to me.
“Apparently so.”
“Alva’s fine. Karen brought two ponies, so Alva can borrow one of hers.”
“That’s great news! Next time I’ll have to put show-and-tell day on the calendar,” I said with a laugh.
She smiled back, but it didn’t seem entirely genuine. That made me nervous.
“Time for breakfast,” she said, diverting the owner of Fluttershy, who ran up to her, whining.
“Bye,” I said. As I walked out the door, I just barely overheard Rachel saying, “Alva’s mommy smells like wine.”
Traffic on the highway was backed up and only creeping along. When I finally reached the office, I immediately stuck a note on my door that said “Testing in Progress” and started writing the conference paper I was already late submitting. I heard people approach my door several times throughout the morning. I listened to their shuffling footsteps and could sense their desperation as they stood outside my door. Desperate for someone to talk to, someone to complain to about lazy students, the bureaucratic nature of the administration, dishonest colleagues, rejected manuscripts, or inhumane workloads.
Sure, Monday was usually the worst. Over the weekend, a backlog of agitation and anxiety would build up, and faculty members might need long-term paid sick leave to recuperate if it didn’t get vented. And yet Thursdays were bad, too, because they were so close to Saturday that they got people’s eyelids and the corners of their mouths twitching. Which is why there was an unwritten rule in the department that Thursday was the day for encouragement and collegial camaraderie.