Joan turned the knob and the hot water gushed like a waterfall, and she considered how she would handle each of the boys.
With Daniel, she would continue to let him know that her mothering would never end, that she would always be there for him, at the other end of a phone, in person, when he needed her. She knew this trip had set the routine; he would not be coming home regularly. Maybe his winter and spring breaks, a few weeks in the summer, if she were lucky, otherwise he would avoid Rhome as long as Eric was here, doing what he was doing. She would call him more than she knew she should, but if home only meant her calls, then at least Daniel would hear the voice of home several times a week. She knew too that they had established a tacit understanding while he had been home, that they would talk only of things of interest to them both, novels they were reading, movies they had seen, Daniel’s amusing assessments of the young women he had been out with. Eric would not be part of their discussions, and neither would feel guilty pretending he did not exist. Daniel required her love and the certainty that she would not let him down, that Eric might well conquer the world but that Daniel’s place in their family would not disappear in the rush over his brother.
With Eric, she had no choice but to watch him and watch over him, as Martin would not. Just as he had not needed her for sustenance at birth, and had resented her intrusions when he was a toddler, a young child, they would both have to find ways to deal with it again. There had been only a few short years when she found her thorny child more pleasurable; now she was in the role foisted upon her that she resented, that he resented, to protect him from himself, from his success.
She tried to read, but it was impossible. She stayed in the tub until the water drained completely, until she was shivering from the cool of the porcelain after the reckless heat. She was dreading walking out into the house.
She pulled on yoga pants and a sweater and looked at the shoebox on the floor of her closet. She and Martin had gone to Delaware in July, a beach weekend to belatedly celebrate his fiftieth while the boys were gone, while the construction was under way. They were happy together then, just six months ago, and she had been giddy because Words was going well and the end was in sight.
She lifted the shoebox lid. Nestled on top of the tissue paper were golden sandals intricately beaded with gold, copper, platinum, and clear crystals. She bought them because they made her think of all the Indian writers she read when she was a girl, because she could imagine wearing them down to the Ganges after Words was published. She looked at the sandals and vowed she would not wear them until she was actually in India, even if she did not get there until she was an old, old woman. She stuck the top back on and toed the box out of sight.
The arc of tragedy Joan had always known her story would require, it must be this tortured irony. That Eric’s meteoric success meant her own veritable jailing, the imprisonment of her book in the dark, the loss of the life she had intended to return to, now so far out of sight. A caretaker for this second son who had never fully conquered her heart.
She stepped into snow boots and slid open the glass door of their bedroom. Their land was a white field out into the distance. She lifted her face to the sky, felt the heavy snow settle on her hair, cling to her eyelashes. When would Eric be prepared to fend for himself, leave home, take himself away? At eighteen, nineteen, or older than that? She hoped he would be in one piece when that day finally arrived. She hoped she would be as well.
22
The Seven Seas.
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The Seven-year Itch.
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The supposed seven years of economic cycles.
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The number seven in numerology—a magical force for the activation of imagination, and the manifestation of results in one’s life through conscious thought and awareness.
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The number seven in dreams—signifying inner self and rebirth, health and spiritual growth, the need for enlightenment, the good to come, that a person is on a divine path right for them, that obstacles have been overcome, that fruition of one’s wishes and true desires is near.
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The seven essential chakras that align with the body—root, sacral, solar plexus, heart, throat, third eye, crown—one chakra dominates each seven-year cycle, according to the Vedic Treaties Chakravidya.
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The seven-year cycle of life—1–7, 14–21, 21–28, etc.—and its attendant focus. “The seven-year cycle from 49–56 is a good time to take stock of your life: what you have accomplished and learned from your experiences, which will help you raise your state of consciousness. A raised state of consciousness is what you take with you when you return to the world of the spirit. This is a good time to consolidate your life and gain true lasting value from the time and energy you have invested.”
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Each year of a person’s life has seven distinct cycles: first, a period of opportunity; second, good for travel; third, requires the exercise of discrimination and good judgment; fourth, the mental and spiritual nature is awakened; fifth, great success is achieved in personal affairs; sixth, rest, relaxation, and amusement; seventh, the most critical, when elements no longer needed in one’s development fall away to make room for new and better elements.
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Joan looked all of that up.
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She also noted that for seven years, during each seven-day week, each of her days had but two bright spots: her hour of yoga each morning and her hour of conversation with Daniel each afternoon. She calculated it: seven years equaled 2,555 days. Of those 2,555 days, she took approximately 2,500 yoga classes (excepting Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, or being sick with a cold or the flu). Of the 2,555 conversations with Daniel, in 2,525, Eric was never mentioned, but in thirty of them, at the tail end of the seven-year cycle, he was. She felt lost during those seven years, and doubted herself as a mother during those 2,555 days, but her instincts about both of her sons turned out to be right.
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Daniel’s seven-year cycle spanned college, a very short-lived career out west in venture capital, and then his position as a monthly columnist for Think Inc. For the last four years, if he chose to, he could hold up those articles and say, “I’ve made these. These are mine.” Although he didn’t say that at all. Still, Joan was convinced that his ninety-nine stories, shipped to Silicon Valley, then back to Rhome, then to his DC apartment, were responsible for how well he was doing in the world, finding where he belonged; being a dealmaker was never going to work.