“But why would it bother him?”
“Because it’s less time that he gets to be with you.”
“That would be okay,” she says. “Are you worried that James won’t let you come on Friday?”
“It’s not a question of whether or not he’ll let me—”
“Okay, good,” she says. “Then you can come.”
As I drive up to the Fields family home in Westwood, I’m surprised that it’s so normal-looking—?just a midsize stucco house with a neat lawn, like millions of other houses in LA. I’m not sure what I expected it to look like—?dark and mysterious? Dilapidated? Surrounded by fog? It just seems impossible that someone as tortured as David could come from an unremarkable middle-class home.
It’s just a house, and whoever answers the door is just a woman, not a ghoul or a monster or a witch. She’s tall and thin and has chin-length brown hair that’s slightly layered, and her makeup and clothing are neat and unremarkable.
“Yes?” she says with a wary smile, opening the door a few inches. Not someone who likes unannounced visitors—?there’s a small NO SOLICITORS sign next to the door.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m Chloe. And this is Ivy.” She’s standing behind me, holding back a little, like she always does, waiting for me to take the lead and do the talking for us both.
“Can I help you?”
“We’re here to see David and Ethan? They know we’re coming.”
“Oh!” The woman steps back. “Sorry. The boys never tell me anything, and we get the strangest people at our door sometimes. I have a little one, so I have to be extra careful. I’m Margot Fields. Come on in.”
She shouts up to the boys and then invites us into a very clean and organized kitchen, where a chubby baby in a blue romper and a bib sits in a highchair playing with a spoon. There’s some kind of food smeared all over his face and on the tray in front of him, but he seems happy.
“It’s Caleb’s dinner time,” Mrs. Fields tells us. “We were just eating mashed bananas, weren’t we, my love?”
The baby bangs his spoon on the tray and makes a ba-ba-ba sound.
“That’s right!” his mother says delightedly. “Bananas! You see David’s friends, sweetie? These are David’s friends.”
“I’m not David’s friend,” Ivy says. “I’m Ethan’s friend. Chloe is David’s friend. They go to school together.”
“Is that right?” Mrs. Fields says. She studies Ivy, assessing the stretch pants and the ponytail and the averted gaze. “And do you go to school with Ethan?”
“Yes.”
“Ah,” she says like now she understands something. “Can you two gals excuse me for a second? The boys must not have heard me. Let me see where they are.” She leaves the kitchen, and we can hear her calling up the stairs for the boys.
The baby stares at us and mouths the back of the spoon.
“I think it threw up,” Ivy whispers to me, clutching at my arm. “There’s throw-up on its chin.”
“That’s just the bananas.”
She retches audibly and takes a few steps back. She has a very low tolerance for disgusting things, and is phobic about vomit.
Mrs. Fields returns in time to see the dry retching. “Are you okay?” she asks anxiously. “You’re not sick, are you? We have to be careful with a baby in the house.” She puts her body between Caleb and Ivy, like that would stop germs from spreading.
“Is that throw-up on its face?” Ivy says.
“Excuse me?”
“I already told you it’s just food,” I say impatiently.
“This?” Mrs. Fields says, swiping the baby’s chin. “That’s just banana.”
Ivy retches again.
“Maybe you should go home,” Mrs. Fields says. “Babies shouldn’t be exposed to germs.”
“She’s not sick,” I say as David enters.
“Who’s not sick?” he asks.
“Ivy.”
“Who said she was?”
No one answers him. His stepmother says, “Where’s your brother?”
“Bathroom.”
“Does he know his friend is here?”
“Are you sure it’s bananas?” Ivy asks me. “Because if someone throws up, people who are nearby breathe in molecules of the vomit and then they throw up a day later.”
“No one in this room is sick!” I say.
“I’m not sick, but I’m not well,” David says.
A man comes into the kitchen, and Mrs. Fields says, “Oh, Kevin. Look! The boys have guests.” She gives a little laugh. “Too bad for them the Browns canceled on us at the last minute. Looks like we accidentally crashed their little party.”
Mr. Fields is around the same height as his sons but significantly heavier. He shakes my hand and then holds his out to Ivy, who hesitates a couple of seconds before taking it. She’s not being rude; it just takes her a moment to process social niceties and remember what she’s expected to do with them.
“Nice to meet you both,” he says. He’s got the boys’ grayish-brownish-greenish eyes but they’ve receded deep into a lined face. He looks like he’s a lot older than his wife.
There’s a pounding of steps in the hall, and Ethan bursts in. “I’m sorry!” he says. “I’m really, really sorry. I wanted to open the door for you, but I was in the bathroom. It took me longer than I wanted it to. I’m sorry.”
“No worries,” I say.
“Hi,” he says to Ivy. He tentatively strokes her arm. “I’m glad you came to my house.”
She just nods.
“Why don’t you kiss her on the cheek?” his father says with a jovial wink. “I bet she’d like that, wouldn’t you, Ivy?”
“Don’t encourage that kind of thing,” his wife says with a tight smile. “The slower, the better.”
Ethan looks confused and a little concerned. “Should I kiss her?” he asks David.
“Nah, man, you’re good,” his brother says. “Let’s show the girls around the house.”
“You’ll stay downstairs, right?” Mrs. Fields says. “I think that’s best. And doors have to remain open.”
“Why?” Ivy asks.