Ask Again, Yes by Mary Beth Keane Read Free Book Online Page A

and thick with plaque, when her posture changed. Even if she stayed mostly up in her bedroom for three, four, five days, his father still ate his cereal standing at the sink. He still read the headlines of the Post out loud. When he reached for the little paper package of ground coffee and found it empty, he still said to Peter, “We’re out of coffee,” and then he’d go write it on the list Anne kept on a pad by the telephone, as if she’d merely stepped out. When Peter was little—first and second grade—his father sometimes spoke to her before he left for work, shutting the door to their bedroom so that Peter wouldn’t come in. “Look out for your bus, buddy,” he’d say, and Peter—bundled in his winter coat, his backpack straps securely looped across both shoulders—would keep an eye on the clock over the table. When the little hand was nearly on the eight and the big hand was between nine and ten, he knew to go stand outside.
    Then, around third or fourth grade, Peter noticed his father didn’t goin and talk to her anymore. Sometimes he’d glance up the stairs before he left for work. Sometimes he’d say goodbye and then circle back, as if there was something he’d forgotten. It occurred to Peter that his father actually liked these periods where she disappeared to her room for a few days. He seemed lighter, more relaxed. He sat on the couch after work and left his drink on the coffee table. One night he told Peter that it was his thirty-sixth birthday, and Peter felt terrible that probably no one had said happy birthday to him all day, but his father didn’t seem to mind. He let Peter have toaster waffles for dinner. He watched basketball on TV and stayed up all night. The drone of the television at three o’clock in the morning was somehow more upsetting to Peter than the fact that his mother hadn’t come downstairs in a week, and Peter would wake up disoriented, panicked, like he’d slept through his alarm and missed the bus. Sometimes, he’d bring his pillow to the hall and wait. She went to the bathroom, he knew. She would lean over the bathroom sink, put her mouth on the lime-scaled faucet, and take long slugs of cold water before heading back to her room.
    “Mom,” he’d say when she stepped out, and she would stop, put her hand on his head, completely unsurprised to find her child lying in the hall in the middle of the night. He’d remind her—two weeks ahead of time, a month—he had a birthday party to attend, a present to buy, a family tree project at school he needed her help on. He’d inform her that he’d eaten a grape jelly sandwich for both breakfast and lunch, hoping to draw her out. But she’d just close her eyes as if the sound of his voice was abrasive, and retreat again to the cave of her room until she was ready to emerge.
    And when she did emerge after a few days, she usually emerged as Peter’s favorite version of his mother. She’d been tired and needed rest, Peter figured, and she’d gotten it. Often, after seeing only dim glimpses of her for days, he’d wake to the smell of bacon and eggs, pancakes. She’d greet him softly and then she’d watch him eat while she smoked a cigarette and blew the smoke out the back door. She was calm. Serene. Likea person who’d been through a harrowing experience and was relieved to have arrived on the other side.
    Maybe she was coming down with something, Peter thought as he put the chicken in the oven and searched the pantry for what might go along. A can of green beans. Something to make her happy. Maybe she’d caught the flu. He’d go up to her bedroom door and tell her it was all done. No need to worry. He could bring her a plate later or she could come down, whatever she felt like doing. He’d just gotten out a saucepan when he heard his father open the door. “Anne?” he called out, and then “Oh,” when he crossed into the kitchen to find Peter.
    “School got out early.”
    “Where’s Mom?”
    “Resting,”