darling.â
âMaybe I am. They call me a freak all the time.â Despite Ethanâs efforts to appear composed, Claire heard his voice start to tremble. âHe said it was all my fault. Because Iâm a freak.â
âWhat was?â
âNever mind.â Ethan pulled the bedclothes over his face. His voiced was muffled but she just made out what he said. âThat he left.â
It took a moment for Claire to register. Sometimes that pain struck her like a crampâsome spasm of ancient trauma. If anyone were at fault, it was Mark. But Claire understood the irrationality of feeling responsible. She felt it too. âYou were four months old when he left. You were just a baby. It wasnât your fault.â
âHow do you know?â Ethan pulled the sheet down his torso. His T-shirt had gathered up around his chest, exposing his belly button. âDid he tell you? You donât talk about him, Mum. You never told me why he left. Or where he is. Or if heâs coming back.â
Claireâs stomach twisted as she remembered the letter. âLetâs talk about it when Iâm home from work,â she said. Ethan had a mathematical clock on his bedroom wallâfractions and equations instead of numbersâand she couldnât figure out the actual time.
âYou always do this,â Ethan complained. âYou always change the subject.â
âI know youâre curious. But itâs complicated. Youâre not going to understand yet.â
Ethan crossed his arms and looked her steadily in the eye. âYou donât understand. You make everything worse. I hate it. Heâs my dad.â
Claire felt hollow. His dad. Mark didnât deserve the word; heâd never really been a dad, especially the kind Ethan needed or deserved. It hurt Claire that she wasnât enough, that her son felt something was missing.
âYou act like he doesnât exist,â Ethan continued, his voice quieter. âHeâs my father. And Iâve never heard you say his name out loud.â
Claire could see Ethan searching her face for a response. She stared at her sonâs features so much, she knew the exact location, size, and color of every freckle on his face. Quark chewed a sock on the floor.
âIâve got to go to work,â she said quickly, rescuing the sock from the rabbit.
Ethan climbed out of bed, ignoring his mother. He stomped down the hall, his footsteps echoing, and slammed the bathroom door. She heard him piss loudly into the toilet bowl.
Claire lingered behind, fixing the sheets on Ethanâs bed.
âMark,â she said into the empty room. âYour fatherâs name is Mark.â
Ω
THE LAST TIME Claire had seen Mark, they didnât speak to each other. The room was crowded and she didnât want to approach him. Mostly she knew that she shouldnât, but she also didnât know what to say. There were too many things she wanted to tell him, conflicting things: that she hated him but still loved him, that she hated herself for loving him, that she was comforted by hatred she couldnât help but feel. Sheâd wanted to slap and hold him at the same time.
Mark knew she was there, but went out of his way to avoid eye contact. He was nervousâunderstandablyâshe could tell by the way he incessantly pulled at his hair. Claire knew him so well, every idiosyncrasy. How he tugged at a strand of hair when he was worried; the way he chewed on the ends of pencils when he concentrated; the way he gestured like a conductor when he was excited. She stared at Mark while he looked down at his feet. That swollen silence was excruciating. They were only meters away from each other but already light-years apart.
How could you know somebody so entirely, so intimately, one minute and then suddenly not at all? The solidity of their love, even the shape of it, had been deceptive: Claire thought it was circular when it was