Heather’s name left the clinic break room by spring. A new scheduler did not stay late. Rick finished no more retrofits there. He took a job across town with worse coffee and no one who knew the gray shirt. The worse coffee was a bargain. He drank it. He picked Cole up on time. On time was still the whole speech he trusted himself to give.
Lisa learned the score of the team by accident, from a radio in a store, and did not flinch. Flitching would have given the jersey the banister again. She bought bread. She went home. Cole was at Derek’s. The house was empty in a clean way, not a lied-about way. She painted nothing. The green was enough. She sat on the couch and did not pick up a phone that was not buzzing. The not-buzzing was a luxury she noticed. Luxuries could be small. She had thrown out wings. She could sit. Sitting counted.
Cole at fourteen asked Lisa if she had loved Dad. She said yes. He asked if she did now. She said not the way I did, and not never, and the papers were the part you could read. He said the papers were boring. She said boring was the point of papers. He accepted boring. They made pasta. Pasta was a new report, a step up from cereal, a rival to pizza. She took the rivalry. It meant the weeknight belonged to them.
The box in the closet stayed shut through a move of winter coats. Lisa’s hand found it and left it. Joan had the copies. The box was the original sin in plastic. She did not need to see the wall again. The wall was green. The photo was old. Old was not gone. Old was filed. Filing was Pam’s influence and Joan’s and her own. She shut the closet. Downstairs the television was off. Cole’s replica was in the wash again, his choice, a school day. She started the machine. The machine was ordinary. Ordinary had been the trap and was now the floor. She could stand on a floor. She stood.