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Show Motherlunge a novel 197 The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. In Hartford, Hereford, and Hampshire, hurricanes hardly ever happen. I thought of Pavia's stoppered cry as Xavier was pulled out of her body, and her look of defeat as they placed him in her arms. I thought of her in the townhouse in the days before she left, wordlessly packing away more of Jack's belongings. I remembered all the silences spliced into every conversation with Dorothy and Walter, all the sad gaps added in. Now, by George, I got it. We put them there-all the empty parts-so that love could be overdubbed later, once we got it right. I'm getting it, I thought with a slow and humbling surprise. / can. I had told my supervisor, Charmaine, that I was having a family emergency and needed time off, and her voice on the phone -hushed, eager, Deeply Sorry-told me to take as much time as I needed. Still, when Monday morning came and Pavia and Jack were still not back, I decided to clean up Xavier and myself and go into work. I'd seen this sort of thing done before-women on maternity leave turning up with their babies for lunch with the old gang, looking newly exfoliated and impressionable. I wanted to keep feeling new, too, rather than afraid. So in to work I came with Xavier, my little distraction. And also, there was this: maybe I also knew that Eli would be there. I pushed Xavier in his stroller along the hallways between the cubicles and window offices. The wheels were silent on the padded commercial carpet. And as I rolled |