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Show Motherlunge a novel 132 "No," I'd replied, and it was true. Only later did I realize what I did want, namely, to be that child myself. I was jealous of X. I was jealous of his fat satisfaction, his trust, the way he gazed-unblinkingly, full of tolerance-at the blurred ovoids of his parents' faces above him. So even if I did love X., he certainly didn't need me to. And so for the most part, I didn't show it. Thus far in our story I thought no one had noticed this, this not-showing-of-love. After all, with Eli gone-for yes, by then he had broken up with me and I was responsible for that, too-who was there to do the noticing? If a tree falls in the forest, and so on? The answer: Pavia. Who herself was falling, also. It was a weeknight. Pavia asked me to babysit on the coming Friday night, and I agreed right away. "He and I'll cuddle up on the couch and watch a movie, go for a walk," I told Pavia. "Okay." She looked at me doubtfully. "But Xavier goes to bed at 7:30. Not much time, really." "Well, whatever. Just the walk, then." I was grateful, half-giddy to have a little job, a little distraction. I had just told Pavia that Eli and I were 'taking a break.' "Never mind," she'd said. "It's not over yet." But her frown as she said this-long-distance and philosophical-seeming, not strictly sympathetic-had made it feel more final. A rupture, not a break, not self-limiting. |