The Nobodies Album Read Online Free PDF Page A

house with my husband, Mitch, when Milo was three and Rosemary was an infant. It was new then; we’re the only family who’ve ever lived here. As I reach for the light, I realize I’m expecting the house to be different than it was when I left. Something dramatic, some visible sign of disintegration or decay. I imagine my belongings sunk in a foot of water, my walls covered with a creeping mold. But of course everything’s the same as it was when I walked out the door thirteen hours ago. Mess of mail on the hall table. Pictures hanging on the walls: the four of us, and then the two of us.
    I take off my shoes, use the bathroom, get a box of crackers from the kitchen. I pause for a minute to lean against the counter, without bothering to turn on the light. It’s a big room, warm with sun in the mornings, cool and empty now. Framed finger paintings over the breakfast table, artwork created by children who no longer exist. A shadow box displaying two baby hats, one tied with blue ribbon, one with pink. Provided by the hospital and slipped on their heads moments after they were born. One thing that can be said about me as a mother: I’ve always enjoyed the artifacts.
    I walk around the first floor, drawing curtains and blinds, keeping myself away from the edges of windows, though it appears that most of the reporters are packing up to go. Dining room, office, living room, cozy and familiar, more cluttered than they ought to be, considering that only one person lives in them. I don’t know whether it’s nostalgia or laziness, but I’ve never once thought about leaving this house. After Milo left for college, I waited for it to hit me: the wish for walls never touched by crayons, for floors unscratched by scooters that weren’t supposed to be ridden indoors in the first place. A willingness to trade pencil marks on a doorjamb for space that’s indisputably my own. But it never did, and tonight I’m glad. I can’t imagine how I would absorb this news in a place where my children never lived.
    In the living room, I sit down on the couch—relatively new, bought to please no one but myself—and pull my laptop from its case. I’m not going to check my e-mail, but I open it up long enough to send one note, attach one document. Type in the first letters of my editor’s address, let the computer fill in the rest. Dear Lisa, Sorry to cancel lunch, but I’m sure you’ve heard what’s happened by now. Just wanted to get this to you before it slips my mind. I look forward to hearing your thoughts. Best, O . Press Send before I can formulate any questions about whether this is a reasonable way for me to be spending my time on this particular night.
    My voice mail tells me I have thirty-three new messages, and I run through them slowly, listening for the one voice I’d like to hear. It’s mostly journalists, a couple of prank calls, a message from a police officer in San Francisco, notifying me of the arrest. There’s one from my mother, who sounds upset; I’ll have to call her tomorrow. A scattering of messages from friends and acquaintances: some offer kind wishes; others clearly just want the pulpy details. When I’ve finally waded through it all, I lean toward the coffee table and pick up the remote.
    I have a habit of recording newscasts so I can watch them at my leisure, and never before have technology and personal need seemed so perfectly in sync. I turn on my TV, push two buttons, and there’s Milo, walking with police officers, his hands clamped behind his back. I’ve already seen this footage, in my hotel room and in the airport lounge, but now I take time to really study it. He’s wearing a red T-shirt and black jeans. I can’t get a good look at his face; he’s keeping his eyes down, the way they all do in these situations, unless they’re Manson-level crazy. He looks skinnier than he was the last time I saw him, and his hair—dark like mine, though mine now requires artificial means to keep it that