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either.
    And?
    Who the hell knows? He doesn’t speak much, your friend.
    My father doesn’t speak much either. He uses words sparingly, as if they’re rationed. It’s what comes, I think, of knowing so many words in so many languages. Too much choice.
    You knew that when you married him. Gil speaks gently, without reproach.
    Yes, of course. But knowing it, and then living for sixteen years with a man who doesn’t speak . . . it’s different, surely?
    There is an edge to her voice, like a knife. For the first time I realize how much older Matthew must be than Suzanne. If Matthew is Gil’s age, he’s nearing sixty. And if Suzanne’s just had a baby, can she be much more than forty?
    Marieka always says fondly that she has to read Gil’s mind. I’ve become very good at it, says she. And then she kisses him on the back of the neck if he is bent over his work, and he reaches up one hand and buries his fingers in her thick hair and she turns her head and kisses his wrist. There is something in this gesture that makes me feel completely safe. Despite the fact that the scene does not include me, it does not exclude me either.
    I feel a sudden rush of pity for Gabriel with his glass mother, his glass house, his radiant baby smile.
    Take the car, please, Suzanne is saying. I don’t need it. I have a friend nearby; she can take me to college.
    She? I think. Whoever visits isn’t a she.
    I close my eyes once more and when I open them again I realize that time has passed and the conversation has moved on.
What have I missed?
    It’s late, Gil says. Good night, Suzanne.
    I don’t have to pretend to be woozy now. I lean on Gil till we get to my room and he folds back the covers of my bed. That’s all I remember.

twelve
    I n the morning, Gil says we’re going on a road trip. He says it almost gaily; we are both keen to move on. There doesn’t seem to be enough air in this house, though I don’t know how that can be.
    I’ll miss Gabriel. He claps his hands now when he sees me or I call his name, and he snuggles into my shoulder when I pick him up. I like the feel of him, compact and much heavier than he looks. Like a bundle. I’ve never known a baby as a person and now I can see why people like them. When he looks at me and smiles I feel chosen.
    Gabriel B-B-Billington, I sing. Gabriel B-B-Billington! Gabriel giggles and waves his hands. Do you think he knows his name? I ask Suzanne.
    Of course. She smiles. He’ll miss you when you go.
    Do you think he misses his dad? I look at her.
    Suzanne’s mouth pulls up tighter than ever. Does his dad miss him? That would be my question.
    I must look a little shocked because she reaches out and touches my elbow. Don’t worry, Mila. Everything will work out in the end. She pushes her hair back off her face with a tired gesture and I think, What end? The end of time?
    After a minute I say, Do you want Matthew to come back?
    Suzanne frowns. Yes, of course I want him to come back. She glances at Gabriel, then back at me. How could I not?
    As answers go, this is not the same as saying, Oh my, yes, if only god would send him home tomorrow I would die happy. It’s closer to: Do I want him back? Not especially. But if he happened to come home I’d certainly be happy for Gabriel.
    Gabriel’s much too little to understand any of this. I guess he’ll get the picture someday, but I hope it’s not soon. I’ve only known him for one day but already I feel protective of him. If you could see his big fat smiley face and his little pursed-up birdie mouth, you’d feel the same. I find it hard to believe that a person could walk away from that face.
    Suzanne’s phone rings and I carry Gabriel into the living room and plunk him on the sofa. I prop him up on all sides with pillows then throw a squashy yellow ball at him and he flaps at it with his hands. Flap flap flap. He’s no good at catching but I don’t want to make him feel bad so I take the ball and throw it again. Flap flap flap