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  “Do you mean innovative?” her father asked. “Or that they literally break the ground as they work, because to me that seems par for the course at an archaeological dig and, therefore, derivative.”

  “I mean,” Kate explained, “the work is pioneering. I’ll dig there myself someday, if things go the way I’ve planned. I just have to land this job first.” She was holding a boiled baby potato speared with a toothpick, and one half suddenly broke off and fell on the floor. Angela watched as Kate leaned over and put it in her mouth.

  “Do you guys have a cleaning service?” Angela asked. “The whole house looks sort of, I don’t know, grubby.”

  “Such fastidiousness!” her mother exclaimed. “What will you do if you have dinner with the Huli?”

  “Who are the Huli?”

  “In some places a dirt floor is just called a floor. Be aware of your cultural bias, Angie. You wouldn’t tell a fish not to poop where it eats.”

  Angela stared at her. “I have no idea what you’re saying, but this kitchen needs a complete overhaul, starting with all new appliances. Does the ice maker work?” she asked, getting a glass and opening the freezer.

  “How’s that husband of yours?” her father asked. “Is he a neat freak, too?”

  “Doug,” she said. “We’re not neat freaks. We’re just into basic hygiene.”

  “Never buy anything that says ‘antibacterial’ on the label,” he warned. “Give us this day our daily germs.”

  “When you girls were babies,” her mother added, “we made a point of having you eat right off the floor.”

  “Jesus God,” Angela sighed.

  “I don’t mean for every meal. Everything in moderation.”

  “What is that?” Angela suddenly asked, backing away from the refrigerator. “Is that . . .?”

  “He flew against the window a few days ago,” her mother explained, “and I want to look him up in the bird book. He’s not a tufted titmouse, that much I know.”

  “You put a dead bird in the freezer?” Angela asked. “Where you keep food? That’s so disgusting. It could have a disease.”

  “Can I see him?” Kate asked.

  Angela closed the freezer door hard and turned to face them. “No. I have news, actually,” she said.

  “As. Do. We!” their mother said, joining Professor Pearson at the sink. “Which is why we asked you to come. We’ve decided that in two months, after the close of the spring semester,” and she paused to allow the excitement to build, “ . . . we’re going to rent out the house and go.”

  “Go?” Kate said.

  “What . . . What does that mean?” Angela asked.

  “It means we’re taking our work to the field,” their mother said.

  “What field?” Angela asked.

  “I think they mean—” Kate started to explain.

  “I know what they mean,” Angela said. “Where are you going?”

  “We have quite an itinerary,” their father said proudly.

  “We start in Finland!” their mother exclaimed. “Isn’t it wonderful? Now, no need to be sentimental,” she said, seeing her daughters’ faces. “We limited serious, academic travel for almost two decades to rear you little offsprings, and now it’s time for us to pack our rucksacks and take to the road before we’re too old.”

  “Sounds awesome,” Kate said.

  “Rucksacks?” Angela asked.

  “Just think,” their mother went on, “we’ve reached the ripe old age where our community could justify senicide. We figure we better make a move before the tribe begins to see us as a burden.”

  “The whole village might sneak off in the dark of night,” their dad added, “leaving us to fend for ourselves in this jungle.”

  “By jungle you mean this quaint university town?” Angela asked.

  “There are quite a few young brutes among the faculty, I assure you,” he said.

  “You won’t leave before June, will you?” Kate interrupted suddenly. “What about my graduation?”

  “We’ll be there with bells on,” their mother said.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” their father added.

  “And after that you’re just leaving?” Angela asked. “What about your jobs?”

  “We’re taking a much-overdue, extended sabbatical,” her mother said. “We have the university’s blessing and grants to cover the costs, and we’ve accepted guest professorships in Tampere and Rio, so we’ll have home bases. We’ll stay away as long as we possibly can.”

  “Nice,” Angela said, deciding to keep her own news to herself. “That’s really nice.”

  “Now, Angie, don’t be dramatic,” their mother said. “We’ll Skype when we can to get updates on our lovely, grown-up girls. And when we’ve seen all that there is to see in the field, we’ll come right back home to die.”

  “Now who’s being dramatic,” Angela said.

  On the train ride back to Manhattan, Angela was the one who didn’t talk.

  “Are you mad?” Kate asked, like she was trying to figure out how to feel herself. Angela shrugged.

  “How long do you think it took to plan this?” Kate went on. “Months? Years?”

  “No clue.”

  “Well, good for them,” Kate said. “I think it’s cool.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing. I’m going to be rearing offspring without the aid of a multigenerational family structure,” Angela said wryly.

  “They’ll be back.”

  “Not soon enough. I’m pregnant.”

  “What?” Kate asked. “When? Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “It wouldn’t have changed their plans.”

  “But still,” Kate said.

  “I’ll tell them. But my God, they have their heads so far up their asses, I just can’t stand it. I hope you don’t end up like that, Kate.”

  “Oh, a baby!” Kate exclaimed. “As soon as I graduate, I’ll be with you in New York. I want to help.”

  “Doug and I’ll be fine,” she said. “We can handle it.”

  “But I’ll still be there for you.”

  Angela smiled at her. “That’s sweet,” she said. “I know you will.”

  Of course, Kate hadn’t been there for her. First she’d been too busy and distracted to be useful, or even present, and then she’d been too sad to do anything at all. Ever since Kate’s meltdown, Angela had found herself parenting Kate along with her own daughter, Emily, who was about to turn two. It was infuriating, especially now that she had just found out she was pregnant with her second child, and Kate still wasn’t showing any signs of improvement, and her parents still weren’t making any plans to come home.

  It was enough now. Enough. Kate needed a jump start. She needed a job, and it was entirely up to Angela to get her one, no matter how unlikely or even impossible that might be. Gotta start somewhere, and Angela had a lead, a glimmer of hope. The previous Saturday, she’d left Doug with Emily for the afternoon and attended a private school fair, just to get an idea about what the possibilities were once the time came for preschool. It was a noisy, crowded function, held in a school gymnasium, and Angela found the florescent scene dizzying. She started in the front of the room and went straight down the row, from table to table, past Bank Street, Caedmon, Calhoun, Ethical Culture Fieldston, Grace Church, and Graylon Academy, collecting brochures and asking questions. The schools were arranged alphabetically, the only thing orderly about the event, and somewhere in the middle of the room, between Horizons Elementary and the International School, was Hudson Day. While most of the schools had two or three representatives, Angela noticed the man at the Hudson table was all by himself, trying to hand out materials and talk to people, answer questions and collect contact information. He looked frantic. Angela waited patiently until he had time for her.

  “We don’t offer a nursery school program anymore,” he told her over the din. “But when your child’s ready for pre-K, feel
free to get in touch,” and he handed Angela his card. “I’m swamped,” he added suddenly. “My assistant director quit out of nowhere.”

  Angela smiled. “Is that right?” she said. “Are you looking for a replacement?”

  She had called Kate right away and made a plan to meet for lunch that Monday to tell her about the job, but so far things weren’t getting off to a very good start—Angela was eating alone.

  Almost thirty minutes after she’d sat down, she looked up from her salad to see Kate slump into the restaurant, frazzled and breathless. Angela made a face that probably revealed her disgust for her sister’s chronic tardiness and complete loss of oomph, not that Kate would have noticed. She had the look of someone who had overslept and taken a fast shower, failing to rinse out her conditioner and using a scrub so frenetically that she’d over-exfoliated her poor face. Her outfit was something a neurotic college student would wear during exam week. What were those? Cargo pants? They’d been slept in, and her white T-shirt had a drippy, brownish stain on the shoulder. They had agreed to meet near Angela’s office in the Financial District, and among the suited clientele, Kate looked entirely out of place. And yet, Angela noticed, she still managed to turn the head of a man at the bar who eyed her with a mixture of attraction and puzzlement.

  Kate apparently lacked the awareness to know how irritating she was to a full-time working mother whose day had started at six a.m., so she proceeded to tell a detailed story of her “hectic” morning, of missing keys (found in the sink) and missed subways, without ever actually apologizing for being unacceptably late. She seemed completely unprepared when Angela cut her off sharply, saying, “Stop.” Hectic morning? Please. Angela had woken up gagging from morning sickness. While she was showering, Emily had poured an entire bottle of body lotion onto the bath mat, no thanks to Doug who was supposed to be watching her. “I didn’t know she could open it,” he had explained. “But on the bright side, think how soft it will be.” At the office she had projects piled up that she absolutely had to finish before the end of the day. She had no interest in whatever manufactured drama Kate had to offer. It had grown so old. She wanted to slap her, to shake her out of this persistent state of dysfunction. Angela felt her hair tighten in its bun. “I have to get back to work. I told you.”

  “We didn’t have to meet today. If it was bad timing.”

  “Forty-five minutes ago wasn’t bad timing.”

  The waiter came by, cleared Angela’s plate, and looked confused.

  “Are we leaving?” Kate asked.

  “I have five minutes.”

  Kate turned to look up at the waiter. “Dirty vodka martini. And maybe some rolls?”

  “Seriously?” her sister asked. “On a Monday?”

  “You can’t drink on Monday?”

  “It’s self-destructive.”

  “Huh.”

  “Are you depressed?”

  “Just blech.”

  “Kate—”

  “Bastille Day,” she said, like that explained everything. “It was a setback.”

  Angela held up her hand, resisting the urge to clap it over Kate’s mouth. “I only have five minutes. I need to tell you about the job.”

  “Right. The job.”

  “I met the man who could potentially be your savior,” she said and handed Kate the card she’d had out on the table since she’d arrived. “I want you to write to him today. His name is Henry, but call him Mr. Bigley. He’s the head of admissions at a private school, and he needs someone who can start immediately. I can’t promise you anything, but since you’re not really the corporate type, I thought a school might be a good fit for you.”

  “I don’t know anything about admissions,” Kate said, looking at the card.

  “Remind him you heard about the job from me, and let’s hope he’ll set up an interview. I don’t know.”

  “Write him . . . what, though? Exactly?”

  Angela dictated the email while Kate scribbled it down on her cocktail napkin in abbreviations so abbreviated she would find them difficult to decipher when she got home. Out of the corner of her eye, she was watching a waiter getting yelled at by the bartender.

  “That poor guy,” she said sadly.

  “Who?”

  “I wonder what he did wrong? Do you think it’s work-related or personal?”

  “Kate! Pay attention,” Angela said and went on to preach the advantages of full-time, gainful employment. Health insurance this and 401(k) that. Important to keep busy, too, for one’s mental health. Takes initiative to pull out of a depression; you have to do something about it, like see a psychiatrist. And how about weekends? Given any thought to rock climbing classes? Or Tai Chi in the park? Ceramics is very soothing. She ended with her usual “the point being, you just have to get out more and stop moping around.”

  Kate drank her martini and struggled to stay focused. After the speech was finished, she asked about her niece, and suddenly Angela had more time to spare than she’d let on. She complained about never sleeping and bragged about Emily’s smarts. She used the word “advanced” several times. She mentioned moving to the suburbs. Should they or shouldn’t they? There were so many things to consider: schools, swing sets, midsize SUVs, and automatic garage doors. Grass. A room for the new baby.

  “Baby? What baby?” Kate asked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Surprise, I just told you.” Angela patted her stomach and got out the ultrasound pictures.

  “Wow, again?” Kate studied the images while Angela shared more of her many concerns: money, shifting family dynamics, marital happiness, and, of course, space (as always).

  “We can’t possibly fit a second child in our apartment.”

  “It’s so cute,” Kate said. “I think it has Dad’s nose.”

  “Would it upset you? Kate?”

  “What?”

  “If we left Manhattan? Not now, of course. I just mean someday. I don’t frankly see how you would manage. I worry about you.”

  “I’d be okay.”

  “You say that but then you lock yourself out of your apartment.”

  “That only happened twice.”

  “Are you keeping the cat alive?”

  “Stella and I are like this,” Kate said, holding two fingers up.

  “You’ll have to move someplace else pretty soon and frankly I worry about it all the time.”

  “That’s like a year from now.”

  “Yes, exactly. You need to start projecting forward, Kate, look ahead to the next step.”

  As they went outside into the horrible heat of the afternoon, Angela gave Kate parting advice, while Kate stood there getting sweaty. “Send him the email as soon as you get home,” she said. “Don’t wait, okay?”

  “I can’t believe you’re having another baby,” Kate said again. “Tell Doug I said congratulations. Have you told Mom and Dad?”

  “Not yet, but I will. And, if they call you,” she said, “don’t tell them about the interview.”

  “Why not?” Kate asked.

  “It’s not a job that requires a PhD; they’ll probably think it’s beneath you. But it’s not, Kate. Nothing is beneath you.”

  “That’s depressing.”

  “No—I just mean, this would be a great job for you. It’s a real chance to get back on your feet.”

  “I know. I get it. It’s not as if I’m enjoying things the way they are. I’m sick of me.”

  “This isn’t you at all; that’s the problem.”

  “Well, I’m sick of this person.”

  “Wear something neat and normal to the interview, like nice pants and a blazer, and check your face in the mirror before you go in. Wear makeup, but watch out for that smudgy stuff you always get under your eyes. And for God’s sake, don’t be late.” She sighed. “Seriously, Kate. Try, please. Try to get this job.”

  College graduations, like weddings and even funerals, create awkward, mismatched combinations of people who should never cross paths. A perfect exa
mple was when Vicki’s dad, a small-town drugstore manager, was thrust into conversations with Kate’s father, an anthropology professor with a ponytail who said something ridiculous about how her dad was like a modern-day medicine man, which couldn’t have been further from the truth, unless putting in an order for a shipment of Tylenol could be considered shamanesque. Seemed like a pretty big leap to Vicki.

  When her family had walked onto the Wellesley campus, Vicki felt a pang of wretchedness and shame. They so didn’t fit in here. Her mother had on the old floral, calf-length skirt, plastic pearls, off-white polyester blouse, and beige pumps she’d been wearing to church every other Sunday, rotating the outfit with her only other dressy rig, a blue dress with a skinny belt made of faux leather and a faux gold buckle. She was the queen of conservatism. Her father, whose voice was just plain too damn loud, kept one hand gripped on Vicki’s shoulder as she walked them around the college, as if to prove his right to be there. He made his usual corny little jokes, having no idea how provincial he sounded every time he opened his mouth; Vicki had to suppress the urge to shush him. And her brother, awkward at nineteen years old and 275 pounds, in baggy Champion athletic pants and untied high tops, consistently lagged a few yards behind them, looking pained to be around all of these sophisticated, confident women to whom he could not possibly bring himself to speak.

  Vicki was pretty sure she and her brother weren’t the only ones suffering through the graduation events, although no one else showed it. Kate’s parents were embarrassing, too, even if they belonged on a college campus way more than her own parents did. They walked in and out of school buildings like they owned the place, wearing their weird Woodstock outfits. Much to Vicki’s mother’s disgust, Kate’s father took off his moccasins during the president’s picnic and walked around barefoot. They spent more time conversing with professors they met than they did talking to their own daughters. Kate’s sister, Angela, didn’t look like she even belonged in the family; she was tailored and tidy, a compact little baby bump showing under her J.Crew dress and a handsome, attentive J.Crew husband by her side. She was Vicki’s first real, live example of a successful New York City career woman with a condo and a happy personal life. Victoria eyed her with the same admiration and determination that some women might ogle a Birkin bag: Someday I’m gonna get me that.