CHAPTER FIFTEEN
NORA
He came on Wednesday.
He texted at six: Is this still all right?
She wrote back: Yes. Felix ate at five-thirty. He’s in the bath.
He arrived at six-forty-five.
She opened the door and she was mid-conversation with Felix about whether rubber ducks went in the bath or not (Felix’s position: all rubber ducks, always; her position: there were fifteen of them and she was drawing the line at seven).
Roman stepped inside.
He took off his coat.
He looked at the bathroom doorway from which the sounds of the bath negotiation were emanating.
“How many ducks?” he said.
“He wants fifteen,” she said. “I’m holding at seven.”
He looked at her.
“I’ll hold the line,” he said. He walked to the bathroom door.
She stood in the hallway and listened to Roman Vale negotiate rubber ducks with her two-year-old.
She heard Felix’s position articulated with maximum sincerity. She heard Roman’s counter-offer. She heard the specific sound of a two-year-old arriving at a compromise.
“Eight,” Felix said.
“Eight,” Roman confirmed.
She walked to the kitchen.
She made tea.
She stood at the counter and listened to the bathtime — the specific sounds of it, Roman’s voice low and steady reading the waterproof book Felix kept in the bath, Felix’s responses, the ordinary music of a Wednesday evening.
This was what she’d asked to see.
This was it.
She poured the tea.
She looked at her drawing table where the ending of the new book sat half-finished.
She thought: I know what the other person at the table looks like now.
She picked up her pencil.
She drew his face.