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witticasterIn the farverse, Kay dies in 1997? which is superweird to think about, the idea that they might have had cable for a while.
Philippa stays in New York for a month after the funeral. She sleeps in the narrow bed of her childhood in Westchester out of some kind of duty but spends most nights staring up at the ceiling and trying to figure out what she has the duty to do.
Her allegiance is to her father, first and foremost. And it's to her mother--or her mother's memory, since Philippa's not sure whether she thinks Mum's spirit is still out there somewhere--and perhaps even more immediately. She figures out within the first week that she can't leave until she knows that Dad won't be left alone and despairing in that house, now without even hospital visits to make. After that, it's not so much a what as a how.
These days, Dad doesn’t sleep more than four or five hours, and never at quite the same time as the day previous. It’s strangely like a return to her youth, and the untold number of times she’d wake up in the middle of the night, only to hear the steady click of typewriter keys or a quiet laugh from the next room. She’d lie there listening, wondering if the sounds meant she could get up, too. Sometimes she did, only to be hurried back to bed. Other nights, whoever wasn’t writing at the moment would get her some milk and pull down some Burroughs or Baum to read together.
It’s never typing now. Most of the time, she hears only the low murmur of voices from the television--Dad started watching TV documentaries on World War II at some point after Mum got sick--and has to imagine for herself what he might be doing, whether he’s paying attention or reading a book with the London Blitz for background noise.
She's never quite brave enough to join him in the middle of the night, only during the day. And so she imagines that they're both lying around in the semi-darkness, missing people who aren't there. Philippa, at least, has the good fortune to know she'll be greeted at the airport with a kiss hello.
He's miserable, she thinks, more than she ever realized when calling home to say hello, or on visits to see him and go visit Mum. Maybe he wasn't as inclined towards despair before she died--or, more likely, maybe he was better at hiding it.
Maybe he just doesn't care about keeping a stiff upper lip anymore.
-
"Maybe you could come out to California," Philippa said over a brunch of pancakes and orange juice, two weeks after the funeral. She hasn't thought of a better plan than that so far, and it might even work. He's always exclaimed over Los Angeles when he's visited.
He looks up from his plate of food, barely touched, and gives her a little smile. "Capital idea, Pip. Perhaps I'll come visit you and Suzanne at Christmas."
Just before she shakes her head, she considers what it'd look like; the last thing she wants to do is make him feel unwelcome, even for a moment or two. So she shrugs, venturing carefully, "I'd like that. But I meant, maybe you could move out there. It'd nice to be able to see you more often."
Philippa stays in New York for a month after the funeral. She sleeps in the narrow bed of her childhood in Westchester out of some kind of duty but spends most nights staring up at the ceiling and trying to figure out what she has the duty to do.
Her allegiance is to her father, first and foremost. And it's to her mother--or her mother's memory, since Philippa's not sure whether she thinks Mum's spirit is still out there somewhere--and perhaps even more immediately. She figures out within the first week that she can't leave until she knows that Dad won't be left alone and despairing in that house, now without even hospital visits to make. After that, it's not so much a what as a how.
These days, Dad doesn’t sleep more than four or five hours, and never at quite the same time as the day previous. It’s strangely like a return to her youth, and the untold number of times she’d wake up in the middle of the night, only to hear the steady click of typewriter keys or a quiet laugh from the next room. She’d lie there listening, wondering if the sounds meant she could get up, too. Sometimes she did, only to be hurried back to bed. Other nights, whoever wasn’t writing at the moment would get her some milk and pull down some Burroughs or Baum to read together.
It’s never typing now. Most of the time, she hears only the low murmur of voices from the television--Dad started watching TV documentaries on World War II at some point after Mum got sick--and has to imagine for herself what he might be doing, whether he’s paying attention or reading a book with the London Blitz for background noise.
She's never quite brave enough to join him in the middle of the night, only during the day. And so she imagines that they're both lying around in the semi-darkness, missing people who aren't there. Philippa, at least, has the good fortune to know she'll be greeted at the airport with a kiss hello.
He's miserable, she thinks, more than she ever realized when calling home to say hello, or on visits to see him and go visit Mum. Maybe he wasn't as inclined towards despair before she died--or, more likely, maybe he was better at hiding it.
Maybe he just doesn't care about keeping a stiff upper lip anymore.
-
"Maybe you could come out to California," Philippa said over a brunch of pancakes and orange juice, two weeks after the funeral. She hasn't thought of a better plan than that so far, and it might even work. He's always exclaimed over Los Angeles when he's visited.
He looks up from his plate of food, barely touched, and gives her a little smile. "Capital idea, Pip. Perhaps I'll come visit you and Suzanne at Christmas."
Just before she shakes her head, she considers what it'd look like; the last thing she wants to do is make him feel unwelcome, even for a moment or two. So she shrugs, venturing carefully, "I'd like that. But I meant, maybe you could move out there. It'd nice to be able to see you more often."