Days of Awe by Lauren Fox

house to this one, and her modernist aesthetic is boldly out of place in this century-old shrine to crown molding and stained glass. It looks like a time traveler came back from the future to decorate. Here in these tiny rooms are the thick glass end tables and boxy vinyl couches that once fit perfectly in the open-planned expanse of her midcentury modern house in the suburbs: the same geometrically patterned pillows, the same uncomfortable chrome chairs that look like they belong on a spaceship. Every time I step inside, my childhood greets me with a befuddled wave.
    “Hi, Mom.” I hand over a bottle of wine and simultaneously remember that she’d asked me to bring a salad. “Oh, crap. I’m sorry. I forgot the—”
    “It’s all right, darling,” she says. “I made one, just in case.”
    I manage to feel infuriated by this. “Sorry,” I say again.
    I hear a sound from the living room and then music, and I look at my mother, who has her back to me now, stirring something on the stove that undoubtedly does not need stirring.
    “Helene,” I say, and she turns to me over her shoulder with her
I’m just a slightly confused little old lady
smile.
    Hannah is still huddled over her phone, muttering softly to it.
“McKinley!”
she whispers.
“That is so not true!”
My mother turns back to the stove and hums something tuneless. Hannah chuckles and
tap-tap-tap
s away on her phone.
    “Come,” my mother says. She drops the wooden spoon into the sink and leads me through the kitchen and into the living room.
    And there, perched on the sofa, is handsome Cal, the divorcé from the support group. “Isabel.” He smiles, stands.
    Lately circumstances just seem to sneak up on me, situations I thought I understood but realize, too late, that I don’t.
    Cal is wearing a purple button-down shirt and jeans. I’m wearing the shirt I slept in last night. Josie got it for me from the Lake Michigan Bird Sanctuary; it says WISCONSIN IS FOR PLOVERS on the back. I silently resolve not to turn around. The CD Cal has put on is something Hawaiian and trendy; Chris gave it to my mother for her birthday last year.
Perfect,
I think.
    I’m ready to kill my mother, who is resting against the doorframe. I’ve noticed this about her recently, how wherever she goes, she finds a place to pause. Observing this vulnerability makes it slightly more difficult for me to sustain my murderous impulse, but not impossible.
    False pretenses. She has brought us here under false pretenses, and I’m not even sure what they are. “Oh, Mom,” I say, through clenched jaw. “How fun.”
    She smooths the fabric of her beige linen pants: slacks, she used to call them when I was younger, and maybe she still does. She gives her thick, caramel-colored hair a pat and lays a warm hand on my cheek. “It’s a little get-together,” she says.
    “Yes, it is.” The background music to our exchange is the festive, high pluck of a ukulele.
    “I told you to wear nice clothes.”
    “I thought you were kidding.”
    Cal looks at my mother, then at me, with an amused sort of scrutiny, like he’s got us all figured out.
Smug,
Josie would say.
One of those men who thinks he can teach you all about yourself!
I’m ready to make up an excuse and flee (by backing out of the room) when he walks toward me and takes my hand.
    “I’m really looking forward to this evening,” he says, with no obvious sarcasm, which seems suddenly like more than we deserve. His palm is warm and dry.
Give me your paw,
I used to say to Hannah when she was little and we were crossing a street. The phrase comes to me now, unbidden. There is something generous about all of this, suddenly, a feeling underneath logic, a shift. He holds on to my hand for another comforting second, then lets go.
    ···
    I never really knew my father. I mean, I knew him; I know him. His name is Jack. Hannah and I have dinner with him every couple of months. He lives in a condo in Herman, a sprawling exurb forty