Chapters (41)
- PART ONE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- PART TWO
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- PART THREE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
She climbed the stairs, panting from the effort and the high-desert altitude, crouching at the top to rest, her hands pressed against her leggings for support. After catching her breath, she called out again, “Mamí? Sunshine? Andres?” She checked her master bedroom first, resisting the urge to lie fetal on the little mattress on the floor where Phoenix slept most nights for fear of the dark. She imagined him lying there, his body curved into a horseshoe beside hers while she read to him about dinosaurs and woolly mammoths. He loved having an anthropologist for a mom; he’d ask if she’d ever uncovered any bones herself, ever dug an animal from the ground. She picked up the blanket Andres had knitted for Phoenix as a baby and held it to her chest. Where was her son?
The master bathroom. The shower. The walk-in closet. The laundry room. Phoenix’s bathroom, decorated with playful monsters, for which they’d deemed it “the monster bathroom.” His bedroom. Her mother’s master bedroom. The balcony.
Desperate from losing some twisted game of hide-and-seek, sweat pearled around Calliope’s neck and armpits, gluing her tunic to her body. Even in the muggy hothouse of the second floor sans air conditioner, she felt cold. Feverish. She shivered uncontrollably toward her mom’s closet. This was the last place in the house they could possibly be hiding.
How many times had Phoenix asked her to play hide-and-seek with him? How many times had she told him she couldn’t? She was too busy writing an article or grading papers. Now she ached for the rare moments she had put everything else aside and counted one, two, three, four … giving him the chance to find a good spot … nine, ten … Ready or not, here I come! He’d giggled from his hiding place. She’d played along. Where’s my boy? Where could he be? Fee-fi-fo-fum. His delighted screeches as she swung open the door and “found” him.
She swung open her mom’s closet and found clothes. Boxes. Shoes.
She crumpled onto a pile of laundry on the floor, atop her mother’s dresses and suits, clasping Phoenix’s blanket to her face and crying. Her stomach roiled, her mouth filled with paste, bile crusted her lips. She cried until she felt empty, the babies inside her quieted by the wracking of her shoulders, the rocking of her body.