Sifting

Lily slumps on the living room couch, absorbed in her phone, oblivious to her mother, oblivious to the October light, brilliant and steady, through their eighth-story window. Rachel sweeps past her daughter several times before noon, careful not to disturb the stillness, not to disturb the light. If she pauses, she will see her daughter’s agitation: teeth bared, peeping noises emerging regularly from her throat, as her fingers work the screen.

“I wish I could throw you out the window. I wish we were both dead.”

If Rachel were to repeat Lily’s words of the night before to her husband, in another borough, in his apartment overlooking the sea, she might deliver them in a breezy, offhanded way—see how outlandish family life can be? And perhaps he would be reminded of his place, a place he is most sorely missed, on the upper tip of Manhattan, where he might soothe their embroilments.

Passing, sweeping, ignoring, Rachel closes the door to her bedroom. Staring into her Zoom screen, she tests various expressions—indifferent, suave, empathetic—and she tries to feel kindly toward herself.

“How are you doing?” she gushes, too much, to her algebra students, and just a few minutes later, only the most motivated ones are paying attention. Others stare blankly in her direction or down at their phones. A few have turned their cameras off. When Rachel clicks out of class, she feels the tug, the anxiety of Lily, still on her phone in the other room.

“Lily does no homework. She has NO contact with anyone.” Rachel emails the principal at Lily’s new high school, even though she knows Lily wouldn’t want her to. “Lily can’t survive a whole year like this. Can’t the school do more to connect students even remotely?”

“I see what you’re doing.” Lily is suddenly leaning over Rachel’s shoulder, face to her screen.

Rachel slams the laptop shut. “Get away from me,” she says, in a voice she is sure neither of them will forget.

“What are you writing about me?” Lily’s fists are stuck on her hips, hidden under her father’s huge Chewbacca T-shirt, breasts flattened by her running bra. “Talking behind my back. Spy. Thief. Untrustworthy spy. You can’t resist. You can’t stop yourself. You’re one of those parents. Privileged, white, rich, contacting the principal.”

Rachel folds her arms, tries to stay perfectly still.

“I’m the worst, the worst trash. How did you get a daughter like me?” Lily’s elastic lips move too quickly, and her eyes are black and impenetrable, like her father’s. Somewhere in there, tucked beneath the lungs, is the baby, still cradled, at ease.

“I love you, Lily. Please.”

“You hate me.” Lily steps back, touching her wrist, as if she is feeling it again, the way Rachel twisted her skin to wrest the phone away last night. (Look who’s doing the damage, Rachel thinks. Such arguments. Over a phone!)

“Why can’t I live with Dad? This is hell with you.” Lily looks up at the ceiling, blinking back tears. “Why can’t I go to boarding school?”

“You’re not going to boarding school.”

“You just don’t want to admit you failed.”