We always have the best time at the Goodwins’.Īnnie bends over and whispers to the rubber duck in her lap. It’s the one occasion in the year our whole family looks forward to. Their two smart sons Sam and Nathan are near Callie’s age they have interesting friends as well as great taste in wine and food and art. They call it their “blues banishing bash.” They’re a perky family who live next door on the left. The party is the Goodwins’ January tradition. Annie is small for nine and people often assume she is younger. I worry about her physically, my fragile second child, in a way I don’t about Callie. She doesn’t like things too salty or sweet or sour, and her favorite stories are ones in which nothing happens. Annie won’t bathe at a temperature warmer than blood. Her lips move, some secret song only for the plastic animals that bob around her. Annie sits cross-legged in the tepid water. The shadows of bare sycamore branches lie sharp across the white tile. She is in the bath and the window is a blue square of winter sky. I find the first blister on Annie the morning of the Goodwins’ party. IT’S THE CHICKEN pox that makes me sure-my husband is having another affair.
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