Under My Skin

“Have a good evening, Ms. Lang.”

The floral scent from the lobby follows me into the mirrored elevator. I drift up to the twenty-eighth floor as though on a cloud, silken and silent, emerging in the private foyer.

Pushing through the door into Layla’s penthouse apartment, I’m greeted by the sound of Izzy practicing her violin in the room down the hall. Whatever piece she’s struggling through is unrecognizable. The sheer size of their space, the thick walls, keep the sound from being unbearable as surely my early instrumental attempts were to my parents—the clarinet, later the flute. I remember their strained encouragement, their palpable relief, when I discovered that my passion was the totally silent artistic endeavor of photography.

Let’s just say that Izzy is no musical prodigy, either; I wonder when or if she’ll be told. She practices with gusto, though, attacking the same few musical phrases over and over. If it’s a matter of sheer will alone, she might improve. She’s a high achiever like her father, focused, unrelenting, a star student.

Slade, her younger brother, is at the kitchen island FaceTiming with a friend on his iPad while they play some weird world-building game on a laptop. Two screens are apparently required for this interaction. I plant a kiss on his head, am rewarded with a high five, and his megawatt smile. Slade’s more like Layla—or like Layla used to be. Easy, laid-back, distractible and artistic.

Layla’s at the stove; the table set with fresh flowers, cloth napkins, gleaming platinum silverware. There are only four places, which I take to mean that Mac is not going to be home for dinner. The usual state of affairs.

“Please put that away and tell your sister it’s time to eat,” Layla says to Slade as she comes over to give me a hug.

“Izzy!” Slade bellows, startling us both into laughter. “Dinner!”

“I could have done that,” says Layla, swatting him on the shoulder. “Tell Brock you have to go. Goodbye, Brock.”

“Goodbye, Mrs. Van Santen,” comes the disembodied voice from the iPad.

“Did you finish your homework?” she asks Slade when he’s closed his laptop.

He looks at her with Mac’s hazel eyes, an uncertain frown furrowing his brow. He’s a heartthrob, all big eyes and pouty lips, thick mop of white-blond curls. Fourteen years old and already towering over Layla and me.

“No more gaming until it’s done,” says Layla. “Now go get your sister. Clearly, she can’t hear us.”

More screeching from behind Izzy’s closed door as if to punctuate the point. Slade moves in that direction as slowly as a sloth, knocks, then disappears into Izzy’s room.

“That violin teacher keeps telling me that she has promise,” Layla says, moving back over to the stove. “Am I crazy? She sounds truly awful, right?”

“I heard that,” yells Izzy, emerging. No one ever says anything in the Van Santen house. “I am awful! Obviously. This was your idea, Mom!”

Layla rolls her eyes as Izzy tackles me from behind, kissing me on the cheek. Her hair is spun gold; she smells of lilacs. She’s lean and fit, but no skinny waif. I’ve seen her and her field hockey–playing girlfriends put away their body weight in pizza.

“Save me from all of this, Aunt Poppy,” she says. “Can I come live with you?”

“I know, darling,” I say, holding on to her tight. She used to sit in my lap, kick her chubby legs and laugh as I changed her diapers, and squeeze her tiny hand in mine as we crossed the street. Is there anyone dearer than the children of people you love, especially when you don’t have your own?

“How do you bear up under these conditions? It’s miserable.”

“Mom, please,” says Izzy. She walks over to her mother, picks a carrot out of the salad and starts to munch. “I’m just not musical.”

“It’s good for you, sweetie,” says Layla easily. She pushes a strand of stray hair from Izzy’s eyes. “To do something you’re not great at immediately. To work for something.”

“That’s—ridiculous.”

The teenager, so like her mother, blond with startling jewel-green eyes, casts me a pleading look. “Isn’t that ridiculous?”

Savory aromas waft from the oven and range top, making my stomach rumble. I used to cook, too. Jack and I both loved being in the kitchen. Lately, when I’m not here, I survive on a diet of salad bar offerings and maybe Chinese takeout when I’m feeling ambitious. I help Izzy get the water.

At the table, I let the chaos wash over me—Izzy going on about some mean-girl drama, Slade begging to add a robotics club to his already packed schedule. All the heaviness, the strangeness of my day lifts for a moment.

But my inner life is a roller coaster. I think: this is the life Jack and I could have had; maybe not the insane wealth—but the chattering kids and the food on the stove and the homework. The happy mess of it all; it could have been ours. And then the ugly rise of anger; we were robbed of this. I stare at the water in my glass. Followed then by the stomach-dropping plummet of despair: What is there when I leave here? A dark apartment, void of him and the life we were building.

Layla’s hand on mine. The kids are looking at me.

“Poppy?” she says softly. “Where did you go?”

“Nowhere,” I say. “Sorry.”

A ringing device causes Layla to rise from the table. I hear the electronic swoop as she answers.

“Wait, don’t tell me,” she says. “You’re going to be late. I shouldn’t wait up.”

Her tone is light, but there’s an edge to it, too.

“There’s just a lot going on right now.” Mac on speaker apparently. No—FaceTime. She comes to the table with her iPad, sits back down beside me. Even on the screen I can see the circles under his eyes. He rubs at his bald head, his tie loose and the top button on his shirt open. “You know that, honey.”

Layla softens, smiles at the screen. “I know. We just miss you.”

“Hi, Mac,” I say.

“Hi, Dad,” the kids chorus.

“Hey, guys.”

“Poppy’s my husband now,” says Layla. She tosses me a smile. “She’s in your place.”

“I hope you two will be very happy together,” says Mac with a light laugh. “Poppy, good luck.”

I blow him a kiss.

“Izzy, sweetie, how did you do on your calculus test?” he asks.

Layla passes her the iPad.

“I’m confident,” she says, covering her mouth, still chewing. These kids, all confidence, no worries. When did that happen? What happened to teen angst? I used to lie in bed at night worrying—about grades, about friend drama, about everything.

“Did you check your work?” he asks.

More chewing. “Uh-huh,” she says. “I got this, Dad.”

Izzy hands the iPad to Slade. “Dad, this is the last week to sign up for robotics.”

“What did your mother say?”

“She said not unless my grades come up.” Slade casts a sad-eyed look at his mom, which she ignores.

“Then that’s the decision.”