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“It must be amazing to actually make things,” Dad says. “I spend my days trying to impose order on books, cataloging, trying to give each acquisition a number that will enable us to find it again when some future patron finally asks for it. It’s kind of satisfying, but there’s always a mountain of stuff waiting to be dealt with, so most days I feel pretty much like Sisyphus, rolling my rock. It must be a powerful feeling, making art.”

“Powerful?” Mama says doubtfully. “I guess so. I mean, I’m an art student, so I’m not sure how much power I have. When I’m alone in the studio I veer back and forth between ‘I am a goddess’ and ‘I am an idiot.’”

“You are definitely a goddess,” Dad says, just as Alba glides back to our table and the other two scramble out of the booth so she can get in. They are all ears; this is what we’ve come for: the flirting.

Mama says something quiet that I don’t catch. Dad says, “No, probably not Chronos, I don’t have it under control at all. More likely Dionysus, I’m afraid. You’re a combination of Athena and Aphrodite.”

“People keep trying to make me into a muse,” Mama says. “I’m not interested in that one bit.”

“I can see that, you’re very take-charge,” Dad says, and I remember Mama blushing and hiding her eyes under her fingers, peeking at him. The last Alba can’t wait any longer, she abandons all pretense and just walks right up to their table. I swivel in my seat to watch.

“Hi,” Alba says, boldly placing both hands on the edge of their table as though they might try to dislodge her.

“Hi,” says Mama. Dad says, “Howdy.”

There’s an expectant pause. My youngest self has gone in without a plan, beyond staring at Mama and Dad up close for as long as they’ll tolerate it. Alba finally says, “We’ve run out of syrup. Can I borrow yours?”

There’s a half-full syrup dispenser sitting in plain sight right in front of me. I hide it behind the little rack of mixed berry jam packets. Dad glances from Alba’s face to our booth, surprised to see two more girls exactly like the first. His eyes meet mine, and his face freezes. My dad and I look a lot alike, especially as children. He doesn’t know us, but wonders if he should.

Mama has her back to our booth. She passes the sticky jug of syrup to Alba, who takes it from her carefully and says thank you but doesn’t budge. Dad asks her, “Are you triplets?”

“We’re clones,” Alba deadpans. Even though I knew what her answer would be, I still cringe.

“Like Dolly the Sheep?” my dad says.

“Who’s that?” Alba’s puzzlement is genuine. This is lucky, because we’re in 1991 and Dolly won’t be born for another five years.

Dad realizes his mistake. “Someone I read about. Sorry—you don’t look at all like a sheep.”

“Baaaa,” Alba replies.

Mama laughs. My mother has a nice laugh, very genuine and relaxed. I throw my dad an apologetic grin and turn away from them so my mother won’t see my face as she glances over her shoulder to see the other two Albas. They both have enough sense to feign bored annoyance, as though they are tired of strangers oohing and ahhing over their identicality. One of them manages an eye roll in my direction.

“Thanks for the syrup,” Alba says. Then she slides into the booth, next to me, and thumps the syrup onto the table like a hunter bringing home a kill.

“Nice going, Harriet,” I tease softly. When I was a kid, I idolized Harriet the Spy. I loved her audacity; I chose to overlook the fact that she occasionally got caught and had to suffer the consequences. My young selves watch me anxiously. They’re wondering if that was a major fuckup, or a soon-forgotten misdemeanor. “It’s okay,” I say. I can feel my father’s eyes on the back of my head.

One of my selves leans forward and says, “I think I better go.” She means, I’m about to vanish. I try to get the waitress’s attention, but she’s ignoring me. I always overtip when I can, to make up for all the times I’ve had to run out on a check. Restaurants make me anxious.

“Go ahead,” I tell my younger selves. “I just have to pay and I’ll be right with you.” They are up and out the door in a burst of motion, running and laughing to distract eyes from one Alba’s bare feet. They run around the corner; I can hear their laughter diminishing as though the diner is speeding away from them, not the other way around.

I strain my ears to hear the rest of my parents’ conversation, but they are quiet, as though aware of my interest. The waitress comes by with the coffeepot, but they decline and so do I.

“So,” Dad says, “when can I see you again?”

My mother says, “All the time. Why hold back? ‘Let us roll all our strength and all / Our sweetness up into one ball, / And tear our pleasures with rough strife / Through the iron gates of life.’”

And my father replies, “‘Thus, though we cannot make our sun / Stand still, yet we will make him run.’” My face is hot; I shouldn’t have overheard that. My father likes to quote the first lines of that poem; somehow, hearing the last lines exchanged between them, here at the beginning, feels like too much of an intrusion.

I hear my parents gathering their things. My father holds the door for my mother. She passes through without a backward glance, but before he follows her, Dad turns to me, studies me as though trying to memorize me. I meet his eyes. It is almost enough to be here, with him. I try not to mind that he doesn’t know me, that this is my reunion, not his. I wonder if he will say anything, but he just nods awkwardly and walks out the door. My mother is waiting for him on the sidewalk. He reaches for her hand, and they stroll away. I watch them until they turn the corner and are gone. I’m left with that heavy feeling I always get after one of these encounters, the knowledge that one more visit has been moved from the yet-to-be into the already-happened.

I signal the waitress for the bill. She says, “The gentleman paid your check.”

I once asked my dad, Do you remember that morning, in the Ohio House diner . . . ? and he claimed he didn’t, but now I don’t believe him. I let the glass door close behind me, step out into the sunny autumn morning. Two of the Albas are waiting for me in a 7-Eleven at the end of the block. They fall in step with me. It feels good to walk after sitting so long. “Come on, clones,” I say. “Let me tell you about Dolly the Sheep.”

An Horizon is Nothing Save the Limit of Our Sight

Sunday, December 14, 2014 (Henry is 43, Clare is 43, Alba is 13, Beck is 38)