but her voice was not quite as certain as before.
“Yeah. The first time we’d had sex in a year and a half.” I closed my eyes. Would that aliens would abduct me right about now. “And I was so happy about a new baby,” Dad continued. “But you weren’t, were you? This was just a great inconvenience.”
Mom blinked. “I was thirty-nine years old, Toby.”
She hadn’t called him that in a long, long time.
“It was a baby, Ellie. Our baby. But every time I brought up the subject, what should we name him, should we take another vacation before he came, you just gave me a dirty look and left the room.”
“I love Freddie,” Mom said, opening her hands up in an appeal.
“I know. But you stopped loving me. I don’t know when, but you did, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make you love me again, and yes, I had three one-night stands, and I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry, and I’m so damn tired of being sorry.” My father’s face crumpled. “I wanted to be needed. I wanted to be appreciated, and I was an idiot, and I’d take it back if I could, I’d cut out my heart if it would make you forgive me, but for Christ’s sake, Eleanor, it didn’t happen in a vacuum.”
My mother was silent, her mouth slightly open, eyes wide.
My father stood up. “I’m sorry, Poodle,” he said to me, wiping his eyes.
At that moment, a young man came over to our table. “Hey. You guys done with Goggy?” he asked.
Neither of my parents answered. “Um … yes! We are! She’s lovely,” I said, cringing as the words left my mouth. “Do you need help getting her into the car?”
“I’m all set. Thanks for inviting her out! She’s usually in bed by seven. Big night for her.”
He backed his sleeping ancestor away from the table and left. Without another word, my father followed. I watched him go, his shoulders slumped, then turned to my mother. “You okay, Mom?” I whispered.
My mother blinked and closed her mouth. “Yes. I’m fine, Callie.”
If “fine” looked like “slapped,” then I guess she was fine. Not knowing what to say, I took her hand. She squeezed back gratefully.
“Where’d she go? Where’s Dad?” Hester boomed. “Sorry about the phone call. Did I miss everything?”
“Not now, Hes,” I said. “Come on, Mom. We’ll take you home.”
“I didn’t even get to eat,” Hester protested.
“So order a pizza,” I hissed. “Now is not the time.”
I DROPPED HESTER BACK AT her house, promising to call her later, then took Mom back home. Fred, who’d just popped open a beer, set it down when we walked into the foyer.
“Mom, you okay?” he asked, his dark eyes, so like our dad’s, filled with concern.
“Rough night,” Mom murmured, patting his shoulder absently. She wandered into the Tranquility Room and sat in the back row.
“What happened, Callie?” he asked, and I briefed him in low tones.
“Poor Dad,” he said when I was done, then glanced toward our mom. “And Christly, poor Mom.”
“Tell me about it,” I murmured. “She looked like he slapped her. And Daddy … Fred, he was crying.” My own eyes filled up.
“Now don’t you start,” Freddie said, sounding a lot like Noah. “Twenty-two years divorced, and they’re still making the kids miserable. Come on.” He gave me a quick hug. “Ma! You want a grilled cheese?”
“Sure,” Mom said after a minute.
“Go,” my brother said to me. “I’ll get this one.”
“Thanks, buddy,” I said, kissing his stubbly cheek. Strange to have my brother needing to shave. Stranger still to have him acting like an adult.
I drove over to my dad’s, but his little house was dark, and he didn’t answer the door when I knocked. I sat on the porch for a minute or two. This was the same place he’d been renting all these years since he first moved out—he could well afford to buy it, but he never did. An owl called from a nearby tree, and the air was cool with the promise of some late-night rain. Cozy under other circumstances. Lonely under these. With a sigh, I got up and returned to my car.
A half hour later, I was rocking in my chair, waiting for the magic, listlessly eating some Betty Crocker Supermoist Cherry Chip batter. Come on, chair, I thought. Do your thing. I remembered those ads from my youth … Calgon, take me away! the beleaguered housewife would cry, and seconds later, she’d be ensconced in bubbles up to her ears, reclining in some gorgeous bathtub. Funny that I had such a tub but rarely used it. No, it was the chair for me. My happily-ever-after chair. But happily-ever-afters seemed in short supply these days.
I closed my eyes and let my head fall back against the smooth maple. Sometimes it seemed like my life was spent shoveling fog … trying so hard to be that adorable hedgehog everyone liked. Some days, optimism was an ill-fitting wool coat, heavy and uncomfortable.
Bowie whined from the floor, then raised his head and licked my ankle. “Thanks, Bowie,” I whispered. “You’re the best.”
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make you love me again.
The last time I’d seen my father cry was just before my eighth birthday when he moved out. Hester was in her room, furious; she hadn’t spoken to him for weeks, and Mom was in the basement, losing herself in preparing the dead, so I was the only one to see my father off.
“I’ll see you Wednesday, Bunny,” he called up the stairs to my sister. His voice cracked.
“Don’t you fucking call me that ever again!” Hester shrieked, her voice clearly audible through the closed door.
Dad flinched, then turned to me. “It won’t be so different, Poodle,” he lied, standing in the hallway, surrounded by suitcases. “I’ll just be a few streets over.” He smiled, a horrible smile because it wasn’t a smile at all, just a contortion meant to fool his child.
“Oh, I know, Daddy. I love your new house,” I lied right back.
“Go play now,” he said, and I knew he didn’t want me to watch him go. He hugged me so hard it hurt, then gave me a gentle push toward the stairs.
I couldn’t help it. I stood at my bedroom window, a Hello Kitty throw pillow pressed against my mouth as I sobbed, watching my father bent in sorrow, openly crying as he pulled his suitcases to his car, the trunk yawning, swallowing up his things. Then he looked up at the house, and I dropped the pillow and pressed my hand against the window. And I forced myself to smile, a pretty smile, a real smile, so my father wouldn’t have to drive away with that image in his heart, the remembrance of his little girl crying.
But after that day, he’d been the George Clooney type … determined to have fun when we were with him, no matter what Hester’s mood or, later,
