shit,” Freddie added.
“If,” Mom said.
“If what?” Dad asked.
“If you introduce me to each of the women you slept with while I was gestating our son.”
The blood drained from my father’s face. I pictured the hopeful seedling being crushed by my mother’s sturdy shoe.
“Well, uh … women … there were only, ah … two, Eleanor,” Dad said. She raised an eyebrow.
“Well, okay, three,” he amended. “And, uh, I’m sure I don’t know what happened to them. I barely remember them. I think they moved. Far away. To, uh, New Zealand, I believe, and uh … France.”
“Actually, I know where they are,” Mom said. “They all live within a hundred miles of here. I’ve kept tabs on them over the years.” She glanced at her children fondly. “I just love Google.”
Hester closed her eyes and shook her head.
“So, if you’re sincere, and it’s true that you’ve always loved me and want to rekindle anything, that’s what you have to do,” Mom said smugly.
Man. She really did enjoy burying people.
WHEN DAD HAD LIMPED away and Hester and the girls had gone home, and Freddie and Noah were hiding out in the workshop sanding a canoe, Mom and I stood side by side, doing the dishes.
“So that was interesting,” I said, rinsing a wineglass. I set it on the dishrack, where Mom picked it up and began polishing it with unsettling vigor.
“It certainly was,” she answered.
I studied her from the corner of my eye. Mom was attractive in her own way … big frame, strong features, kind eyes. She wasn’t ugly, but she wasn’t beautiful, either. She looked … competent. Dad, on the other hand, turned heads on women ages seventeen to ninety-four, and was fairly incompetent in many ways … while Mom could probably overpower the Nazis and then climb in and drive their tank to the Allies, Dad … Dad would just surrender amiably and hope for the best.
“So are you really considering getting back with Dad?” I asked, turning my attention back to the legion of dishes.
“Of course not,” she answered. “He cheated on me, Calliope.”
“Right. So … no chance of forgiveness, then?” I placed another glass on the rack.
“I forgave your father long ago, Callie,” she lied, not looking at me.
“Really, Mom? Because—”
“How’s your love life, dear? Did that slovenly man in the café work out?”
“He wasn’t that sloven—”
“I’ll take that as a no, then,” she said. “Why the sudden interest in dating? I thought you were going to ask Hester for help on the motherhood front.” She snapped the dishcloth and got to work on a plate.
“No,” I said slowly. “I’d … I’ve always wanted to get married. Have kids the old-fashioned way. Live happily ever after.”
“That chair was your undoing,” Mom muttered.
“It’s not the chair’s fault, Mom.” I paused. “Just because things didn’t work out with you and Dad—”
“Sweetheart, I defy you to find me three couples who’ve been married for more than ten years and are living happily ever after. With each other, that is. Here.” She handed me back a glass. “You missed a spot.”
“Noah and Gran. Nana and Dimpy,” I said, naming my grandparents on both sides.
“How about a couple born after the FDR administration?” Mom prompted.
“Annie and Jack?”
“That’s one. And for number two?”
I winced. “And … let’s see now … okay, you win. But, Mom, I think Dad’s sincere. He’s never gotten over you. You know that. And here you’ve been, hating him with the heat of a thousand suns lo these many years. You know what they say. Hate and love are two sides of the same coin.”
She gave me a look unique to her … pity, patience and mild disgust all rolled into one. “You’re so naive, Callie,” she said.
“True,” I admitted. I paused, remembering my father’s face at my birthday party. “I just can’t help remembering you two when you were happy. When I think about getting married myself, finding someone who really loved me for me and all that crap, I always picture you and Dad, dancing in the living room when he came home from a trip.”
Much to my surprise, her eyes filled. “Well. He stomped all over those times, didn’t he?” she said thickly.
“Right, he did. But maybe you could really forgive him, Mom.”
She sighed. “When someone cheats on you, Callie, they take a piece of your heart. And I don’t know that you ever get it back.”
I thought of Mark, and all the years I’d spent hoping for him. Waiting for him. Imagining the two of us together on that mythical front porch somewhere. Pictured him now somewhere with Muriel.
Mom had a point.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“OH, BLERK.” I LOOKED in the mirror, but it was undeniable. I turned to view my backside. Mistake! “Shit, Bowie! Look at me!” He stood up and came over, licked my knee in sympathy, then collapsed to the floor to offer me his stomach. I gave him a perfunctory scratch, then surveyed the issue at hand.
This morning at work, Muriel had received a large carton from her daddy’s company. With great aplomb, she’d handed out the goodies, starting in Reception with Damien, working her way down … Pete and Leila, Karen, Fleur, and then yours truly. She’d been quite stoked, laughing with Fleur, joking with Pete, dolling out clothes like it was Christmas and she was Santa. T-shirts in various colors, all with the Bags to Riches logo (a floating plastic bag). Multipocketed hiking shorts, the cute cargo type that went down to the knees. Hiking boots for everyone. A few backpacks.
And then she came to me.
“Callie,” she smiled. “Here you go!” She handed me a bile-colored T-shirt, then reached in the box and withdrew a handful of fabric. A small handful.
I blinked. “Um …” I held them up. My heart sank. These weren’t hiking shorts … they were bike shorts, the kind those bony praying mantis people wear on the Tour de France. “Are there any hiking shorts left?”
She pretended to glance in the box. “No, sorry. Well, there are, but they’re in my size.” She didn’t finish the thought … therefore you couldn’t even get your arm in here. “Callie, please. Don’t make this an issue. As long as it’s Bags to Riches, it doesn’t matter.”
Well,
