by Ethan Joella
“So where did you say you’re going next week?” she asks the Lionels.
Kay glances at Alex. “To, um, it’s north of Hartford. Just two nights.”
Greg sips his ginger ale and smiles as the waitress sets his soup in front of him. “And they made it extra hot?” Freddie asks.
The waitress nods.
Freddie sees Greg roll his eyes. I didn’t make these rules, she wants to say to him.
When the waitress brings drink refills, Freddie doesn’t want Greg to touch his. One glass is enough. She takes a bottle of water out of her purse and tries to nudge it toward him. He pushes it away and takes the new drink from the waitress’s hand.
“Perfect,” he says, and sips. Freddie glares for a second but then smiles at Kay.
“That sounds like a fun trip.”
Kay nods. “Oh, we’ll see. It’s just a little inn.”
“We’re going to catch up with friends,” Alex says.
Kay starts to say something. She colors a red holly berry, checks on Addie, who is immersed in her coloring, and says quietly, “To be honest, they’re not exactly friends.”
Freddie and Greg look up. Addie tries to trace her green crayon through a maze shaped like Santa’s hat.
Alex looks nervously at his wife. “You should tell them,” Kay says. “It’s okay.” Her expression is calm, her face is relaxed.
“Tell us what?” Greg asks.
Freddie is imagining Alex’s retirement. Maybe a house they’re buying. She racks her brain, trying to figure out what news they’d have. An illness? Something bad? She thinks for a moment she doesn’t want their news. She doesn’t want another ounce of change. She wants to hold her hand up in a halt signal. She has enough news to weigh her down forever.
Alex looks at Kay, his face worried. His gold watch catches one of the restaurant’s recessed lights. Is he trying to read her expression? But Kay nods at him, and he looks relieved. “I have a daughter,” he says.
“Oh my,” Freddie says. She and Greg exchange a silent glance. They push their knees together. What do we say? she mentally asks him. She wonders if her eyes are ten times their normal size. What the hell is going on? Where could a daughter come from? The Lionels have been together since they were in college.
“You do?” Greg holds a pack of crackers in his fingers.
Kay gives them a controlled smile. “Isn’t that a shock? She’s in her twenties.”
Greg puts his crackers down. He looks crestfallen. Freddie worries for him. He shouldn’t be under any type of stress. Damn them and their announcement. Freddie guesses he thinks Alex would have shared something like this years ago—during a golf game, during a lunch together, and maybe he feels betrayed or disappointed. But beyond this, she thinks how nice it is to have a true distraction, a real conversation about something besides cancer and treatment and germs. She looks at the Lionels. They don’t seem devastated or bothered. It feels okay, it feels good to be lifted away into whatever this is. “What a surprise,” Freddie finally says.
“Ta-da,” Kay says. She keeps her voice low because Addie hasn’t looked up yet. Fortunately, the news seems to go over her head as she slowly plays connect the dots on the next activity.
“Yes.” Alex unwraps his napkin and stares at the silverware. “We’ve, um, been working some things out.” He looks over at Kay and they lock eyes for a moment.
Kay nods as the waitress places her salad in front of her. She lets her crack some black pepper over it and then picks up her fork. She frowns and then leans in. “It feels good to just say what you don’t want to say sometimes.” She shrugs. “Secrets do you no good, do they?”
Alex looks over at her, and Freddie can see relief on his face. “I, of course, made a big mistake.” He clears his throat. “But Kay has been so, so wonderful.” He touches the space between her shoulders. Freddie can see his posture soften. “We’ve gotten to a good place with this.”
“All it took was some screaming and shouting.” Kay laughs. Her voice is so smooth, but her expression is nothing but earnest.
Good for them, Freddie thinks. Good for them. She could write an essay about forgiving Greg for anything if it meant they could get to Alex and Kay’s age. She could get over any single thing—an affair, a gambling problem. Two affairs even. She never felt that way before, but now she knows, without hesitation, she could get past anything. She could forgive Greg for a whole list of things, except dying.
Greg just nods. He sits back and Freddie can see his eyes—the distracted look he gets when he digests something unexpected. Alex his hero. Alex with feet made of gold. Freddie thinks about Alex and Kay, about the thousand journeys you make when you’ve been married many years. All the stuff you survive. All the wounds that heal over. She wonders if one day she and Greg will be old and think back to this horrifying, confusing time and shrug. Remember when we thought you might be dying? How lucky Alex and Kay are that they have the power to just decide to heal something.
But where the hell did this daughter come from? Did they just find out about her?
Addie tugs Freddie’s shirt, asking for her iPhone, and Freddie slides it over to her without taking her eyes off Kay. “Oh, well, it happens. I mean, it happens, right?”
“Yeah,” Greg says quietly. He puts his spoon into his soup.
“I made a mistake,” Alex says again, and shakes his head. He looks at Greg as if sensing he might have lost his confidence. “Years and years ago—after Benny.” Greg nods as he listens. His face seems to soften. Alex: his idol, his father figure, his boss. Freddie bets Greg is over it already. He is too busy trying to live. He doesn’t seem to care about details the way he used to. She notices his expression now, and he seems checked out. No, that’s not the right word. He’s something. A look she hasn’t seen much before.
“I feel better about things,” Kay says. “My God, it’s easier to be happy, isn’t it? And the girl, Iris. I just met her last week. She is quite lovely.”
Alex smiles. He looks younger all of a sudden. Proud, too. His smooth shave, his crisp blue shirt. Kay puts her hand on top of his. “She’s a great kid,” Alex says.
“And a baby on the way,” Kay whispers.
“A baby?” Greg says.
“Wow,” Freddie says.
“Who’s having a baby?” Addie says.
“Their daughter,” Greg says, and then stops.
“Oh,” Addie says, and shrugs in her adult way. “Neat.”
“Yes,” Kay says. “I’m excited to meet this baby.” She looks up at the ceiling. “Who would’ve thought,” she says. “My mother always said don’t say what you’ll do until you do.”
Alex and Kay who lost their son, Benny, all those years ago before Greg even started at Garroway & Associates. Hit by a tractor trailer on his bike. Someone said Kay screamed when the police told her. People at the office told them that Alex’s voice was so much quieter for months afterward. Now this girl out of nowhere with a grandchild on the way.
Another rule. A rule Freddie likes: you never know. You never know what can break you. What you can fix, what you can stand up to. You never know what time will do, what will defeat or surprise you. You never know. Freddie feels a hopeful possibility ticking inside her—like her body’s typewriter is working on something. She even feels hopeful about Iowa and her application. She will definitely send it in. She needs to. You never know.
“How wonderful for you two.” Freddie stands to hug Kay. “And congratulations. A grandbaby!”
Kay reaches up and says, “Thanks, my dear. We appreciate that.”
Alex winks at her. Freddie rests her palms on the table. When Addie places her small hand on top of Freddie’s, Freddie slides hers out and they start playing the stacking hand game.
Addie looks at Greg, and her blue eyes light up. Her bangs are swooped to the side, and she looks at him like she has just remembered something. “My Daddy taught me this,” she announces.
Greg puts down his spoon. Freddie knows
he feels his illness most when he thinks about Addie, these small crumbs of life he might have given her in the whole scheme of things. He tries to smile at Addie, who looks to him for approval, but his face crumbles. Freddie’s face burns; she feels like she’s been kicked. Greg is the tragic hero. He has done nothing but try, try, try to beat this. Freddie watches him dissolve.
For a second, Freddie tries to remember holding Greg’s hand. She tries to remember a time when she and Addie and Greg were at a restaurant putting their hands in a pile. Just like this with nothing else but the fun of it. How Greg would always be so fast to rip his hand out, how eventually he’d flick his hands like windmills and upset the pile. How he’d dart his hands down to tickle Addie when the game was over.
As the four people at the table look at this tired man in his ski cap, his eyes so injured, his iceless soda in front of him, he pushes back his chair and stands up. He looks at Addie and at Freddie with the sorriest eyes she’s ever seen. “I need to get out of here,” he says, and the waitress stands over them now carrying a giant tray with all their entrées. “I’ll wait in the car.”
“Say, Addie,” Alex whispers. “Show me that music game on that phone. Can an old guy like me learn it?”
“I’m sorry,” Greg says to the waitress, backing away.
Freddie can see how his black sweater hangs on his frail body. She can see how pale his skin is in this dim light. She can see what her husband has become, feeble hands at his sides.
At that circular table with their laminated menus stacked next to the napkin dispenser, in the corner of the restaurant next to the Christmas tree whose lights blink on and off, Freddie breaks her rules. She looks at him leaving, and the tears come spilling out, even though she doesn’t want Addie to see, even though she wants to keep it together for the confused waitress and the Lionels, and she whispers, “Please, God, please.” She uses her hand to cover her face as she watches her tired husband walk away.
9. The Star in the Box
Lucas,
I do look forward to your letters.
However, as you know, letters do not take the place of seeing people, and I wish you would remove that restriction you’ve placed on us. Thanksgiving was not the same without your jokes about my oyster stuffing. I sometimes have to remind myself that you are not oceans away but merely a quick drive.
Anyway, I hope you like this Christmas card. The kid on the front reminded me of you when you used to put on your mittens and boots to play in the snow. Remember those red boots you had? I hope you put this check to good use—may I suggest starting a small retirement account as you are still young but the years will fly by, to which I can well attest? Or, just ignore me and use it for groceries or parking or anything you want. Maybe buy yourself a nice sweater at least (not acrylic please). You look handsome in navy blue, but I will stop meddling.
Betsy has been restored, and I would like to talk with you about her. I’d love if you’d stop by the house. Just stay a few minutes, and I guarantee I won’t be critical or say anything remotely impolite. Bring your new gal, if you’d like.
I put up the tree in the living room, and it would be nice if you came to see it with the lights on. I kept the star in the box because I remember that used to be your favorite part.
Love and peace,
Your mother
10. How We Love Them
She is famous for Finland.
Suzette Campbell knows this. Knows they are all waiting to see if she can go through with this wedding. Knows they think the paisley dresses are ridiculous. Who picks paisley? And green paisley. She loved the fabric when she saw the dresses at the bridal show in Boston. She swears she didn’t pick paisley to be quirky.
She resents that she is famous for Finland. No matter what else she does, how many kids and teenagers she helps as a dual-certified social worker/counselor.
Suzette has done at least a hundred things to prove herself as stable and responsible—got engaged, bought a house and renovated it this past year, gotten countless people’s power turned back on when they couldn’t afford their electricity bills, worked with schools so kids’ lunches could be covered, drove her mother everywhere after her knee surgery. But she is still the girl who went to Finland and came back less than a week later. She hates that reputation.
And hates that right now, with her wedding coming, she feels the way she did when her plane landed in Helsinki.
Trees and lakes. She remembers how dense they were in Finland. The snow and frozen land. She remembers the overnight flight, and how the sun was just coming up when the plane descended, the sky orange and pink behind buildings still black with darkness. She remembers the feeling, like the first day of kindergarten—her mother’s writing on the inside of her jacket, heavy lunchbox in her fingers, the world seeming overwhelming and vast. She remembers her older sister Lisa walked her to Mrs. Tussle’s kindergarten room, holding her hand the whole time, and then patted her when it was time to part. “See you on the bus,” Lisa said. “Bus number six, okay?” And Suzette felt nervous and empty as she watched Lisa walk away.
Suzette remembers waiting to step off that plane in Finland. Her hand shaking as she held her small carry-on and the local woman next to her still sleeping, her head almost on Suzette’s shoulder. Suzette looked at the woman, her open mouth so peaceful, and thought, What will we all do here? Which was really an absurd thought, because this woman spoke no English, so she probably belonged there already. Maybe she slept peacefully and felt, “Ah, home.”
Now Suzette looks at Damon’s text, then puts the phone down on her lap while she drives through Wharton. Damon is a good man. She cannot have another Finland. Her parents have spent almost forty thousand dollars on this wedding. She overheard her mother say to her grandmother on the phone in a low voice, “I haven’t ever seen her like this. This guy has brought Suze so much serenity.” As if Damon were a Buddhist garden.
His text says, I’m worried. You okay?
She imagines the feeling of his hand holding hers, and starts to bite her fingernails.
Today Connecticut looks like Finland: cold ground, green trees. And she feels like she did in Finland: uncertain, slightly sweaty.
She puts both hands on the steering wheel and finds a spot at Crowley Cleaners where she has her last fitting with Freddie Tyler, the seamstress. She knew Freddie through her parents’ good friends Alex and Kay Lionel. Freddie’s husband worked for Alex. Suzette had seen Freddie at several events before she learned she was a seamstress.
The sign says Open, but just one car is in the lot today: a shiny Buick that’s at least five years old. On the glass door of the cleaners is a plastic elf holding a sign that says Season’s Greetings, and in the window box are fake poinsettias and white lights. Her wedding is eight days away. Eight days, and she refuses to let it be another failure that will be held against her for years.
She walks up to the door and sees Mrs. Crowley at the counter replacing register tape.
Did Finland really happen? How odd that a person can have such things belong to them. She had been right out of college. She remembers her roommate in Finland—Helmi—a kind girl her age with large trusting eyes and a birthmark on her left cheek. Helmi had very fine hair, dishwater blond, and could patch together some decent English.
Already we go dinner for you?
The school where Suzette would be teaching matched her up with Helmi. Helmi made Suzette a strong cup of coffee that day she arrived, which is still the best cup of coffee she has ever had. They sat at a small wooden table in the kitchen of the apartment, and Helmi shrugged as she sipped and asked about Suzette’s flight. Then she stood in Suzette’s small bedroom with the plain bed that looked like a cot and brass lamp and tiny window and helped her unpack each item of clothing. This I put here? She remembers how suffocated she felt as Helmi laid her sweaters on the closet shelf and used one of the three hangers to hang Suzette’s black Stella McCartney dress. Very beautiful, Helmi said.
Suzette re
members how she talked faster than usual because she was nervous, and Helmi smiled politely, not knowing how to respond to her rapid sentences.
Then, a day later, the director of the English immersion school in Espoo showed Suzette to her tiny classroom, just a couple of days before the nine- and ten-year-olds would arrive. She remembers the cracks in the walls as she walked the hallway of the school, not seeing locks anywhere. She remembers the odd smell—like pinecones—and how paralyzed she felt. How this teaching and this life were right there, right in front of her, but she felt buried, bubble-wrapped.
How had she thought it would go? Did she not know moving to another country was not like in the movies: the satisfied stare out the plane window, the plucky heroine rolling her suitcase behind her?
She should have known better, but once there she felt like vomiting. What would she teach those kids on their first day? She had applied to the program and never thought she’d get in. She majored in social work in college. She never took an education class. “Paper clip your picture to the packet,” her father had said. “Guaranteed they’ll hire you.” She did. And they did.
A week later, when she was back home, when her parents and younger sister, Carrie, whispered about her downstairs, she sat in the picture window of her bedroom and held a throw pillow against her chest, chewing absently on the corner. “It wasn’t a good fit,” she had said calmly, but she didn’t tell anyone about how she left the school administrator a note (a note!) on her desk (in clearly printed words because she wasn’t sure if her cursive was legible to someone whose first language was Finnish). She didn’t say how she told Helmi she could keep the black dress, how she gave her a stack of euros (probably way too much) to cover the rent, how before she went to the airport she bought a pack of cigarettes in a bar and drank mulled wine and smoked and hiccuped and cried.
She cried because she couldn’t give this beautiful city a chance. She cried because she broke Helmi’s polite heart and because they’d never stayed up late to talk about boyfriends or watch a movie together the way Suzette had envisioned. She cried because she felt so alone, and no one in the bar even noticed her crying. It was one o’clock in the afternoon, and she didn’t even know if her I’m sorry, but I can’t do this note was received yet. She cried because she never even sat in her teacher’s desk chair and because maybe they were relieved that she’d quit. Because the students wouldn’t have been able to learn from her anyway.