As has Sam. Whose enthusiasm more than compensates for a lack of skill. Frankly, his diapering turns out lopsided and tends to leak. And because he’s so afraid of soap in his daughters’ eyes, their hair is never sufficiently rinsed. As soon as he leaves the room, I refasten the diapers and get the shampoo out on the sly. He never even notices the difference. I’m trying to teach him that scrapes and bumps are part of normal growing up. He’s making progress. Yesterday he put a Snoopy Band-Aid on Abigail’s “boo-boo” and only slightly flinched at a tiny bubble of blood.
Has there ever been a more doting father in the history of fatherhood? He leaves the shop early, dawdles in the morning to gobble Cheerios with his girls. Fortunately the combi has taken over a lot of the previously time-consuming chores. “Best purchase ever made,” Sam congratulates me.
I mailed Joe a photo of the combi with Sam and me and Hope and Abigail posed in front of it. He sent a postcard back that he was doing okay and that the photo made him happy, would have made Mary happy too. And that he’s so glad the combi found a great family to appreciate it.
Our expansion has been successful. Down East magazine raved about us, and tourists are making a detour to Passamaquoddy just to sample a Bunyan, our famous banh mi, and the meatball sub with the egg on top and to soak in our friendly Maine atmosphere. We hired more staff, more competent staff, and the place is buzzing. We plan to hold the girls’ first birthday party there. We’re surprising them with a puppy we’ve already picked out from the ASPCA, a puppy who is the spitting image of Binky, Sam’s childhood pet.
After Sam and I reunited, I wanted to burn the manual on the principle that we no longer needed it, that it had served its purpose and was a thing of the past. I wanted to erase any reminder of that scary time, of how stupid I’d been, how stupid we both had been, how close we had come to losing everything that mattered to us in this world. But Sam said no, he wanted the manual, wanted to be able to refer to it on how to lead his life, how not to fall back into his old unsociable and slovenly ways. What is most important about the manual, he feels, is that it’s a tribute to real love and a guide to how to make a good marriage great.
It was a long recuperation, but Sam is okay now. When the weather is damp, he feels it in his ankle, and he still doesn’t have full range of motion in his shoulder. But when we think of what could have resulted from that horrible morning, we are both so grateful, grateful to be alive and to have each other.
Other news: Rachel and the guy she met online are still dating. “I’m cautiously optimistic,” Rachel says. Megan got into Bowdoin early admission. Sam and I will come along with Rachel to parents’ weekend in the fall for a little trip down memory lane. As a side note, Rachel swears she was never worried one bit about Sam and me. I have refrained from quoting her back when she was handing out warnings and advice. It’s amazing how easy it is to rewrite history. And to forget.
My lungs are as clear as a bell, Dr. Albright claims; a spontaneous recovery from sarcoidosis is not unusual, and I am one of the lucky ones. Still, I plan to go to New York once a year for checkups. Ursula kept her apartment and is always thrilled to accompany me. Since Ambrose is semiretired, they are dividing their time more equally between Maine and Manhattan. In the spring, the whole family will head for the city—Sam and I and the girls and Ursula and Ambrose. Sam is already researching child-friendly restaurants. He hopes to show the twins the Egyptian rooms at the Met, even though Ursula and I tell him they’re still a little young.
The whole family—who would have thought it? And that there would be so many of us?
The other day, Sam heard from Ray Beaulieu’s brother-in-law that Juliette left her cocktail waitress job because of the hours. It turns out that she’s quite the hit at the nursing home; they are willing to overlook her barely dissolved tapioca and deficient dusting technique for the pleasure of gazing at her young face. And Isabel acts as official mascot; because of her, they have less need for the therapy dogs, which used to visit regularly from the animal shelter and were not always that well house-trained.
Sam’s coming home early this afternoon while I drop in on Dee Dee and get my hair cut. Since the kids, and to Ursula’s chagrin, my hair has been a mess. I’ll find out about Ralphie Michaud. Thanks to the passage of time and Sam’s tendency to see the whole interlude as hilarious, I can now say his name without cringing.
Sam has an architecture class tonight. He’s got a real gift for design. His new plan for Annie’s is brilliant. I’m encouraging him to go out more. We both need a little independence, I say. We both can benefit from our own space. “Yes,” he agrees, “I read about this once in a manual.” And we laugh.
I can’t even form the words to describe what it feels like to hold my own babies, our babies, to my breast. Or the looks on their faces when I go into the nursery and they see me, their mother. Dare I confess (something I’d never reveal to Rachel) that some nights—okay, most nights—we take them into our bed and we all sleep together, one tight little family knot.
Well, I hear Hope rustling in her crib. In seconds, Abigail will be up too, forming a little duet of wails, which means it’s time to shut down. I wish I could conclude with some profound observation on everything I’ve learned so far. But, let’s face it: the real lesson is love, isn’t it? Love and life.
xxxooooo Me (Annie Stevens-Strauss)
Acknowledgments
My smart, charming and patient agent, Mitchell Waters.
My editor, the savvy Faith Black Ross, and the always good-natured Alcove team, Melissa Rechter and Madeline Rathle.
Ellen Feld, MD and Lisa Weissmann, MD, for invaluable medical know-how.
The incomparable Elinor Lipman, first reader, hard marker, best of friends, whose generosity to fellow writers (and me) is legendary;
The brilliant Stacy Schiff, for manuscript insight and endless empathy.
The late, great (adored and deeply missed) Anita Shreve, a cheerleader for this novel and all my others.
Friends, neighbors and my circle of fellow writers who provided food and drink and strong shoulders during these last sad and difficult months.
My lovely sons, their lovely spouses and children: Daniel Medwed and Sharissa Jones, Mili and Clementine; Jono Medwed and Marnie Davidoff, Mirabelle and Gabriel.
My equally alliterative sister, Robie Rogge, a fount of support and good humor
And finally, my beloved husband, who died unexpectedly last year before we knew the manuscript was actually going to be a book and who would have beamed with pride. Let me repeat the dedication, so long ago, from my first novel, Mail:
For Howard, whom I met in nursery school, who thought writing was noble work, and who never once, in all our years together, said go get a job. This is for you, kid.
Also available by Mameve Medwed
Of Men and Their Mothers
How Elizabeth Barrett Browning Saved My Life
The End of an Error
Host Family
Mail
Author Biography
Born in Maine and named for two grandmothers, Mamie and Eva (pronounced May-Meeve), Bangor’s "other" writer (after Stephen King), Mameve Medwed is the author of five novels, Mail, Host Family, The End of an Error, How Elizabeth Barrett Browning Saved My Life. (2007 Massachusetts Book Award Honors in Fiction) and Of Men and Their Mothers. She has published essays in three anthologies: How to Spell Chanukah (Algonquin), My Bookstore (Black Dog and Leventhal) and What My Mother Gave Me (Algonquin). Her short stories, essays, and book reviews have appeared in, among others, the New York Times, Gourmet, Yankee, Redbook, Playgirl, The Boston Globe, Ascent, The Missouri Review, Confrontation, Newsday and The Washington Post. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coinc
idental.
Copyright © 2021 by Mameve Medwed
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Alcove Press, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Alcove Press and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.
ISBN (trade paperback): 978-1-64385-643-8
ISBN (ebook): 978-1-64385-644-5
Cover design by Melanie Sun
Printed in the United States.
www.alcovepress.com
Alcove Press
34 West 27th St., 10th Floor
New York, NY 10001
First Edition: January 2021
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