The Kids Are Gonna Ask

by Gretchen Anthony

  “And it was nice. Really nice. He apologized for what happened. Explained. Introduced himself. Said he wants to meet us, if we’re interested.”

  “And are you?” Maggie said.

  “Possibly. Probably. I don’t know.”

  “I’d meet him,” said Thomas. “I mean, yeah, I want to know for sure. Eventually. But it seems like there are too many factors pointing to him being the correct match.”

  “Hang on. Don’t move.” Savannah jumped up and ran for the stairs. “There’s something I want us all to open together.”

  Envelope #2

  Dear Savannah,

  If you’re reading this, it means you want to know the story of the time your mom and I spent together.

  NOTE: If you cheated :-) and opened this letter first, be aware of what you’re getting into.

  But, if you’re still reading and you want to know the story, here it is...

  I met Bess while I was working as a bartender at The Mine in Breckenridge, Colorado. I worked there for a few years, but I’ll always remember meeting your mom because the first thing she ever ordered from me was a white wine spritzer. I said, “A summer drink with all this snow?” And she said, “I’m a Minnesota girl. This is like July for me!” Then she laughed and I noticed her teeth were all perfectly straight except for one tooth that twisted, like it wanted to stand out.

  Plus, she was pretty. I noticed that right away, too.

  The bar must not have been busy the first time your mom and her friends came in because I think I talked to them for a few hours at least. Especially Bess. I was fascinated by her. The way she could laugh at herself without putting herself down. Too many women do that. It’s like they can’t be funny and be smart, both. I was a bartender, so I saw it all the time. Don’t ever fall into that trap, Savannah. Your mom didn’t, and I hope you inherited her smart sense of humor.

  Anyway, Bess and her friends came in again, I think. To be honest, it’s gotten sort of fuzzy over the years. But I know for sure that I ran into her on my night off. I was with friends and the two of us eventually ditched everyone else and hung out at a table in the corner. Your mom was so funny. Not like a stand-up comedian, but it was like she could talk about anything without getting too heavy. Keep in mind this was 2002 and the whole country was dealing with 9/11 and the Taliban and Bush talking about WMDs in Iraq. It was crazy. The economy had tanked and no one was traveling so all the resort bums like me were trying to get by on less cash but sort of happy we had more days off to ski. I know that sounds bad, that the country had just been attacked and I was just happy to have more time on the slopes. I don’t mean it like that. It’s just, when you don’t know what you want to do with your life, it can be pretty convenient to have an excuse—that there aren’t any decent jobs even if you wanted one.

  Sorry, I think I’ve gotten off the subject. The point is, your mom had a way of sounding optimistic even in the middle of all that. It’s contagious, being around a happy person. She made me feel good. Made me feel even a ski bum like me could do something cool. I hope she was the same for you as a mom.

  At some point I told her I was thinking about going to New Zealand for the summer. Their seasons are the opposite of ours—summer is winter and winter is summer—so the “Kiwi Crew,” that’s what we called them, all came over to the US to work the resorts and ski during their off months. I’d gotten to know a few of them pretty well and they invited me to come visit. Said they’d give me places to stay and hook me up with friends I could crash with when I traveled. Your mom encouraged me to do it, too. She said I’d never get a chance to do something so adventurous for so cheap again. I remember she said, “It’s just money.” And I was like, “Yeah, coming from someone who has plenty.” Because it was pretty obvious. I’d just flunked out of a state school and lost whatever financial aid I’d been given, and she was about to graduate with no loans and a job waiting for her (to be fair, I don’t remember if that was true—as in, something she told me—or if it was just how I saw things back then).

  We talked about the future a lot. She played this game called, “Let’s Imagine.” She’d say something like, “Let’s imagine you go to New Zealand and fall in love with a Kiwi ski bunny. What would life be like?” And then we’d talk about what life would be like if that happened. One time I said, “Let’s imagine you quit school and stay here with me in Breck.” She just laughed and said, “Not gonna happen, sport.”

  I wanted you to know that story because ever since this whole thing has unfolded, I’ve felt bad that maybe you guys would think you were the result of some one-night stand. But you weren’t. I really liked Bess. It’s not like we were going to get married or anything, but it wasn’t sleazy like that. I admired your mom. We had fun together. I knew she was going to live a good life.

  Obviously, I didn’t have any idea that would include raising the two of you.

  Okay, so I guess I’d better get to the point. Yes, we slept together. A lot (sorry—TMI). We were careful. I was always careful. So as to how the two of you STILL happened, I don’t know. But I guess if you play the law of averages?? Ugh—this is getting awkward. Sorry, again.

  We did exchange info when she left. I had her cell phone number and her email address. But back then you lost your cell number every time you changed call plans or companies and I think I had like four different numbers when I was living in Breck. So maybe she tried to call but the number didn’t work anymore? Maybe she figured I’d gone to New Zealand? She had other reasons, too. Other people in her life. I won’t get into all that because I don’t know much. Only to say that I think if she’d really wanted to find me, she could have tried. You guys found me, after all. But, like I’ve told both of you, I think she knew I wasn’t in any shape to become a dad. Maybe she thought you’d be better off just having a stable mom and home life. As far as I’m concerned, we met, things happened, and when she found out she was pregnant she decided to raise the two of you the way she felt was best. She believed she could do it on her own. And in the end, I’m really glad she did.

  I guess that’s it. If you want to know more, I’ll be happy to tell you whatever I can. Mainly, Savannah, I want you to know that your mom made me feel decent about myself for the first time in a long time. That’s why I remember her. I want you to know, too, that if I do turn out to be your biological father, I’ll be really proud and amazed. You and Thomas are already way more “together” than I’ve ever been and you have your mom to thank for that.

  Best wishes, as always,

  John James (Jack/Thor) Thorson

  Forty-Six

  Thomas

  Thomas’s first instinct after hearing Jack’s letter was to hug Savannah.

  “Oh my god, what is happening to you?” She laughed and hugged him back.

  “It has to be him,” he said. “It has to be.”

  “She called you ‘sport,’ too,” Savannah said.

  “And the ‘Let’s Imagine’ game—how many times did we play that?”

  “A thousand.”

  “It was her favorite.” The falter in Maggie’s voice cut through the revelry, and Thomas saw tears dangling on her eyelashes. “Even as a little girl. She’d say, ‘Let’s imagine I grow up to be a famous ballet dancer and get to wear tutus every day.’ One time—” and then she laughed, remembering “—she said to your granddad, ‘Let’s imagine I turn into a dog and bite you on the leg.’ And then she did! I just about wet my pants I laughed so hard.”

  Thomas took the letter and read the opening again. He could hear it in Jack’s voice now. Dear Savannah, If you’re reading this, it means you want to know the story of the time your mom and I spent together. He wondered if it would ever feel real.

  “It’s not gonna feel real until we meet him,” Savannah said.

  Thomas drew back, shocked. “Did you read my mind? I was just thinking that.”

  “Seriousl
y? I never thought we were those kinds of twins, but who knows? Maybe the father quotient changes something.”

  “It definitely changes something.” Thomas looked back down at the letter in his shaking hands. “Every time I feel like I’ve got a handle on this father thing, something new comes up and I have to start all over again.”

  “I know what you mean. I’m still processing Mom being a cheat.”

  Maggie reached over and took Savannah’s hand. “She didn’t cheat, love—she was single when she met Jack. But it was good she didn’t marry that man. She chose you over him. I want to be sure you understand that.”

  “Oh, I know,” Savannah said. “If she chose to raise twins by herself rather than marry him? That’s a sign. Watching Trigg’s parents stay miserable together is all the proof I need.”

  Maggie noted that Bess had most certainly not raised twins by herself, but she bit her tongue.

  Everyone fell silent for a moment. Thomas looked at Jack’s handwriting. It was precise, not anything like his sloppy penmanship and bad spelling. It surprised him.

  “I love how she encouraged him to travel, you know?” Nadine said quietly, barely audible over the baseball game on TV. “It’s exactly the opposite of what would happen in a movie where the woman always falls in love and tries to get the man to settle down.”

  “Counternarrative,” said Savannah. “I love that part, too.”

  Thomas turned to his sister, the realization coming quick and true. “Our mom was sort of a badass.”

  She squeezed his shoulder. “I think so, too.”

  It was enough to make them both tear up. Then, before anyone knew, all of them were hugging and crying—including Nadine and Chef Bart, who hadn’t even known their mom.

  And then, from the other side of the wall, “Uuunnnggghhh.”

  “Good lord.” Maggie ended the hug, the spell broken.

  “He’s hurtin’,” said Chef Bart.

  Van waved away the concern. “Serves him right.”

  “Bet your ass, it does,” Thomas said.

  “More like, his ass,” agreed Van, and they lost it, all five of them, laughing and crying and falling into an exhausted, hysterical heap.

  Finally, Maggie sat back and gathered herself. “Since we’re having show-and-tell, I may as well come clean. This whole evening was designed under false pretenses.”

  “You mean like, you lured Sam here to get revenge? Is that why he’s being held toilet prisoner? You poisoned him?” Savannah laughed like it was a joke, but Thomas suddenly wondered if she might be onto something.

  “No!” Maggie protested. “I simply thought I might gain a few concessions from him if I had the upper hand. Gastrointestinally speaking.”

  “Oh, his intestines are speaking, all right,” Chef Bart remarked.

  “So, you poisoned him?” Savannah looked angry and astonished at once.

  “Absolutely not! I would never. I simply took advantage of his weaknesses.” Maggie sighed and gathered her thoughts. “The man eats nothing but white bread and red meat. You saw him as well as I did in New York. Roast beef sandwich on potato bread. And his fascination with burgers. He probably has one bowel movement a week.”

  Thomas groaned, but couldn’t help laughing. This was such a typical McClair conversation.

  “The menu was rich in FODMAPs—that is, foods known to engage the bowels. I don’t remember what all the acronym stands for, fermentable something something. Anyway, it’s a long list of foods. Garlic, beans, sugar alcohols, fiber, fresh cheeses, dense fruits. At the very most, I thought he would feel uncomfortably bloated. And uncomfortable people are quicker to tell the truth.” She swung an arm toward the wall between the den and the bathroom. “I never imagined this.”

  “That’s why you left cookies and milk at his hotel?” Thomas said. “And had so many appetizers? Served him prune juice? Took him for a walk, all that?” The pieces were coming together.

  Goat cheese, Brie, caramelized onions, garlic, cabbage, beans, beans and beans.

  “I admit I may have taken it a step too far.”

  “But, to be absolutely clear, you did not poison him, correct?” Savannah was obviously having a hard time getting past the possibility.

  “We didn’t poison him,” said Chef Bart.

  Savannah spun on him. “You were in on this, too?”

  He answered her with a slow nod.

  “Dad!”

  Thomas couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Except, of course he could. Nothing was ever normal in this house.

  Chef Bart held up his hands in surrender. “I told her about FODMAPs and suggested the menu. But we didn’t poison him. He was just the victim of too much, too fast.”

  “Gluttony.” Savannah grinned. “One of the seven vices.”

  As if on cue, Sam Tamblin moaned. Through the wall, they heard the toilet flush.

  “We need to get some fluids in him.” Maggie stood and gestured to Chef Bart. “And maybe some ginger, to settle the roiling.”

  “Right behind you.” The two of them disappeared toward the kitchen.

  “This is way too awesome for words,” said Savannah. “I couldn’t write a script this good.”

  “An innocent man trapped in our bathroom, in agony, by our grandmother’s hands?” Thomas said.

  “Maggie’s hands, nothing! She put the food in front of him, but he ate it. We all ate it—except for me and the dairy, of course. You ate it. And Maggie. And Nadine and her dad. Nobody forced it down his throat. And none of us are running to the bathroom. Not even lactose-intolerant me.”

  “Don’t you feel at all guilty that he’s in such bad shape?” Thomas was no Sam Tamblin fan, but it was hard not to feel some sympathy for the guy. At least until he could peel himself off the floor.

  “If he had taken even the tiniest bit of responsibility for everything we’ve been through, maybe. But you said so yourself. The guy is as slick as Jell-O. Let him wallow. Maybe he’ll learn something.”

  “Well,” Nadine laughed, “Sam’s never going to forget you guys. That’s for sure.”

  “Maybe we should record him moaning,” said Savannah. “Just in case we need it as blackmail.”

  Forty-Seven

  Jack

  Jack made it to Colorado to find his folks in tough shape. His mom was drinking more than he knew, and according to the doctors, his dad’s hip was shot.

  He also hadn’t been aware of just how much of the day-to-day work his dad had surrendered. His farmhand, Telo, was still there every day, as well as Jack’s cousins, Todd and Greg. He didn’t know if they were getting paid, but it didn’t take more than a few minutes to see that those three men were the whole reason the family still had a farm at all.

  As soon as he pulled up, his mom ran out of the house and threw her arms around him. “Junior!”

  He could smell it, the alcohol. On her breath and seeping out her pores.

  “Mom.” He was about to lay into her—about the farm looking one step away from fallow, and the drinking and the fact his dad wasn’t in any shape to handle it.

  It was the skin bagging over her kneecaps that ultimately stopped him. Not baggy in the way that happens to older people, but in the way that happens when a person’s body is falling apart.

  His mom was falling apart.

  His dad was falling apart.

  And neither one of them wanted to do anything to stop it. They’d shown Jack their intentions ever since he’d been a child—they were going to live like they lived and die like they died. The trajectory of his parents’ lives was set.

  So, Jack shut his mouth and returned her embrace. Maybe it was Ford’s good sense rubbing off on him.

  It took him about a week to work up the courage to say something about his concerns. Up until that point, he’d shown his family loyalty by helping his cousins an
d Telo with the day-to-day work. Helped repair an irrigation hose. Spent a day spreading gravel over the ruts in the road behind the implement barn. All while his dad stood back, correcting his every move.

  One morning, he said, “I’d like you to quit drinking, Mom.” They were at the kitchen table. Jack was nursing a cup of coffee, his mother a hangover. “It would be better for your health, help you live longer. I think you know that.”

  She patted his face. “I love you, Junior. I’ve missed you.”

  At any other time in Jack’s life, his mother’s evasion would have angered him enough to leave. Abandon his parents to their own misery. But what was the point? If his parents had been the ones to set the paths of their lives, Jack was the one who got to set his.

  His mom fussed with a strand of hair that kept falling across her face. “Did you see those nasty curtains Todd’s wife wants to hang up in my house? I made those curtains myself. With my own hands.” She pointed to the curtains that had been up as long as Jack could remember, a nightmare of feverish orange and green dots. “You were a baby and I was practically dead from no sleep and still, I wanted to make a nice house for my family. I had pride. And what happens? She has the nerve to suggest I need to brighten the place up and hands me a pile of cheap made-in-China crap. We’ll probably get bugs.”

  Jack looked past her to the land beyond the windows, the road toward town. “You think you’ll ever move off the farm?”

  “When I’m ready.” Which he knew meant probably never. And which also told him, his business in Hartwell was as good as done.

  Forty-Eight

  Maggie

  Maggie never imagined the menu she planned would have any more impact on Sam Tamblin than to make him feel uncomfortably full. Perhaps bloated. Frankly, she’d doubted it would even work at all. Digestion isn’t something humans can flip with a switch, it typically takes hours, and every human body tolerates foods in its own unique ways.

  She just had no idea Sam Tamblin would tolerate her food so uniquely.