Van laughs. “Sure, Dad. I don’t think I’ve ever played one for you before.”
“I bet it’s your best, anyway.”
“Yeah, it probably is,” he says, getting up from the chair. “I’m going to put this away.” He gestures with his guitar.
“I think he should go to Nashville,” pipes up Jenny. Van stops in his tracks. “Break into the music scene. That’s where all the songwriters go, so he tells me.”
“Really? You would go?” asks Irina, her eyes shiny as she looks up at him, now halfway up the stairs.
“No. I don’t know. Well, maybe. We’ll see. Probably…” Van continues muttering as he goes up the stairs. Jenny winks in our direction and follows him up.
Well, I’ll be damned.
My phone rings, and I almost jump out of my skin. It’s been so quiet with no power. I answer because I’m closest.
It’s Paul.
“Is everyone okay over there?” he asks.
“We’re fine. That big tree is down, but it fell across the street, not onto the house.”
“That is lucky.”
“Yes, we are very lucky.”
For a moment I forget that I’m on the phone. We are lucky, aren’t we?
“Mira?”
“Sorry, Paul. What about you and yours? Is the homestead okay?”
“My porch got crushed by some limbs, but nothing that can’t be fixed. Still looking for the dogs, but I think they’re fine, just spooked by the thunder.”
I usually look forward to Paul’s calls, even when they’re just business, because he can usually be counted on to say something complimentary or funny. Something that makes me smile bigger and feel warm. But now, I just want him off the phone to get back to my family. I rush through remaining pleasantries and hang up before he’s even finished saying good-bye.
Katya’s kids elbow each other as they sit around the kitchen table, laughing with goofy good nature, making a big show of fighting over the pancakes. Chip and Tay look none the worse for wear, considering their shenanigans last night. Darius and Charles sip coffee, leaning against the wall near the dining room, and their posture is so similar that I do a double take: both have ankles lightly crossed, the hand without the coffee casually hooked in a front pants pocket. Irina doesn’t notice; she listens to Katya over by the kitchen window. I can’t hear them, but I can guess by that sweet glow over Katya’s face—normally so severe, now soft and open—that she’s reminiscing about the baby days. Jenny and Van are deep in conversation in the living room, just outside the kitchen, until Van takes a shift at the camp stove to let Max eat some pancakes. I perch on the kitchen counter to crunch my muesli.
The cool breeze stirs the cooking smells through the house, and my family’s chatter warms me like an afghan, and if I remain in this very moment, this moment alone, everything seems bliss.
They talk about road conditions, and the Detroit Tigers, then Katya squashes a burgeoning argument about the war in Iraq between Darius and Charles, by asking, “Mom? When do you see the doctor next?”
I wipe my fingers on my pants. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t remember?” she prompts.
“I don’t know. I haven’t made another appointment.” I remember Dr. Graham thrusting a card toward me, telling me in her soft, kind voice to come back when I’ve had a few days to think. When I didn’t take it—my vision was shrinking and I felt like I was in a tunnel, I just kept stepping backward—I saw Max’s hand take it from her.
The room grows quiet again, and the silence seems sharp in contrast to the happy buzz that came before. I stare down at my cereal, going to mush in my bowl. I don’t want to see Katya’s face, hard in judgment, or Irina, prematurely mourning.
I catch myself thinking, why me? And I wonder who I’m talking to.
“I’ll call the doctor in the morning,” I tell them, and I’m surprised to realize that I actually mean that.
I raise my eyes from my cereal bowl and find my family exchanging glances with each other, sending those telegraphic messages that families do. Darius squeezes Irina’s shoulders, and she puts a hand over one of his and squeezes his hand in return.
I tell them, “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll listen to the doctor and see what my options are.”
“Good,” says Katya, through a mouthful of pancakes. “Glad to know you’re being so sensible.”
“Watch it, or I might change my mind,” I say, grinning at her. “I’d hate to go all sensible on you.”
The timbre in the room changes, and the conversation bubbles up like champagne in a flute. I catch Irina and Darius holding hands tightly, and though her face still looks pale, she’s smiling. Jenny and Van are openly cracking jokes about dead parrots, and Katya ruffles little Kit’s hair. In profile, I realize how much those two look alike, and I wonder if they’ll fight through her adolescence as much as her mother and I did.
I was forcing her to be nonconformist, I suppose, but it made so much sense at the time, wanting to impress my ideals upon her. Was that so different than a dad teaching his son to play football because he played in high school? It didn’t help matters that by the time Irina came along I didn’t have the same energy or time to comb the thrift stores for recycled clothes, and I relied more on packaged food for lunches. Irina got to fit in, just because she was last, and I was worn down. But to Katya it must have seemed brutally unfair.
For the moment though, my family looks fairly content, nearly happy, if not for the sadness in Irina’s smile as she worries about the baby she didn’t know she wanted. And Charles still looks like he might throw up. Still, a better-than-average mealtime gathering.
Was that all it took? Me agreeing to call the doctor? They must think they know what I’m going to do, that I’ll run in there and get my tit cut off.
We’ll see about that.
But then, no one is insisting that I do anything. They seem honestly contented, for now anyway, that I’m just going to listen. Keep an open mind.
Isn’t that what a flower child is supposed to be? Open-minded?
Saying good-bye to my children is always bittersweet, and this morning the bitter wins out. My mortality looms over their departures, as I imagine it will for every parting from now until the final one.
Katya gives me the tightest hug I can remember receiving in years, and she hangs on for an extra second. This chills me; she hasn’t shown me this much genuine need since before puberty. What has Charles done?
Their family parades out into the rented Ford Explorer, and the house feels ten times bigger without the grandchildren and all their noisy electronic stuff. My hit of relief at having the extra space back is followed by a sinking feeling of despair and guilt, because how many more times will I get to see them visit and stand in the driveway waving at them as they go?
Tears leak onto the bridge of my nose, and I sniff hard, watching their car retreat until it rounds the corner, out of view.
Darius and Irina leave next. Irina whispers into my ear, “No more blood so far.” I tell her to call me tomorrow. She doesn’t tell me if she’s sticking it out with Darius, and maybe she doesn’t even know yet, herself. But they’ve been in constant physical contact since they came down for brunch. Darius himself is unreadable. I wonder if I’ll get the chance to know him better; if he’ll drop his walls and relax around us. He can’t be this placid all the time, it’s inhuman.
He shakes my hand, then pulls me in for a light embrace. “Stay well, Mrs. Zielinski,” he says.
I smile up at him. “I won’t expect you to call me mom, but really, Mira is just fine. And I mean it about dinner. Please come again to see us.”
He nods and guides Irina out by the shoulder.
Ivan and Jenny stay to help us do the dishes. The radio tells us power might be out tomorrow, too. I don’t mind. I like being off the grid. It’s like the real world is suspended, and that feels very good, especially right now.
Ivan plans to drive Jenny back to her car,
which they arranged to have towed to a nearby gas station, once they finally got a cell-phone signal. They might have some time to wait for that tow truck, which is busy after the stormy night. They plan to walk on the shores of Lake Charlevoix to kill time, while they wait. Something tells me they will have lots to talk about.
“Don’t disappear to Nashville without sending at least a postcard,” I say, stretching up on tiptoe to hug him around the shoulders. Where did the little boy go who didn’t even reach my shoulders? The toddler who liked to hang on to my pinky finger as we walked?
“When have you ever known me to make a snap decision?”
“Snap decisions never killed anybody,” I say. He holds me at arm’s length for a moment and smirks. “Well, okay, so some snap decisions are ill-advised. Still, you could do with a little more spontaneity.”
Ivan shifts his guitar on his shoulder and picks up his duffel bag. “I don’t know. Seems pretty foolish to give up a tenured position and go dashing off to wait tables and harass people with my songs in a strange city.”
Jenny appears beside him, having collected her things. “I think it would be worse never to have tried, to be lying there on your deathbed thinking, what if it’d worked?”
Van bites his lip and exhales sharply. I think the word “deathbed” has upset him.
I kiss him on the cheek. “That was a lovely song. You really have a knack.”
I fold Jenny into my arms. She feels like a daughter-in-law already, and I could get used to this. I hope it’s not an either-or choice: staying with Jenny or pursuing his dream. Maybe they need French teachers in Nashville, too.
And then they’re all gone with all their trappings and clothes and noise, except for the crumpled wreck of the Escalade that awaits a tow truck.
Max and I sprawl on the couch. I lean into his side, using him like my own personal lounge chair. As morning warms to afternoon, it’s starting to feel like summer again: the warmth presses in through the windows, especially those at the front of the house, where leafy branches used to filter the harsh light.
A metallic buzz and click announces the return of electricity. The television upstairs starts blathering. I want my silence back, but I’m too lazy to get up.
“I’ll get it,” Max says, “but you have to get off my leg.”
I peel myself up, and my spine feels stiff with just the few minutes I was resting there. I need some yoga, but first I’d like some proper tea.
I nearly drop my teacup on the counter when a horrific whining noise begins just outside my front door. I carry my teacup and saucer out to my front porch, facing the gaping hole in the yard and the muddy circle of upended roots.
Workers are sawing apart the tree limbs that are splayed across the street.
“Hey, babe,” says Patty, approaching from across the street, coming around the tree. “Not going out the window this time, I see.”
“Oh, you saw that, did you?” So that was how my family knew where to go looking. Patty saw me sneak out. Thank God she did, or I might have slipped off the pier in my marijuana haze. I’m too old for that shit anymore.
I park my butt on the porch’s top step. The morning sun, now moved to the side of the house, has already dried off last night’s monsoon rain. Patty comes along and plops down uninvited. But not unwelcome.
“Your house seems okay,” I say, sipping my tea, though it’s really too hot yet.
“Yep, just some shingles flying off. I might even have my stepson fix it rather than calling the insurance company. Seems like a lot of bother when he’s a roofer and all, anyway.”
I wonder if she’s heard about my foolishness on the pier.
“You wanna come to church with me next week?” she says, and I’m startled by the question. She knows I’m only a hair away from atheist, and she has never, in all our lives as neighbors and friends, asked me that.
“You think because I’m sick I need some churching up? Why, am I going to hell?”
“Just thought it might be nice.”
I shake my head and try to hide my disappointment by drinking more tea. I never would have thought Patty would try this, using my illness to evangelize.
She says, “There was this one lady in my church. Lung cancer. One of those people like Superman’s wife, who never smoked ever, but she got cancer anyhow.”
“Superman? Oh, Dana Reeve. Right.”
“She had the whole church praying for her, and she always had people giving her hugs, driving her places, helping her do stuff when she was feeling weak. It was a lovely thing to see.”
“I’m sure. And you’re about to tell me that she was cured, and it’s all due to all that praying and church.”
“No, she died, actually.” Patty turns to me and her face—etched by years of laughter and jokes and winks—is still and serious. “But I never saw anybody more serene. I’m sure she had her fearful moments, but man. She floated through the world, right up to the end.”
I can’t answer her, because to speak would break the dam loose. I set my teacup down because it’s started to rattle against the saucer.
“Well. You think about it.” Patty rubs my arm and squeezes my hand before getting up with an audible groan. I don’t watch her go back into her house. Instead I’m staring at the floorboards between my feet. The paint is peeling. The last time Max painted it, Van was just graduating from high school.
The buzzing pauses, and the silence makes me look up. The workers are pulling away great hunks of tree, leaving trails of wet leaves behind them as they pull the branches down the road to a truck. I wince as they haul the pieces up, and they land with a great rattling boom in the truck bed.
The saws roar to life again, deepening in pitch as they bite into the fallen maple. I can feel the grinding, chewing noise in my chest it’s so loud, and I put my hand over my heart, then cross both hands across my body, as if to protect it.
A fluttering catches my eye, to my left. I turn to see a butterfly dancing a circle in the air. It cartwheels by, between me and the muddy ball of roots.
That’s when I look down in the hole left by the fallen tree. Tiny green shoots push up from the dirt, already reaching for the light.
A+ AUTHOR INSIGHTS, EXTRAS, & MORE…
FROM KRISTINA RIGGLE AND AVON A
Discussion group questions
Does Mira’s reluctance to have surgery for her breast cancer seem understandable?
What other reasons might she have for this reluctance beyond what she shares directly with the reader in the opening chapter?
Which significant life changes are facing Mira, and how might those changes be affecting her state of mind regarding the cancer diagnosis?
How would you describe the relationship of Mira to each of her children? How do these relationships affect the plot of the novel?
How do you react to Mira’s marijuana use? How much does it affect her decision-making throughout the book?
How would you describe the marriage of Mira and Max? How do you think their relationship plays into her reaction to her cancer diagnosis?
How does birth order affect the three grown siblings and how they fit into the family?
Which main character—Mira, Katya, Ivan, or Irina—do you understand the most? What parallels can you draw to your own life?
Mira observes in the book that children grow up any way they want to, despite a parent’s best efforts. Do you agree with this?
Why does Katya find herself driving by her old boyfriend’s house and secretly calling him? Have you ever felt drawn to a romance from your past?
What is the source of the friction between Mira and Katya, and does it seem justified to you? Do you have old childhood fights with your parents that still echo in your adulthood?
Do you think Katya and Charles’s marriage will endure? Do you think Katya will truly change her life? If so, in what ways?
Do you agree with Katya’s decision to stay with Charles? How else might she have reacted?
Why is Ivan
so clueless about romance?
Do you think Jenny and Ivan have a future together? Why or why not?
Why do you think Irina engages in reckless romantic behavior?
What do you think Irina should do about Darius and the baby?
Do you believe Mira will change her mind about the surgery when she sees the doctor again? Why or why not?
What role does the Big Tree play in the novel?
How does Mira’s lack of formal religion play into the story? Do you believe her view has changed by the end?
How does the setting affect each of the characters?
Do you think the Zielinskis are a happy family at the beginning? How about at the end of the novel?
Author Q&A
Why did you choose to write this novel using four points of view, and with Mira’s point of view in first person, the others in third person?
I wanted to write the kind of book I love to read. I love a good family drama with a big cast of characters and colorful personalities. Also, it’s fun for me as a writer to get into different voices. It’s hard to get bored when you switch perspectives regularly. It did make for some tricky logistical issues sometimes. It was hard for me to remember what each character knew at any given point and where all the rest of them were, since the progression from chapter to chapter is not always precisely linear. But that was part of the fun, too. I put Mira’s voice in first person because I wanted to leave no doubt that this is her story, first and foremost. Also, she’s such a bold character. It would have seemed strange to speak for her, instead of letting her speak for herself.
What inspired this story?
I’d been trying to get published for a while, and that effort to be commercial had wrung all the joy out of my writing. I finally decided that I should write to entertain myself, and even if rejections rolled in, I could at least enjoy the process and be proud of the result. Happily, this book was received very well. I suspect this manuscript was the most authentic I’d ever produced.
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