Not too much, Evie hoped.
She watched Sandy cup Luca’s cheek, a tender gesture unmarred by his usual wicked humor. Beth scooped Luca from Nicole’s arms and sat on the couch with him, head-to-head, chattering, motioning with their hands. Sandy and Peg stood and chatted, her arms folded, his stance more open and welcoming with his hands by his sides. Evie whispered to Sophie, who clapped twice.
Everyone stampeded into the dining room, do-si-do-ing to find his or her assigned seat. Kids interspersed with adults. Family intertwined with friends. They scooted chairs into position, unfolded napkins, and opened their Haggadahs to page one.
The commotion filled Evie’s ears almost as much as it filled her heart.
* * *
Nicole put a whole chocolate-chip macaroon in her mouth. “These are so good,” she mumbled.
“Use your manners, Nicki,” Peg said.
Peg should take her own advice and she should take it back to Iowa, Evie thought.
“Oh, she’s fine. It’s the blessed season of macaroons,” Lisa said.
“Really?” Nicole asked, taking a chocolate-dipped one.
“No, hon, not really,” Shirley said.
Lisa rolled her eyes. Evie laughed, treating herself to her last macaroon of the evening. Or at least of the hour. She held the plate out and thrust it toward Peg, a peace offering to sweeten her up.
Peg took a plain one and popped it into her mouth. “Mmm,” she said—with her mouth full. “You were right, Nicki, these are delicious. May I have another?”
The power of macaroons.
Evie stepped back to get a better look at the innards of the dishwasher, willing it to have space for a few more plates.
“We’ll have to run two loads, maybe three,” Evie said, eyeing the counter.
“I’ll stay and help you,” Laney said, burping a Tupperware container filled with brisket.
“Me too,” Nicole said.
Sandy stood in the kitchen doorway. “Count me in.”
Evie waved a white napkin in surrender. “Lisa and my parents are here. You don’t have to stay—they do or they won’t have a place to sleep.”
“I’d love to talk to you about your time at Dartmouth,” Peg said.
“It was a long time ago, but sure.”
Nicole shook her head, but smiled. That mother and daughter had a long way to go, but at least they’d gotten started.
Evie looked at the kids sitting at the kitchen table playing Trouble. The click of the center plastic bubble was inaudible after Evie pushed SCRUB on the dishwasher control panel, although it had been a nice change from the whistles and beeps of video games.
Luca balanced on Jocelyn’s lap. Laney watched her. Evie watched Laney. Nicole watched Evie. Beth entered the kitchen, balled up tablecloth in her arms.
Evie’s happy-family trance was broken.
She balanced containers and opened the fridge, scanning the shelves for space. She rearranged some of the leftovers, and a small relish plate appeared. So much for nibbling on olives, gherkins, and sour tomatoes after the gefilte fish and before the soup. Evie swore next year she’d make a list more detailed than the one stuck to her fridge that said, Don’t forget anything.
She would also let Nicole reorganize the kitchen. Again.
Organized or not, making handprints on the pillowcase was something Evie never forgot—not even the first year she and Richard were divorced. She had gone to Beth’s without the kids, then fashioned a second night of Passover, makeshift seder, and dinner for three, with preschool Haggadahs, rotisserie chicken, frozen potato pancakes, and Bartons chocolate-covered raspberry-jelly rings that served as both a fruit and dessert.
“Is it time?” Sophie said.
“I guess it is,” Evie said. “Put a plastic cloth on the table.”
The kitchen crowd exchanged looks. Sophie opened a cabinet and bent to the floor, pulling out a plastic basket filled with art supplies. A rolled, stained vinyl cloth lay on top.
Evie walked to the dining room and returned with the Passover pillow and pulled it out of its case. She handed the pillow to Lisa, who wrapped her arms around it the way she did when she was sixteen, sitting on her bed and talking about boys. Evie wondered if she’d twirl her hair or tap her fingers, but Lisa just looked at her. Evie flattened the pillowcase and pointed to a few spots that would work. The handprints overlapped slightly, the design becoming abstract art, beautiful but unrecognizable. Evie took out a small, noisy plastic bag from the side drawer and revealed three small plastic paint bottles. This year she opted for metallic instead of primary, jewel tones, pastels, glitter, puffy, or iridescent.
“I want silver,” Sophie said.
“Do you want gold or copper, Sam?” Evie said.
“Gold.”
“It’s copper for Luca then.”
Nicole gasped.
“Do you not want him to have paint on his hands?” Evie asked. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t lick them.” Evie averted her eyes from Lisa and her parents and winked at Nicole.
“It’s not that,” Nicole said, her eyelids fluttering. “It’s fine. No, it’s perfect.”
It had been months—maybe years—since anything in the Glass home had been perfect. But Nicole was right.
Sam and Sophie both stuck out their palms, and Evie squeezed a glob of appropriate-color paint onto each one. The kids rubbed their hands together, coated their fingers, and pulled apart their hands with a thwack. Evie pointed to Sophie and to the pillowcase. Sophie placed her hands, counted aloud to ten, and pulled them off. Shirley turned on the water and waved Sophie to the sink. Sam followed suit.
Nicole held Luca facing Evie and gave her his right hand. Evie put the copper paint on three middle fingers. Nicole stared at Evie. So did Luca. She rubbed the paint on his hand and held open his fingers, guided them to the pillowcase, and pulled them off without a smudge. Luca’s palm print was solid, the fingers and thumb outlines sharp in some places and muted in others. Evie breathed deep.
“Good job,” she said.
Luca squirmed and smiled wide, exposing two top teeth, two bottom teeth, and a mouthful of saliva. Evie threw her head back and laughed, then out of the corner of her eye she watched Lisa examine the newfangled heirloom.
Evie changed her mental channel, rinsed the rest of the dishes one by one, and placed them on a patchwork of old kitchen towels. The sound of the water obliterated the voices behind her, but Evie daydreamed a modern Norman Rockwell scene. She looked straight ahead and out the window so as not to break the spell. It is such a pretty picture. Then she shut off the faucet and turned around, which is when she saw, and heard, reality.
Laney was talking to Herb, her voice like a Charlie Brown adult’s. Evie’s parents sat at the table reading the newspaper, turning pages in time to Jocelyn’s and Jordyn’s slap of playing cards. Sophie’s head disappeared into the freezer. Peg held Luca, who had chocolate all over his face. Rex licked something off the table leg, then the floor, then himself. Nicole dug in her diaper bag and emerged holding questionable, crumpled baby wipes. Laney took them and threw them away. Beth organized Tupperware by size, color, and contents. From the living room, Alan hooted and hollered something about a home run, and Sam belched his rendition of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” Then Evie watched Lisa pop the last homemade macaroon into her mouth, without asking if her sister wanted it.
“Hey!” Evie joked. “That’s the one I wanted!”
Sandy belly-laughed. The sound was becoming familiar.
Evie turned away again, closed her eyes, and let the sounds of domestic chaos weave under and over her thoughts. This is my normal. She smiled, feeling warm and content, as though she were relaxing in front of a roaring fire with an old friend.
Or perhaps, with a new one.
Acknowledgments
COUNTLESS HANDS AND HEARTS HAVE helped me reach today, but there are people I must mention by name, without whom my journey would not have been possible, or nearly as much fun.
Many thanks to Jason Yarn, my agent, for his insight and expertise, and for answering all my questions all the time. Boundless gratitude to Brenda Copeland, my St. Martin’s editor, whose enthusiasm for The Glass Wives and confidence in me not only humbled and challenged me, but transformed me from a writer into an author. Heartfelt thanks also go to Laura Chasen, editorial assistant extraordinaire, for paying close attention to every detail, for quelling my nerves, and for risking her life to hail me a cab.
My critique partners, Pamela Toler and Christina Gombar, spent years reading chapters as many times as I rewrote them without complaint and always with insight. My earliest readers may not recognize The Glass Wives as the manuscript they read, but make no mistake, their feedback was crucial. Then there are later readers, workshop companions, those who answered questions or offered extraordinary moral support. Julie Asregadoo, Jami Bernard and the Ducklings, Annmarie Lockhart, Linda Oltman, Rebecca Flowers, Debra Lynn Lazar, Tina Ann Forkner, Kelly O. Levinson, Holly Root, Keith Cronin, Kristine Asselin, Janna Qualman, Julie Wu, Jeff Gold, Magdalen Braden, Adrienne Kress, Priscille Sibley, Alice Davis, Kathy Calarco, Sandra Kring, Brenda Janowitz, Lori Nelson Spielman, Julie Kibler, Eric Schlanger, Fern Katz, and Manny Katz (even though all his ideas were somehow edited out).
I’ve made many friends through my Women’s Fiction Writers blog, the Women’s Fiction Writers Alliance, and The Debutante Ball, where Kerry Schafer, Dana Bate, Kelly Harms, and Susan Spann are my 2013 Deb sisters. The sense of community these writers has provided has been a blessing.
These amazing authors and editors taught me more about writing and publishing than can be found in any book: Erica Orloff, Steve Mills, Meg Waite Clayton, Randy Susan Meyers, Karen Dionne, the members of Backspace, and last but not least, Book Pregnant—my BPeeps—my tribe.
Renee San Giacomo lovingly handed me a shovel and told me to dig deeper. Whitney Finkelstein believed all this would happen long before anyone else, even me. My sister-friend, Judith Soslowsky, has read in between the lines of my life for thirty-three years and has always understood the work as well as the reward.
For the opportunity to come into the lives and hearts of readers—in the past, present, and future—I am forever grateful.
My parents’, Sarah and Michael Nathan’s, and my brother David Nathan’s unconditional love provided the foundation on which I have built my life (many times, in many places).
My wonderful children, Zachary and Chloe Gropper, have been enthusiastic about my writing career since that Sunday in 2006 when my first essay appeared in the Chicago Tribune and we filled the back of the car with newspapers. You are now both remarkable adults with whom I am honored to share this and every journey. I love you, and believe that for all three of us, the best is yet to come.
About the Author
AMY SUE NATHAN lives and writes near Chicago, where she hosts the popular blog Women’s Fiction Writers. She has published articles in The Huffington Post, the Chicago Tribune, and The New York Times Online, among many others. Amy is the proud mom of a son and a daughter in college, and a willing servant to two rambunctious rescued dogs. Learn more at AmySueNathan.com.
THE GLASS WIVES
by Amy Sue Nathan
About the Author
• A Conversation with Amy Sue Nathan
Behind the Novel
• “What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger (and Will Certainly Make Its Way into Your Novel)”
An Original Essay by the Author
Keep On Reading
• Recommended Reading
• Reading Group Questions
For more reading group suggestions visit www.readinggroupgold.com
ST. MARTIN’S GRIFFIN
A Conversation with Amy Sue Nathan
What started your writing career?
I wrote my first book when I was ten; it was a story about sisters, and my favorite Barbie dolls were the main characters. I’ve been writing ever since, even though a litany of desk jobs kept me pretty busy writing brochures, slide show copy (actual slides), and PR material for a small college. After the desk jobs came years as a stay-at-home mom. Then I started “mom-blogging” after my divorce. I wrote about my life, mostly, posts about dating after divorce and being the single mom of two kids who always needed to be in two places at the same time. The blog led to essays and columns published in print and online. Once, I overheard two women talking about an essay in the Chicago Tribune. My essay! Lucky for me, they were saying nice things. It was then I knew I wanted to continue pursuing publication and sparking conversations. Then one day, while struggling through an essay, a workshop instructor encouraged me to write fiction. I remembered the days of Barbie stories and wondered why it had taken me so long to go back to what I loved to do.
* * *
“It was important to me to show … there are many ways to be a family.”
* * *
You mentioned a “workshop instructor.” Did you take writing workshops to hone your craft?
I did! Lots of workshops. I’m deadline driven, so the structure of lessons and homework kept me accountable and moving forward with my novel and other writing projects.
How did you come up with the idea for your novel?
Truth was the springboard for The Glass Wives. My ex-husband died just a few years after we divorced. Things were bad. Very bad. But then, as time passed, I thought—what if things could be worse? That was the start of my novel. I took my nugget of truth as a divorced mom with a deceased ex-husband and imagined the myriad ways things could have been worse. What would have to happen? What kind of people would be involved? What would these people do? The widow moving in with the ex-wife topped the list. Once I had the premise, well, things took off from there.
Your book was inspired by a true story. Is anyone in your novel based on a real person?
No, but Rex the dog is based on our first Golden Retriever, Einstein, who was both a genius and a big galumph.
Writers often want to convey a particular point of view as well as tell a story. Was that true for you?
You bet. It was important to me to give a voice to single moms, to explore an unconventional family in a conventional community, and show there are many ways to be a family. Just like for some of my characters, my life did not turn out as I’d planned. As I wrote The Glass Wives, I learned along with Evie that things could turn out okay despite being thrown off-track a time or two. Or ten.
How did you choose your characters’ names? What about the last name, Glass?
In thinking of a last name for my characters, I knew a few things: I wanted it to be short, Jewish, but not overtly ethnic. I researched Jewish surnames and came up with Glass. It wasn’t until afterwards that I realized the additional connotations.
I always loved the name Evie, but I pronounce it EH-vie, so I wasn’t sure it was the right choice since most people I know said EE-vie. But when I changed the name to Tracy, and then to Lisa, the names just didn’t fit (although I used Lisa for another character). I realized I was writing Evie’s story, no matter how someone pronounced it. Beth was one of my favorite names growing up, one I always named my dolls, and so that was an easy choice. Laney picked her own name, and if you’ve read The Glass Wives, that won’t surprise you.
* * *
“When I write, I lose track of time…”
* * *
How did you come up with the title?
I was revising my novel for the umpteenth time and typed the words “the Glass wives” into a scene. I stopped in my tracks. The characters’ last name is Glass, so of course it worked on the literal level, but together those two words illustrate the fragility and transparency of their unusual family. I said “the Glass wives” aloud and knew it was the right title for my book. It was literal, it was metaphorical, and it was only about six weeks before my agent took it out on submission. The good timing and title gods were with me that day.
How do your kids feel about your writing?
; My son and daughter are incredibly supportive, which means … they let me write. Being a single mom meant I didn’t have the luxury of tag-team parenting. When the kids were young, I’d put my laptop on the dining room table and we’d all do our “homework” at the same time. I could be there and help them, and simply be present, while also writing. To save time there were plenty of macaroni and cheese dinners, but I always added peas and carrots for nutrition, although I said it was because the colors added panache.
What do you do when you’re not writing?
In the warm weather I’m a sometimes-gardener and have started growing vegetables, although not always with consistent success. Last year I harvested about a bushel of jalapeños, three tomatoes, four zucchini, and enough basil to season a buffet for a small nation. I love to cook but, unlike Evie, I don’t like to bake unless it involves a tube of cookie dough. And even then you’ll have to convince me it needs to go into the oven.
Most of all, when I’m not writing or doing something writing-related, I want to spend time with my kids. When they’re around it’s very important that I have no distractions, and it’s probably the only time I don’t answer my phone. I also have two dogs that require a lot of treats and attention and have no tolerance for deadlines or phone calls.
What are your writing habits?
It was only when I started writing my second novel that I realized I write on my lap and edit at my desk. To write the drafts of a book or story or essay or even a blog post, I need to get comfortable on a favorite chair or sofa or even the bed, prop up the laptop on my lap and just type, preferably near a window. I often lose track of time—maybe that’s where the comfort comes in. When I’m revising or editing, I need more structure—my ergonomic chair, a bright desk lamp, pens and pads of paper nearby, strong coffee, and chocolate.
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