Fly Away Home

by Jennifer Weiner

  “Whatever happens,” she said, “I want you to see Milo. You’re his father, and I want you in his life.”

  Now Gary sounded offended. “Of course I’m going to be in his life. You think I’d dump him because of what you did?” He sighed. “I wish you’d come home so we could talk about it.”

  “For now, I want to stay up here.”

  “How long’s for now?” he asked. She could hear that old needling tone back in his voice, what she’d come to think of as Gary’s where-are-my-keys whine.

  “Through Thanksgiving,” she said.

  “Jesus, Diana! What about school?”

  “I’m homeschooling him.”

  “What about work?”

  “I’m on leave,” she answered

  “Come home,” he said again, and Diana thought, I am home. She did close her eyes then, and let herself imagine where the two of them might be in a year or two. Gary would find someone, of course. She could picture the woman, the kind of woman he probably should have been with from the start—a little younger than he was, short and round-faced, a laughing, bouncing, cheerful girl with none of the moodiness and melancholy that could afflict Diana. Gary’s girlfriend would be a pediatric nurse, or a preschool teacher, some kind of job that made use of her eternal good cheer. Diana could picture her smiling and joking with a small, frightened child as she bent to administer a test or a shot, dispensing Band-Aids and lollipops or stickers, once the damage had been done.

  This girl, Gary’s girl, would love Disney World with unfeigned, unironic enthusiasm, and would be able to coax Milo onto the scary rides. She’d keep bowls of Hershey’s Kisses on the coffee table, and she’d decorate the house for all the big holidays and most of the small ones. Probably she’d be class mother, and PTA president, and she’d deliver meals to the elderly once a month. In bed, she’d be willing and exuberant, and would take it as an endorsement when Gary sweated all over her. She’d have one of those names that ended in an “e” sound—Meggie, Carly, Kylie. She’d sign her letters “xo” and salt her e-mails with emoticons, and adjust her settings so that her signature appeared in pink. To her, Gary would never look stupid. She’d load his mashups onto her iPod. She’d sit beside him on the couch, watching football, cheering for interceptions and touchdowns.

  Maybe she’d even come to love Milo—she’d be the kind of girl who would find it easy to love. She’d have some nickname for Diana’s son—pal or buddy, a word that Milo would claim to detest but would maybe secretly like a little bit. C’mon, pal, Kylie or Meggie would say, helping Milo hop into her minivan with the THIS CAR CLIMBED MOUNT WASHINGTON bumper sticker—God, Diana could picture it, its maroon paint, a well-worn booster seat in the back, a can of Diet Coke, because Meggie/Carly/Kylie would always be on a diet, in the cup holder up front. Don’t call me that, Milo would grumble, but he’d be smiling, the corners of his mouth turned up just enough so the girl would know he didn’t really mean it.

  “I just wish …” said Gary.

  “I only wanted …” said Diana.

  They paused again. “I’ll bring him home this weekend,” she said to her husband—her ex-husband, her soon-to-be ex-husband. She would have to get used to saying that, have to get used to thinking of herself as a woman who had an ex instead of a husband. But she could do it. It was like Lizzie had said. People did, every day. People did it, and nobody died. Diana leaned back against a tree trunk, feeling the sunshine on her face and arms, as she and her husband started tentatively making plans for the weekends, plans for Gary to see his son.

  SYLVIE

  “Wake up!” Sylvie said, knocking first on Diana’s door, then on Lizzie’s. “Come on, girls, rise and shine!” A faint groan issued from Diana’s bed. Sylvie heard nothing at all from Lizzie’s room. She knocked again, then flung the door open. Lizzie was curled on her side, covered in blankets except for a tuft of blond hair. “Come on,” she said, opening the curtains, then the window, and letting the salty air scour the room. The sky and the ocean were both an undistinguished gray, and all of the trees were bare. “I’ve got plans.”

  Lizzie peeked out from under the blankets. “Plans?”

  “Yes.” She waited until Lizzie was sitting up, yawning and rubbing at her eyes. “Milo’s going fishing with Tim, and now that you’re feeling better, you and I and Diana are going on an adventure.”

  “What’s up with you and Tim?” Lizzie asked.

  Sylvie fussed with the curtains, stalling for time. Tim had come to dinner a few times in the weeks since the girls’ arrival, bringing flowers and desserts. Lizzie and Diana had been polite, but not terribly curious. Then again, they seemed to have enough of their own problems to keep them occupied, although God knew she hadn’t heard any details—not about Lizzie’s bad back, not about Diana’s job or Diana’s husband. After she’d been in Connecticut for two weeks, Lizzie had locked her bedroom door and talked to her doctor in New York, the one who’d put her on bed rest. The next day, she’d asked for a ride into town. “I got a referral,” she said, with the pride of someone announcing that she’d found a winning lottery ticket, and Sylvie had been so touched by this belated show of responsibility that she’d offered to take Lizzie clothes shopping afterwards … only Lizzie had given her a mysterious smile and said, “No thanks.”

  Meanwhile, Diana had loaded Milo into her car last Friday afternoon, taking him to meet his father back in Philadelphia. They’d come back on Sunday, thoughtful and quiet, but when Sylvie asked how Gary was doing and how the visit had been, all her daughter and grandson would say was “It was okay” and “Everything’s fine.”

  “Get dressed,” Sylvie told Lizzie, pulling the covers off her body.

  “Are you and Tim dating or what?” Lizzie persisted, sitting up in bed (she wore a vintage slip as a nightgown, and there were pillow marks creasing her cheek).

  “Tim and I are friends,” Sylvie said. That was her story and she was sticking to it. She reached into her pocket and handed Lizzie the flyer she’d picked up at the Fairview Library.

  “Unraveling: A Memoir of Midlife,” Lizzie read aloud, making a face—whether at the title, the photograph of the lithe lady author, or the entire concept of leaving the house and going out with her mother in public, Sylvie wasn’t sure. “I don’t know. I think my back’s still a little stiff.”

  Sylvie stifled her frustration. “You’ve been doing nothing but lying around for weeks. I’m not running a sanitarium.”

  “I was supposed to rest,” Lizzie protested.

  “Well, now you’re fine, right?” She waited for Lizzie’s reluctant nod before saying, “I’m sure fresh air is the best thing for you. You could probably use some exercise, too,” she said, because Lizzie had definitely gained a few pounds after all of the popcorn and lounging around in bed.

  Diana charged into the room in her running gear. “What’s going on?”

  “Mom’s making us go to a reading,” Lizzie said, handing her sister the flyer, which Diana studied as if she’d be quizzed on it later.

  “Unraveling? Are you trying to tell us something?”

  “I thought it would be interesting,” Sylvie said, keeping her voice neutral while Diana read from the flyer.

  “At forty-two, Drea Danziger had it all—a loving husband, a handsome son, a beautiful farmhouse in Litchfield. But still, she felt a nagging emptiness, a hole in the center of her life.” Diana studied the author’s photograph. “I think she was probably just hungry.”

  “Let me see.” Lizzie giggled.

  “Seriously,” said Diana, handing over the flyer. “The hole in her life could have been filled with a corned-beef sandwich.”

  Sylvie struggled not to tell Diana that she, too, could use a sandwich or three. In contrast to Lizzie, her eldest was getting positively gaunt. “Both of you, behave. I’m sure that woman worked a long time on her book.”

  “Oh, barf,” said Lizzie, rolling her eyes. “Some rich married lady with her own farm talking about how yoga solved her s
piritual crisis is supposed to make us feel better?”

  “Flake,” Diana muttered.

  “If you’d tell me what’s wrong—” Sylvie began, but Diana cut her off.

  “Why don’t we just go running?”

  “I hurt my back,” Lizzie said.

  “I’m old,” said Sylvie.

  Diana considered this. “Jogging? We could start off slow.”

  Sylvie didn’t bother being insulted that neither of her girls had insisted that she wasn’t old and that, in fact, all her best years were ahead of her. Maybe she should join Diana on her next trip to civilization and get her hair touched up.

  “Maybe we could find a yoga class?” Sylvie suggested.

  Lizzie bounced out of bed (Sylvie took a moment to appreciate how completely her back had healed, and to marvel at the resiliency of youth). “How about walking?” she offered. “We can walk on the beach and have a picnic. I can take some pictures.”

  They gazed dubiously out the window. At that instant, as if decreed by God, the clouds parted, and a beam of golden October light slipped through to sparkle on the water. A bird sang, a high, piercing note. In unison, the three of them sighed.

  “I’ll pack lunch,” Sylvie said.

  “I’ll lend you a good bra,” Diana said to her sister. Lizzie rolled her eyes again but managed a civil “Thanks,” and Sylvie left them, driving into town to buy a picnic for their day at the beach.

  Half an hour later, they assembled at the door. Diana had her hair gathered into a high ponytail. She smelled of sunscreen and was dressed in her workout clothing, with reflective piping and breathable panels that were made, she’d told them, from recycled bamboo. Sylvie wondered how that was possible—could you actually turn trees into textiles?—before deciding she didn’t want to ask. Lizzie was her usual sweetly disheveled self, in droopy blue sweatpants and a hooded orange sweatshirt, with a knitted wool scarf looped around her neck and her camera on top of it. Sylvie wore her regular walking clothes—yoga pants, sneakers, a long-sleeved T-shirt she’d gotten on her birthday trip to Canyon Ranch with Ceil.

  Tim arrived at ten-thirty, wearing jeans, a plaid shirt, hiking boots, and a many-pocketed fishing vest. Milo, wearing the hook-decorated fisherman’s hat that Sylvie had bought for him, held his mother’s hand as he approached the door, but ran out to Tim’s truck when he saw the canoe loaded in the back. “Got a life jacket just his size,” Tim said. “We’ll be home by five.” Sylvie slipped her backpack, containing the picnic lunch, over her shoulders, and ushered her girls down the rickety wooden steps and down to the water.

  For the first ten minutes they walked in silence. Diana pumped her arms, bouncing off the balls of her expensive padded sneakers, clearly eager to break into a run and leave the two of them behind her. Lizzie loped along, wandering toward the water, then up toward the high-tide line, stopping to pick up shells and bits of seaglass or driftwood and put them in her sweatshirt’s pouch, or to snap a photo of the water, or the seagulls wheeling in the sky. Sylvie walked between them. Part of her was enjoying the moment, the gentle sunshine on her head, the cool sand beneath her shoes, and the joy of being with her daughters, somewhere private, where there was nothing but time. The day stretched out ahead of them, the hours until Tim would bring Milo home, and they had no plans or obligations, nothing to do except spread their blanket on a promising patch of sand and eat lunch … and talk. Today was the day that she’d get to the bottom of things. She’d figure out what was wrong with her daughters, and once she knew she’d figure out how to fix it. She walked, keeping a comfortable pace, aware of her breath filling her lungs and the rhythm of her heartbeat. She looked ahead at Diana’s bobbing ponytail, or back at Lizzie’s meanderings, holding back her question, the same one for each of them: Girls, what’s wrong?

  Diana finally cracked. “Okay if I run for a little while?”

  “Go ahead,” Sylvie called. “We’ll have lunch set up when you get back.”

  Diana was off like a shot, her sneakers leaving miniature tornadoes of sand behind them. Sylvie and Lizzie walked another few minutes before spreading the blanket on the golden sand. Lizzie sat down with a sigh, and Sylvie unloaded the picnic. That morning, she’d stopped at one of the little shops in town, a place called Village Cheese. She’d strolled past it a dozen times, always impressed with its pretty appearance, its white-painted walls and blue door and white-and-yellow-striped curtains. Inside, there were wide, planked wooden floors and urns of vinegars and olive oil, jars of jams and honey, and perhaps a hundred different kinds of cheese behind the curving glass case.

  “Can I help you?” asked the girl behind the counter, whose striped apron matched the curtains. Sylvie picked out a slab of salty Gruyère, a creamy wedge of Brie, and a goat cheese studded with cranberries. She bought a baguette, a jar of fig jam, three perfect green apples, a half-pound of duck mousse, and a quart of raspberries, then added a bag of salted caramels and another of dark chocolate–covered pretzels. “Anything to drink?” asked the girl at the cash register, and Sylvie added a bottle of water and one of lemonade, then helped herself to plastic knives and a handful of paper napkins.

  Lizzie poured herself some lemonade and sipped it, staring out at the shifting blues and greens and grays of the water.

  “So,” said Sylvie, “how have you been?” It was a ridiculous cocktail-party question, but she’d been thinking as she walked and she hadn’t come up with a better way to get the conversation started.

  “Okay,” Lizzie said; strands of hair had come free from her headband and blew around her rosy cheeks. She wrapped her arms around her knees.

  “Your back’s all better?”

  “It’s fine,” Lizzie said, still watching the water.

  “Do you miss New York?” Sylvie ventured. “Your job or your friends?”

  Lizzie made a face. “The job was kind of a make-work thing. And I haven’t really had friends in years.”

  Sylvie winced at this—was it true? She thought. “That girl Patrice …”

  “Patrice was in high school,” Lizzie said. “I haven’t talked to her in ages.”

  “Oh, Lizzie,” Sylvie said.

  Lizzie shrugged and looked at her mother sideways. “I’ve got you, right? You and Dad and Diana. Even though Diana doesn’t really want me.”

  “Your sister loves you,” Sylvie said reflexively.

  “Oh, please,” Lizzie mumbled. She lowered her chin toward her knees, then lifted her head and started fiddling with her camera. “I’m just another mess she has to clean up.”

  “That’s not true,” said Sylvie.

  “Sure it is. That’s what I am, really. Just a mess for you guys to take care of. I’m not …” She took a deep breath, and when she spoke again her voice was trembling. “Responsible.”

  Tentatively, Sylvie put her hand on her daughter’s back, high, between her shoulder blades, not where it hurt. “I know your father and I weren’t always there for you the way we should have been.”

  Instead of answering, Lizzie lifted her camera and put the viewfinder to her eye, pointing the lens out at the ocean.

  “Put that down,” Sylvie said. “You don’t have to hide.”

  “Sometimes,” said Lizzie, “it’s good to have something to hide behind.” The camera clicked. “Like you always stood behind Dad.”

  Treading carefully, Sylvie said, “That thing that happened. When you were babysitting. I’ve been thinking …”

  She could see the dimples flash in Lizzie’s cheeks beneath the camera’s body as she smiled. “You still think that’s why I was a junkie? Because some guy made me give him a blow job?”

  “Well, I always thought … I mean, the timing …” Sylvie stopped talking, her face flaming at the words blow job, and also at her embarrassment at having been so wrong. If she’d been wrong. Had she?

  “It wasn’t just that,” said Lizzie. “It was a lot of things.” She set down her camera and picked up her glass of lemonade. “School was hard for
me. Everyone thought I’d be just like Diana.”

  “But that boy …”

  “It wasn’t a big deal!” Lizzie jumped to her feet. Her face was flushed.

  Sylvie grabbed her hand. “Just let me finish!” she said, and Lizzie, unused to hearing her mother raise her voice, stared at Sylvie, wide-eyed. “I’ve been thinking that we failed you,” Sylvie said. “Your father and I.” She waited, then said, “Actually, me more than him. Maybe just me. I wanted to call the police. I wanted to file charges. I thought that boy should have gone to jail.” She twisted her hands together, then confessed. “I let your father talk me out of it, and I don’t think there’s a day that’s gone by that I haven’t felt guilty.”

  Lizzie lifted her camera again. “I don’t think they send people to jail for doing what he did. Not if the girl was willing. And I was. Mostly. At least at first. He was cute, remember?”

  “That doesn’t matter!”

  “It did to me,” said Lizzie. “When I was twelve.” Sylvie heard the shutter click. “So Dad didn’t want to go to the police, and you did?”

  “That’s right.” She felt guilty for betraying Richard this way, but it was time Lizzie knew the truth; knew that at least one of her parents had wanted to do the right thing, even if she’d lacked the guts to follow through. “I’m sorry, Lizzie. I’m sorry I didn’t try harder.”

  “It’s okay.” Lizzie let the camera drop again, and squinted up into the brightening sky. “Believe me, I’ve got bigger things to worry about now.”

  “Like what?” Sylvie asked. “You can talk to me. I’m here for you now. We’ve got time …” But it was at that moment that they spotted Diana pounding down the beach, face red, feet churning through the sand, her ponytail flashing behind her like a banner.

  “Incoming,” Lizzie muttered, and lifted her camera to take pictures of her sister as she ran.