Fly Away Home

by Jennifer Weiner

  “I left my husband,” she said.

  “Good.” Selma seemed neither surprised nor perturbed. “I never liked the cut of his jib.”

  “You didn’t?” Diana seemed surprised to hear it.

  Selma turned and started rooting through her bag some more, eventually producing a pair of reading glasses that hung on a brightly colored beaded lariat. “I thought he was a big baby. I tell you, Diana, that marriage was very hard on me.”

  “He’s going to be here,” Diana said. “For Thanksgiving.”

  “In that case, I will keep my opinions to myself.” Selma pulled her glasses’ chain over her head, lifted the tote bag, and marched into the kitchen, where Lizzie was standing at the counter stirring a dollop of horseradish into a juice glass brimming with tomato juice and ice and, presumably, vodka. “So are you getting a divorce?” Selma called over her shoulder.

  Diana’s voice trembled minutely as she said, “I think that’s the plan.”

  “And you?” Grandma Selma asked, pointing at Sylvie. “My friend David could give you a two-for-one deal.”

  “That’s very tempting, but I’m not sure what I want,” Sylvie said. She turned away, cutting herself a piece of the strata, then sat at the table and said, “Actually, there’s something I need to tell you.” She waited until she had her mother’s attention, then said, “I’ve been seeing someone.”

  “Wait,” said Diana, who’d been pouring herself a cup of coffee. “Who? Tim? You and Tim are seeing each other? Seeing-seeing each other?”

  “Yes,” said Sylvie, who wondered what Diana thought they’d been doing.

  “Seeing each other like dating?” asked Lizzie. She made dating sound as if it was some kind of unnatural act, as if she and Tim were picking nits off each other’s scalps instead of sharing dinner and the occasional movie and, just once, her bed.

  “Your mother has every right,” Selma said … and then, in a lower tone, added, “I’d think she’d have had enough of men for a while, but it’s her choice.” She sat at the kitchen table across from Sylvie with her drink and a plate, served herself strata, and pulled the New York Times out of her tote bag. “What’s his name?”

  “Tim Simmons. He’ll be at dinner tonight.”

  “Not Timmy Simmons who molested you out on the dunes?” Sylvie felt her jaw clench as her mother grinned, wondering if she was doomed to spend the rest of her life as a punch line, because her husband had cheated and because she’d dared, at her age, to go looking for love.

  “He didn’t molest me,” she told her mother. “We kissed. And why were you watching?”

  “Because I’d finished reading Peyton Place,” said Selma.

  “So you guys were, like, summer lovers?” Diana asked. “Was he your boyfriend?”

  “Not exactly,” Sylvie said.

  “Could have fooled me!” said her mother. “That boy was sweet on you. He’s probably been sweet on you for the last …” She paused, counting, before making a face. “Never mind. It’s only going to depress me.”

  Sylvie turned back to her breakfast, hoping no one would see her blush.

  “Um,” said Lizzie. She’d lifted herself onto the counter and was swinging her legs, with Jeff standing beside her, munching a slice of toast.

  “What?” asked Sylvie.

  Lizzie swung her legs faster and fiddled with her hair. “This is awkward.”

  “What’s awkward?” Selma demanded.

  Her voice was barely a whisper. “I kind of invited Dad.”

  “For Thanksgiving?” Sylvie was as startled as if she’d been slapped. “Lizzie!”

  “I thought it would be a nice surprise.” Her daughter’s words came out in a breathless tumble. “I miss him, and you do too.”

  “How do you know what I’m feeling?” Sylvie asked sharply. Especially, she thought, since I barely know myself?

  Lizzie was scowling at her. “How can you not miss him? You guys were married so long, you’re like each other’s …” Her voice trailed off. “I mean, how can you even imagine the holidays without him?”

  Sylvie answered coolly, “I believe I was doing just fine.”

  Lizzie’s face reddened, and her chin quivered. “Well, I miss him,” she said.

  So invite him to your house, Sylvie thought—an uncharacteristically uncharitable thought, and one she would never give voice to.

  “He’s falling apart,” Lizzie continued. “And I thought that other guy was just an old friend.”

  Sylvie cleared her plate and held her tongue. From what she’d seen in the papers, Richard hadn’t fallen apart … his career had, in fact, been enjoying a small renaissance. He’d championed a House bill—something to do with taxes on soft drinks—that had been written up favorably in the Times piece. He’d given a terse “no comment” when the reporter had asked about his marriage. Joelle Stabinow, contacted at her law office in Washington, had said merely that Senator Woodruff was “a fine man and a dear friend.” Richard had continued calling Sylvie, too, every morning and every night, but she hadn’t talked to him once. She tamped down her anger at Lizzie’s presumptuousness and tried to consider the practicalities. How would she handle Richard in her kitchen, in her house? Would he want to stay over? Would he expect to sleep in her bed?

  “Dad’s an adult,” said Diana, pulling off her sweatshirt and tying it around her waist. “He can handle his business.”

  “No, he can’t, Diana!” Lizzie said. “You should have seen him. The house was a mess, and he sat on his laptop twice while I was there. He can barely open his in-box.”

  “Learned helplessness,” said Selma, without looking up from the bridge column. “That’s all that is. You get enough women to take care of you—do your laundry, manage your campaigns, wait for your eggs …”

  “Mother,” Sylvie murmured.

  “… then why should you bother learning how to do things for yourself? He’s falling apart like a fox, is what I think.”

  “I told him to bring dessert,” Lizzie said.

  “Tim’s bringing dessert,” Sylvie said, wringing her hands.

  “Milo and I don’t eat sugar,” said Diana, standing up to clear her juice glass. Selma cackled.

  “Are you sorry we didn’t do Thanksgiving at my place?” she asked her daughter, and Sylvie, standing at the sink, had no answer.

  By six o’clock the turkey, which she’d filled with a sage-and-sausage stuffing and had been basting since the morning, had turned a lovely golden-brown. The sugar-free cranberry-orange chutney that Diana had contributed glowed like rubies in an antique cut-glass dish. Lizzie’s breads and rolls were cooling on the counter, next to the casserole of sweet potatoes with a puffy marshmallow crown. Selma stayed out of the kitchen, but set out a gorgeous array of cheeses and spreads and crackers on the sideboard in the dining room, along with the bottles of wine she’d brought up from New York. Sylvie had just put the metal mixing bowl and the beaters into the freezer to chill for the whipped cream she’d serve with the pies when the doorbell rang. Tim was standing on the porch, beneath a sky already deepening toward twilight, smiling at her shyly, in khaki pants and a green wool sweater with two bakery boxes in his arms.

  She wiped her hands on her apron and gave him a hug. “I need to tell you something,” she whispered, feeling his cool cheek against her warm one.

  “What’s that?” he asked, following her into the kitchen and setting the bakery boxes he’d brought on the counter.

  Sylvie turned away from him to peek under the tinfoil tent to inspect the turkey, which, per her recipe’s instructions, was resting before it was carved. She wished that she could rest, too, just sit somewhere warm, hidden from sight, and stew in her own juices. “My husband is coming. I had no idea—Lizzie invited him without telling me.” She glanced at him, worried that Tim would be scowling or, worse, that he’d rezip his jacket, pick up his pies, and tell her that he’d come for turkey, not drama. He’d been patient with her so far, letting Sylvie spend her time with her da
ughters, cooking for them, watching bad reality TV with them, offering to play Scrabble (so far, no takers) or to walk on the beach with them, making herself available for whatever they wanted.

  “That should be interesting,” he said.

  “Interesting,” she repeated.

  “Does he know about …” He paused, eyebrows lifted. “Us?” She shook her head. “Richard and I …” Her voice trailed off. Had she ever told Tim Richard’s name? He’d asked once how she felt about her husband, and she’d said, with more venom than she’d intended, “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m not ready yet,” and that had been that. “Richard and I haven’t been talking since I’ve been up here,” she said, pulling a handful of silverware from the dishwasher.

  “We’re all grown-ups. I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Tim said mildly. He went into the living room to greet her daughters and meet her mother. Just then the doorbell rang again, and there was Ceil, in fur-trimmed boots and a puffy down coat, with her arms full of bottles and Larry standing behind her, beaming the way he frequently did around his wife, as if he still couldn’t quite believe that he’d won such a prize. Sylvie rushed to hug her. “I’m so glad you’re here!” she said. Ceil kissed her cheek.

  “Richard’s coming,” Sylvie whispered, taking her friend’s coat and leading her into the kitchen as Larry headed inside to greet her daughters.

  “He is?”

  “Lizzie invited him without telling me.”

  Ceil’s eyes widened. “Did you smack her? Are you okay?”

  “I didn’t smack her … and honestly, I’m not sure.”

  “Well, you let me know what I can do. Smack him. Short-sheet his bed. Poison his food. Ooh, is that Tim?” Ceil snuck a look into the living room, then took a pinch of stuffing from the platter and gave Tim an approving once-over. “Huh. Cute.” She popped the stuffing in her mouth, chewed and swallowed, then stared at her friend. “Did you make that? It’s delicious. And are you guys dating now or what?”

  “Tim’s …” She stopped talking before she’d have to think of what, exactly, Tim was. “I made the stuffing. I made almost everything.”

  Ceil looked impressed—whether at Tim’s good looks or Sylvie’s culinary prowess, Sylvie wasn’t sure.

  Ceil helped herself to another bite of stuffing. “I just need to know how to behave. Do we hate him now, or are we in forgiveness mode or what?”

  Sylvie stared at her helplessly. “I honestly don’t know.”

  Ceil wiped her hands and studied her friend. “You look good.”

  Sylvie nodded, smoothing her hair, which was longer than it had been since she’d gotten married, and fled back to the Brussels sprouts that needed glazing, to the butter dish that needed washing, to problems she could solve.

  She checked to make sure that there were platters and dishes and serving spoons and forks for everything she’d cooked. Milo had made placecards, handwritten in his laborious printing and taped onto the miniature pumpkins he and his mother had bought at a farmstand a few miles outside town. Sylvie was at the head of the table, with Selma on one side and Tim on the other, and Richard was all the way at the foot, with no pumpkin to mark his place. Keep your distance, Sylvie thought, running her fingers around the rim of his wineglass. But did she want him to keep his distance, or to come through the door, take her in his arms, and make everything the way it used to be? Did she want things to be the way they’d been before Joelle? Could she go back to that time, even if it were possible, even if she wanted to?

  She straightened a fork and surveyed her table again. “Everything all right?” asked Selma, who had her cane in one hand and a platter she’d refilled with grapes and cheese in the other.

  “Everything’s fine,” Sylvie answered. Tim squeezed her hand as he followed Selma back into the living room.

  “Mom, you remember Tim Simmons, right?”

  “How could I forget?” Selma asked.

  Sylvie went back to the kitchen, where Lizzie was lining a wicker basket with a printed cloth napkin for the breads and rolls, and Diana was filling a pitcher with ice water. Back in the living room, Selma was handing around plates of appetizers—cheese-stuffed olives, truffled pâté, Champagne grapes and quince paste, sesame crackers and a raisin-studded baguette—and talking with Tim about where she’d bought them, and whether such items would do well at a grocery store in Connecticut. Ceil stood in front of the fire. When she saw Sylvie, she handed over her glass of wine.

  “Drink this,” she whispered. “You’ll need it.” She glanced at the door. “When’s the Big He coming?”

  “Don’t know,” Sylvie whispered back. Don’t know and don’t care, she wanted to say, but it was a lie. She cared, still, she cared desperately. She was nervous as a schoolgirl on her first date. She wondered how she would look to him, and if he’d try to kiss her; then stopped herself before her mind could wander off on a Richard-fueled reverie. He’d wronged her, he’d hurt her. More important, her girls needed her, maybe more than her husband ever had … and the three of them, plus Milo, had done just fine for themselves up here without him.

  Still, her heart leapt when the doorbell rang. “Open it,” she whispered to Ceil.

  “You open it!” Ceil whispered back. Sylvie put one of her pleasant smiles on her face and opened the door … but it was just Gary, with a bouquet of flowers tucked under his arm and a large cardboard box in his hands.

  “Hi, Sylvie,” he said, handing her the flowers and brushing her cheeks with his lips. “Hello, Diana,” he said to his wife. The two of them looked at each other unhappily, until, with a cry of “Daddy!,” Milo hurled himself at his father’s legs. The box turned out to contain a computer gaming system, which Tim and Gary and Milo spent the next forty-five minutes trying to hook up to the house’s ancient TV set.

  After an hour of snacking and fussing with the table and listening to Selma bad-mouth the president’s Supreme Court nominee, Sylvie decided not to wait any longer. Big He or not, her guests were hungry, and her turkey was getting cold. “I think we should get started,” she said, and called everyone to the table.

  Tim carved the turkey, deftly separating the drumsticks from the thighs, explaining to Milo how a sharp knife was the most important tool for the job. Diana and Lizzie carried side dishes to the table, and Milo poured grape juice for himself and Lizzie and red wine for everyone else.

  “Should we say grace?” Lizzie asked. She’d done her fine blond hair in elaborate braids that wrapped around her head like a crown, and she hadn’t had even a sip of wine. At Selma’s, they always said a brief prayer of thanks for the food and the fellowship. Sylvie nodded and bowed her head, but it was Lizzie who spoke.

  “Lord, we give you thanks that we’re all here, and healthy and together. Please bless this meal, and bless all of us.”

  Sylvie’s eyes filled with tears. Her Lizzie, in spite of everything that had happened, seemed to be doing all right. It was nothing short of a miracle. Milo seemed thrilled to have his father there. Diana looked uneasy, pale and guarded and still, in her sweater-dress, too thin, but so far she and Gary were managing to be polite to each other. Sylvie looked at the door, then looked away as Tim lifted the platter of turkey, and across the table, Ceil said, “Who wants Brussels sprouts?” and Milo said, “I hate Brussels sprouts,” and Diana said, “That isn’t a word we use in this family,” and Lizzie said, “What, Brussels sprouts?” Sylvie had just helped herself to a roll and some white meat when Selma turned to Jeff and said, “I do hope you two are planning to get married before the baby comes.”

  “Grandma!” Lizzie gasped.

  Milo looked mystified. “A baby? What baby?”

  Sylvie stared at her daughter … at her midriff, in particular, which, come to think of it, Lizzie had been keeping swathed in sweaters and pullovers and which did seem distinctly rounder than she remembered. But Lizzie was rounder all over, with all of the stuff she’d been eating, the snacking and the late-night sandwiches … although Lizzie never seemed
hungry in the morning, when she’d just sip a cup of chamomile tea. Was it true? Was this what Lizzie had been on the verge of telling her that afternoon on the beach?

  “You’re pregnant?” she whispered.

  “For God’s sake, Sylvie,” her mother snapped. “She was on bed rest.”

  “She hurt her back,” Sylvie said, still unable to believe what she was hearing … and unable to believe that she hadn’t guessed. Add it to her list of the ways she’d failed Lizzie, the things she hadn’t noticed, the steps she didn’t take. Was Lizzie seeing a doctor? Could she have a healthy baby after everything she’d done?

  “If you believe that, I’ve got a bridge in Brooklyn I could sell you,” Selma said.

  Sylvie looked around the table. Diana seemed to be just as shocked as she was. Jeff was fiddling with his glasses, looking somewhere between embarrassed and proud. Milo looked confused, and Tim looked bewildered, and Gary, true to form, was blowing his nose in a rumpled tissue he’d produced from his pocket, looking more or less oblivious.

  “So do I congratulate you two?” Diana asked her sister.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Lizzie murmured, tugging at her hair.

  “Eat,” Selma instructed, returning to her own plate, which she’d piled high with turkey and gravy and sweet potatoes. “You need the calories for the baby.”

  “Where’s the baby?” asked Milo.

  For a long moment no one answered until Lizzie said, quietly, “It’s inside me.”

  “How did it get there?” Milo asked, peering at Lizzie.

  Diana straightened in her chair. “Milo,” she began. “When a man and a woman love each other very much, and, usually, when they’re married …”

  “Oh, great,” Lizzie muttered. “Here we go with the judgment.”

  “The man will give the woman a special seed …”

  “Like a pumpkin seed?” asked Milo.

  “He’ll plant it in the woman’s belly, and a baby will grow.”

  “How does it get out?” Milo asked.

  Selma cackled. Ceil made a strangled sound and bent over, wiping her eyes. Sylvie shot her mother a stern look that Selma, of course, ignored.