“Would you like to come in for a while?” I say. “The kids will be home soon. Carolyn’s picking Ruby up from school now.”
My father quickly agrees, and minutes later, we have moved inside, congregating in the kitchen, discussing my dad’s recent trip to Vietnam and Thailand. It is the sort of exotic travel my mother craves but doesn’t undertake—either because she’s too busy or doesn’t want to do so alone. Yet she doesn’t appear to begrudge my dad the experience, asking friendly, open questions. My father answers them, avoiding any plural pronouns or mention of Diane, although I know that she was with him—and I’m sure my mom does, too.
“You really should go, Barb. You’d love it,” my dad says, eyeing a corked bottle of red on the counter and suggesting that we have one more glass. Against my better judgment, I shrug and say sure, watching as he pours three generous glasses, handing one to me, the other to my mother. She takes it and matter-of-factly clinks her glass against his, then mine. She offers no toast, just a wink and smile, as if acknowledging how bizarre, yet somehow pleasant, the afternoon has been. I take a long sip just as Ruby and Frank burst through the front door, Carolyn trailing behind.
“Nana and Pappy!” they shout in unison, seemingly unfazed by seeing their grandparents together.
In a surreal, bittersweet moment, I watch the four of them embrace, as I turn to handle more quotidian matters—paying Carolyn, retrieving Nick’s predictably small gift from the front porch, wiping down the table, still covered with crumbs from Frank’s lunch. Then, while my father does magic tricks for the kids and my mother adds her color commentary, I quietly excuse myself, relieved when no one objects or even seems to notice.
Once alone in my room, I down my wine and curl up on my made bed. After a few minutes of staring into space, I close my eyes and listen to the faint sound of my parents and children laughing downstairs, mulling over the strangeness of the afternoon—how surprising and sad and soothing it has been all at once.
As I hover near sleep, I find myself thinking about Dex’s words on Christmas Eve—how he’d never cheat on Rachel—and only cheated with her because he was in love. Then I think of my father’s comments about Diane at lunch today, his implication that she was utterly beside the point, not the catalyst for my parents’ split, but merely a symptom of their problems. Then, against my will, I think of her. Valerie. I wonder which category she falls in and whether she and Nick could possibly end up together if I opt out of the equation for good. I imagine my children with her, stepsiblings to her son. Then I drift off, imagining the new blended family, riding in a pedicab in Hanoi while I remain home, sweeping crumbs under the kitchen table, bitter and alone.
***
I awaken to find my mother sitting on the edge of my bed, watching me.
“What time is it?” I murmur as my eyes flutter open. “A little after six. The kids have eaten—and your dad gave them a bath. They’re in the playroom now.”
Startled, I sit up, realizing that I’ve been asleep for over two hours. “Is he still here?”
“No. He left a while ago. He didn’t want to wake you. He said to say good-bye—and tell you he loves you.”
I rub my eyes, remembering my full dream about Nick and Valerie, more graphic and disturbing than my vision of them in a pedicab.
“Mom,” I say, overwhelmed by the sudden, startling conviction of what I need in order to move on, one way or the other. “I have to know.”
She nods, as if she understands exactly what I’m thinking, what I’m trying to say.
“I need to know,” I say, unable to shut down the images from my sleep. Nick making her laugh in the kitchen while they cook Thanksgiving dinner. Nick reading bedtime stories to her son. Nick soaping her back and kissing her in a beautiful claw-foot tub.
My mom nods again and puts her arms around me as the haunting reel continues. I try to pause it, or at least rewind it, wondering how it all began. Was it love at first sight? Was it a friendship that slowly became physical? Was it an epiphany one night? Did it come from something wrong in our marriage or the truest, deepest feelings or mere empathy for a hurt child and his mother? I need to know exactly what happened in the middle, and how and why it ended. I need to know what she looks like, what she’s like. I need to hear her voice, see the way she moves, look into her eyes. I need to know everything. I need to know the whole, painful truth.
So before I can change my mind, I pick up my phone and dial the number I memorized on Thanksgiving. I am gripped by fear, but undaunted, as I close my eyes, take my mother’s hand, and wait for my discovery to begin.
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