I would have laughed, were such a thing possible.
It won’t be long now. This is true. I can feel my very cells struggling to carry out their typical functions. Tomorrow, a new month begins, and perhaps it will be the last time I notice that Terry has flipped the calendar on his wall. My inevitable end draws near.
A Three-Martini Truth
Mary Ann Minetti’s farewell luncheon begins at noon on a hot day in August. Tova arrives at the Elland Chophouse ten minutes early. Unrelenting sunlight assaults her eyes, and she squints as she climbs the restaurant’s front steps in the poshest section of Elland’s waterfront district. Her ankle is still tender and shriveled from its weeks inside the boot.
“Mrs. Sullivan!” A familiar voice calls from behind as a steadying arm clasps her elbow.
“Laura, dear. How are you?” Tova inclines her head at Mary Ann’s daughter, a trim woman in her forties, accepting the younger woman’s assistance as she summits the staircase.
According to Mary Ann, Laura had arrived last week to help her mother make preparations. And it was Laura who organized this luncheon, who chose this fancy restaurant. Tova’s not convinced that Mary Ann herself wouldn’t have preferred coffee at her home, although maybe that’s not possible now that the house is being packed up and prepped for the realtors.
“Good, good.” Laura nods, holding the front door for both of them. “And I’m glad to see you’re on the mend! Mom told me about your fall.” She arches a brow at Tova’s foot.
“It was only a sprain.”
“I know, but at your age . . .”
A chipper greeting from the young lady behind the hostess stand spares Tova the need to respond. Hoisting an impossibly tall stack of menus, she leads them through the restaurant to a long, empty table abutting a bank of windows overlooking the water. The view, at least, is lovely.
“Your server should be over in a couple minutes. I can grab you a drink in the meantime,” the hostess offers as she circles the table, placing a menu at each setting. There must be at least thirty places. Good heavens. How many people did Laura invite?
“Hell yes. Gin and tonic, please.” Laura drops her purse onto the table and sighs. “I’ve spent all morning helping my mother pack up the house she’s lived in for half a century. Better make it a double.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
Tova lowers into a chair near the end of the table, picturing the menagerie of porcelain figurines and polished crosses that have always lived on the shelf over Mary Ann’s kitchen sink wrapped in tissue and loaded into a cardboard box, where they’ll likely stay for years until some unfortunate younger family member happens upon them and must decide how to get rid of them. She forces a smile at the hostess, who seems to be waiting for her drink order. “Just a coffee, please. Black.”
The hostess whisks away with a nod, leaving the two women in the sort of silence that makes Tova wish she’d brought her knitting along. Finally, she asks, “How are the girls?”
Laura’s daughter, Tatum, and young granddaughter, Isabelle, live with Laura in Spokane. Now Mary Ann, a great-grandmother at only seventy, will live with them, too. Of course, the situation with Tatum and her baby hadn’t been planned, but Tova can’t help feeling wonder at how it’s shaken out. Four generations of women under one roof.
Laura nods. “The girls are good. Great. Isabelle’s walking now.”
“Wonderful,” Tova says.
“Yes.” Laura smiles, but doesn’t elaborate, in the way that people often don’t elaborate when it comes to discussing children around Tova, which is sometimes a mixed blessing.
The uncomfortable silence descends again, so Tova asks, “How’s work, dear?”
“It’s . . . work.” Laura lets out a genuine chuckle before launching into a tale about the technology update happening over the summer at the state university, where she teaches psychology. Tova nods along. It does, indeed, sound like a nightmare. Laura sighs sympathetically, then explains, “So that’s why we had to get Mom moved so quickly. Before the start of fall term, anyway. I feel terrible that you ladies don’t get much of a goodbye. I know how close you’ve all been. For decades.”
“There’s always the telephone.”
“We’ll get Mom set up with a tablet. That way she can virtually attend your Knit-Wit meetings!” Laura beams, looking very pleased with herself at this solution, whatever it means. “And what about you? When will you go back to work at the aquarium?”
Tova straightens and recounts to Laura her recent conversation with Terry. He agreed to allow her to come back and “help out the new guy,” as he put it. Tova couldn’t be more pleased with this arrangement, which allows her to mentor him in the proper way to do things, and she should have plenty of time to do that before her move to Charter Village at the end of the month. She doesn’t mention that she also rather likes spending time with the boy.
“Mom! Over here!” Laura hollers to Mary Ann, who waves from across the restaurant, trailed by Barb Vanderhoof and Janice and Peter Kim.
“Yoo-hoo!” Barb flutters her hands as they approach the table. She’s wearing a sequined top that’s far too snug across her chest. “Look at this! How fancy!” She wraps Laura in a hug.
Janice slips into the seat next to Tova. “How goes it, Tova?”
“How’s that ankle?” Peter Kim sits next to his wife.
“Very well, thanks,” Tova replies, hoping her injury won’t be the topic of conversation this afternoon.
“Excellent news. But what happened to your arm?”
Tova tugs at her sleeve, trying to cover the newest line of sucker marks. “That’s nothing at all. Must be from the sun.”
Peter frowns, and Tova can tell he’s putting on his doctor hat, about to push the issue, but he’s mercifully interrupted by the guest of honor.
“Oh my. Thank you all for coming!” Mary Ann lets out a girlish giggle and takes her designated seat at the center of the table as more people filter in. Tova recognizes several parishioners from St. Ann’s, where Mary Ann was on the board for years, along with neighbors. In a matter of minutes, most of the seats are filled, leaving only the two on Tova’s other side empty. Relieved to be next to the no-shows, she places her purse on one.
“Well, doesn’t this look like a rowdy bunch!” A young man with deep brown skin and sparkling eyes approaches with two pitchers of water. Omar, according to his name tag. “Glad I wore my sneakers because I can tell you all will keep me on my toes!” An approving laugh moves across the crowd.
“We came to party!” Barb Vanderhoof shimmies.
Omar makes finger guns and aims them at her. “That’s the spirit!”
“Our dear friend Mary Ann is moving away.” Barb gestures at Mary Ann, who is blushing. “To Spokane.”
“Yikes! Spokane! I’m sorry.” Omar makes a face like he just ate a lemon, but his eyes are still twinkling.
“Hey now! I live in Spokane!” Laughing, Laura lofts her empty highball glass.
Tova’s coffee finally arrives, via a harried-looking busboy. She studies the thick black liquid before taking a sip. It’s hot and strong. She picks up the menu and studies it, clicking her tongue at the descriptions, things like basil cream foam and heirloom turnip reduction. Where are the soups and salads? A cup of corn chowder would do nicely.
“These seats taken?” A deep voice, vaguely familiar, breaks her focus on the menu. She looks up at a tall figure. He doesn’t look so strange without his bike shorts and space-age sunglasses and helmet, but it’s Adam Wright, the fellow who helped her with her crossword down at Hamilton Park a few weeks ago. “Oh! Hello.” He breaks into a smile, recognizing her as well.
“Nice to see you again,” Tova says, moving her pocketbook from the chair. On Adam’s other side is a short woman with curly auburn hair.
“This is Sandy Hewitt,” he says, giving his companion’s arm a squeeze as they both sit. “Sandy, meet Tova Sullivan.”