Christmas Eve was oddly wonderful. I’d been bracing for more weeping in the closet, or that heart-punched feeling I’d had so many days after Brad left. But having Dylan home outweighed everything, I guess. And having a crowd was always fun.
Much to my surprise, the Moms showed up . . . I always invited them, and they always declined. They had declined this year as well, a fact my mother disputed for ten minutes as I was making her a martini.
“We did say yes, Liliana,” she said. “It’s Beatrice’s last Christmas with us. Of course we were coming.” I still had the text she’d sent saying no, but I let it slide. “Oh, our divorce is final, did I tell you?”
“No, Mom, you didn’t.” I poured her martini into a glass.
“Well. It was amicable, not like you and yours. There you are, Dylan! At last! Give your Mimi a hug, darling. Oh, you’ve gained weight. Was that on purpose?”
A minute later, Wanda, Addo and Leila came in through the kitchen door, bags of gifts and food in their hands.
“Brother from another mother!” Leila announced, launching herself into Dylan’s arms.
“Sister from another mister!” he said. “You got taller!”
“Catching up to you, Dill Weed. I’m a famous model now, did you hear?”
“Feel free to marry each other,” Wanda said, leaning on the counter. “I’ve always wanted you for a son, Dylan.”
“And I’m already your godmother, Leila,” I said, “so is mother-in-law really such a stretch?”
“Come on upstairs before they whip out a minister,” Dylan said.
For once, Dad didn’t seem to mind that his ex and her lover / his replacement were here. Usually, my parents were like two wet cats, circling each other with the occasional hiss. Maybe they had silently agreed not to fight at Christmas. I’d have to ask Dad how he really felt tomorrow. Wanda and Addo helped me carry appetizers and drinks upstairs to the living room.
Ben made the thirty-foot journey from the studio; Carol was in fine form, telling gruesome stories about birthing (not that she’d seen any firsthand, but still). Hannah and Beatrice sat together like they were joined with glue. The food was fabulous (of course), and we took our time eating. Ben told a funny story about my father going crazy with joy when a humpback whale breached right next to the Goody Chapman. Manuel got teary-eyed and thanked us for having him, and Leila and Dylan had reverted to twelve years old and kicked and snickered at their inside jokes. When we were done, we left the messy kitchen and went upstairs to the living room for dessert. Hannah had brought cookies, and I made aletria, which my dad adored—a Portuguese pudding sort of thing with angel hair pasta (weird, I know, but it’s delicious), lots and lots of milk, eggs, cinnamon and lemon.
Dylan smiled the whole night. That was definitely the best part. Just before everyone left, he and Leila dutifully left cookies out for Santa. I was so glad they were still friends. With Leila’s modeling, they hadn’t seen each other much this summer.
It was after eleven when everyone had left. Dylan offered to help me clean up, but I sent him to bed, saying I was faster on my own.
It was only when the house quieted that I allowed my shoulders to drop and acknowledged what I’d been avoiding all day.
I missed Brad. I missed the man I’d thought he was, the guy he’d seemed to be just last year, funny and appreciative, affectionate and nerdy. I missed Vanessa so much. Did she think of me? They hadn’t even sent me a Christmas card, though I had sent them one.
I missed our traditions . . . taking the family photo for the card, hiding the pickle ornament on the tree—Vanessa had German roots, and apparently it was a tradition. Brad and I would stuff each other’s stockings with mysterious gifts, put out Dylan’s gifts and, when the house was finally cleaned up, we’d have one last drink and look at the beautiful tree, tired and happy . . . and together. A team.
I folded my arms on the table, put my head down and had a little cry as Zeus licked my knee. “Thanks, buddy,” I whispered. “Sometimes, I think you’re the only one I can really talk to.”
There was a gentle knock at the kitchen door, and I jumped. It was Ben. He opened the door and came in, bringing the cold, fresh air with him.
“Hey,” he said. “I thought you could use some help cleaning up.”
My mouth wobbled, and I turned my face away. A second later, I felt his arm around my shoulders.
“The first Christmas is the worst,” he said, giving me a brief squeeze. “Now. I’ll wash the pots and pans, because I don’t know where everything goes.”
“Thanks, Ben,” I whispered, because my throat was tight.
He was already filling the sink with hot water. “You bet,” he said, and it was so nice not to have to do this alone, and so kind of him to have recognized that. I gave him a quick hug from behind, and he laughed a little, the sound ashy and full of the old bad-boy promises he’d once been known for.
I think it was fair to say we were becoming friends.
CHAPTER 24
Lillie
Dylan went to see his father the day after Christmas. I tried not to obsess. On Christmas Day, Dylan and I had gone to the Moms’ place for their annual brunch, and that had softened the lonely Christmas morning, though Dylan and I had exchanged gifts. We both cried a little—angry tears, sad tears, sentimental tears. For once, I was happy to visit my mother . . . or at least her house.
On Christmas Day, Ben had flown to New Orleans to see his daughter, and I was truly alone at my place for the first time in more than a month. It had snowed last night, and I took Zeus for a nice long walk after Dylan drove off in my car. Came home, expecting that Dylan would be there, but my car was still missing.
I hadn’t expected him to be with Bralissa for so long, to be honest. To kill the time, I checked Wellfleet OB/GYN’s emails for nonurgent questions. Turned down an overtime shift at the hospital. Ate some cookies. Fretted. Tried to read.
Dylan came back a few hours later.
“Hey!” I said, getting up from the couch.
“Hi.”
Okay. “How was it?”
“It was fine.” I waited for more. More didn’t come.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“The kid is nice. Ophelia.”
“Yeah, I’ve met her.” Still no details. “Anything else you want to tell me?” I asked.
“Look, Mom,” he said, sounding slightly defensive. “As you said, he’s still my father. I’m going to be a big brother, which is weird as f—as anything. They were bending over backwards to make me like them. Jesus. There were, like, twenty presents. Dad even said they’d buy me a car if I wanted and then showed me his Jag. Their garage is heated, by the way.” He picked at a cuticle.
“What did you think of Melissa?” I asked.
Dylan sighed. “You want my honest answer?”
“Yes. Of course.” But my toes were clenched, and anxiety sweat was already breaking out on my back.
“She’s okay. Shallow, but okay. It was really awkward. I knew she wanted me to give them my blessing or whatever. But she tried, and she was . . . nice.”
I swallowed the bile in my throat. “That’s . . . good, I guess.”
“Beats her being a bitch, right?”
“Right.” But to me, she was a bitch, though I hated that word. She was thoughtless and cruel and self-centered and entitled. She had broken my family. She had made me a joke, the older, graying first wife, replaced with a perfect face and perfect body and now a baby in her perfect womb.
“Okay,” said Dylan. “If the interrogation is over, I’m gonna FaceTime with Chloe now. Oh, and Brandon, Leila and Cassie and I are going out tonight. Movies, burgers, that kind of thing, so I won’t be home till late.”
“Sure. Sounds fun.” There was no interrogation, I wanted to add, but we moms bit down on these things.
He turned to the stairs, then turned back. “Do you want me to stay home, Mom?” he asked, and his voice was very gentle.
“No, honey. Go see your friends. You’d be bored, spending every night here.”
“Thanks. But um . . . well, Dad wants me to stay over one night. I don’t know if I will,” he added hastily. “But he did ask.”
“Do what feels right to you, honey. Don’t worry about me.”