THE DAY I MOVED with the girls to Peachtree, a crew of twelve men I didn’t know was waiting on the lawn to help us unpack. Their wives had made banana bread, chicken potpie, squash casserole, pans of brownies, five-star pie, and award-winning jam to stock our freezer. We were mystified, devastated, and, most of all, exhausted after the drive from New York to Georgia—in a U-Haul van, no less.
I was used to the girls bickering in the backseat for hours on end. It drove me out of my mind, but what drove me more out of my mind was when they didn’t bicker at all. They didn’t say one single thing. Because they were too sad. We all were. And I knew that moving them away, taking them out of their environment, was going to be incredibly difficult for all of us. But I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t afford to stay in Manhattan, but they could never know. And so, as is so often the plight of a mother, I would take the blame for something that wasn’t my fault.
When I saw all of those people waiting for us, ready to help, it made me feel like I was going to live; it made me feel like it was all going to be OK. And it made me unendingly, eternally grateful for my wonderful neighbor, Mr. Solomon, who had organized this grand welcome for us.
Now I was telling this story through tears and my handkerchief at his funeral. Only weeks after we had made up, only weeks after we had mended fences, literally and metaphorically, he was gone.
To lighten the mood, I told the fence story, too. And when I said, “Mr. Solomon, instead of calling the surveyor, grew tomatoes up that fence. Big, ripe, juicy tomatoes—and didn’t share a damn one with me,” everyone in the church laughed. I wasn’t sure it was appropriate to make people laugh at a funeral, but I was glad I did.
Jack was waiting for me in the pew. He squeezed my hand. “You did great,” he whispered. It felt so normal, so right.
I choked back my sob. The irony of how incredibly much I missed a man who had made my life a living hell for years on end was not lost on me. But this is how it is, I guess. Even the people who drive us up the wall earn a spot in our hearts. And most of all, I was glad we had made up before he passed away. I would always remember those four blue hydrangeas by my back door. I would always be grateful that I took the time to leave my own five-star pie in return.
Sometimes in the ebb and flow of life, the tide rolling in and out, as Hal would say, we forget to take the time to think about the people who really make us who we are. We forget to say thank you, to tell the people we love that we love them. I couldn’t help but think of my own mother, propped up on my couch, her great-grandchildren, I was sure, doing a fabulous job of entertaining her. At eighty-three, no matter how you sliced it, no matter what happened, I wasn’t going to have her much longer. I wasn’t going to have her around forever to ask her advice and laugh with her and love her. Same with my brothers.
Having her come live with me wasn’t terribly convenient. I was overwhelmed, to say the least. But now, when I realized again that life was short and time was fleeting, I was grateful that I had her here, that I would get to be the one to spend this time with her. Even on her bad days, I knew it was precious. For the girls, their kids and, most of all, me.
I knew already because of Carter that there was never enough time. And as I looked at Jack, who, as he reminded me often, had always been there for me, I wondered what I was waiting for, what was holding me back.
The choir sang, and all of a sudden, I felt very blessed. I knew already from having children and grandchildren that time moved quickly; the days were long, but the years were short. And I knew for certain that no matter how many fights they had or how many times I had to change sheets or clean up dirty dishes or babysit all day for one grandchild after I’d been up all night with another, I would look back on these months of having my children home with me, back where they belonged, with incredible joy and wistfulness. These were the good times, even when they were hard.
I silently thanked God for bringing them to me again, that all was well, that they all were well, that despite some bumps my girls and their families were healthy, strong, and no worse for the wear. It was my first prayer in many years, as after Carter died, I had felt certain that God had forgotten about me.
I had no idea yet how ironic that prayer would seem. I had no idea how all of our lives were about to change.
THIRTY-TWO
the end of the world
caroline
After my dad died, Sloane and I used to talk, in hushed tones, between ourselves, about how the day he was killed had felt strange, like nothing was off and yet everything was. I always wondered if it was retrospect that gave us that insight, if it was only in hindsight that we realized that something about the day felt a little bit eerie from the beginning.
Ever since then, I’ve been leery of perfect days. And this morning in Peachtree was perfect. On the walk from the guesthouse to the main house, I smelled that smell, the one that always reminded me of summer, one of the many things I really couldn’t duplicate in New York. The fresh scent of gardenias. I stopped to smell one, Preston strapped to my chest. I pulled a few off the bush and put them to Preston’s nose.
“Smell that?” I said. “That’s gardenia.” I kissed the top of his head, which smelled even sweeter. “If you’re like your mommy, you will always remember the smell of gardenia, no matter where you go. Although there’s no telling. I guess it’s possible that you could end up living in the South one day.”
I laughed at the thought.
As I made my way to the back door, I spotted the tanned legs and dark hair that could only belong to one man in town: Kyle. He was laden with this really cool coffee carrier he had made out of an old Coke crate.
“Hi, Kyle!” I said.
“Caroline,” he said. “Coffee for all!”
I motioned for him to follow me into the house. He did and started unloading.
“The usual for your mom, the rooibos decaf latte for you, caramel macchiato for Sloane—”
I stopped him there, putting my hand on his. “No more,” I whispered. “She needs something low-sugar and low-calorie. Work your magic.”
He smiled and saluted. “Will do. And a half-caf coffee with skim milk and two sugars for Grammy.”
I silently counted the coffees. “Where’s Emerson’s?”
“I passed her on the sidewalk and gave her hers.”
I cocked my head to the side, studying his face. Something in it changed when he talked about Emerson. Interesting. I could feel my mouth and eyes getting wide. “Oh, Kyle. Do you like her?”
He put his arm around me. “Well, sure, I like her. But not like that.”
“Mm-hm,” I hummed skeptically. I’d seen that look before. “Well, she’s all about that career right now, but hey, looks like I’ll be single soon. I mean, I’m ten years too old for you, but if you need a Murphy fix, I’ll be available.” I decided to see how it sounded, try it on for size. Not terrible. But certainly not great.
He squeezed me to him. “Thanks, Caroline. I really appreciate that.”