Sweet mom read him books and played games with him, delighting in make-believe. She sang songs—AJ’s voice is her legacy. Sick mom shut herself in her room for days at a time, sobbing and refusing to come out.
“Mean mom,” AJ said, “told me that I had ruined her life, that she wished I had never been born.”
“Oh, lots of mothers say that,” Lu assured him, knowing it was a lie. She hoped, more than ever, that AJ would become a father. Motherless, Lu had no one to teach her how to be a mother and she thought, in the main, that she was a good one. AJ would be a good dad, and that would make him see that his mother’s legacy was not a damaging one.
On the last Saturday morning in June, Lu is amazed by a fleeting thought: I’m happy. It’s a beautiful day, hot but not wretchedly humid, the sky so blue and bright that the world feels as if it’s in a picture frame. Penelope has an all-day swim date with another family, a family generous enough to drop Justin at his sailing camp. (Lu tries to separate them, to the extent that they will allow themselves to be separated.) Her father has gone for his morning walk around the lake. She has a moment alone in the house, something that almost never happens. The silence is delicious. She makes a second cup of coffee in her father’s high-tech espresso machine, froths some milk. Lu notices, as she often does, that the kitchen now bears no resemblance to the original—every footprint has changed—but the sink still faces a window in the side yard. She looks into the lilac bush, its blossoms long past, and remembers the day she and AJ saw a pair of green eyes in there, staring back.
Impulsively, she picks up the phone and calls her brother, wanting him to hear that her voice is lighter, happier, than it has been in weeks.
Wonderfully, his is, too. “Lu!”
“Where are you?” she asks.
“In Italy,” he says. “Just finishing lunch before I go tour this biodynamic vineyard.”
“Nice life,” Lu says, ungrudging. If AJ and Lauranne go ahead and have kids, things will be less freewheeling. Yet he might be happier. That’s the paradox. Life is harder with kids, yet somehow better.
“Well, we can’t all spend summer in Columbia, Maryland.”
“You know what I was thinking of just now? Noel, the day we met him. And I’ve always wondered—what came between the two of you? Why did you stop talking to each other?”
“Oh, Lu, it was so long ago. I’m not sure exactly what happened. Noel was a drama queen. He got mad at me, I got mad at him for being mad at me. He got madder at me for being mad at him for being mad at me. Frankly, I always thought he was a little in love with me and that was a problem. Because I was never going to have those feelings for Noel. Never.” AJ sighs, less happy now, and she feels a twinge of guilt. “I don’t want to talk about Noel. It hurts. I regret so much not going to see him when he was sick. But I was scared.”
“Of contracting HIV?”
He pauses for so long she begins to think the connection is lost. “Yes,” he says at last. “It was early days, Lu. No one knew anything. I’m ashamed to say that, but it’s true.” He yawns. Loudly, showily. “I’m going to need a nap. Lunch was amazing. You cannot believe the food here. You should come here. Let’s do it as a family next summer. I’ll book a villa for a month.”
“I’m a public servant, AJ. I don’t get to go to Italy for a month. I’ll spend one week in Rehoboth this August and I’ll be tethered to my e-mail. I used to think Dad was mean, never taking us anywhere. Now I get it.”
Another showy yawn. “It’s just so beautiful. It makes you wonder—what are we doing, running, running, running, working, working, working? Such busy little bees. Or ants. Whichever one works harder. I thought I simplified my life, but all I did was find another way to be busy, telling other people to simplify their lives. Why am I touring a biodynamic vineyard, except for the fact that I want to have material for a podcast? Or an op-ed for the Times? Then I can deduct my trip, as if I need to worry about tax deductions. Drinking wine, eating good food is reason enough to come to Italy. I had a lovely white wine at lunch. Vermentino. I have no fucking clue if it’s biodynamic. But it made me happy.”
“Sounds like you’re working on a sequel.”
“No,” he says adamantly. “No more polemics disguised as memoirs. Or memoirs disguised as polemics. I’ve said everything I have to say. I’m going to learn to be.”
“You sound really happy,” she says.
“I think I am. I leave in two days. Can’t miss Fourth of July with the family, fireworks over Kittamaqundi.”
She hangs up, delighted AJ is finally learning to enjoy himself. Then, out loud in the kitchen, although no one is there to hear. “I do believe my big brother was a little tipsy just now. Good for him.”
And if AJ can let loose—she calls a familiar number, one she has not used for many weeks, one whose messages she has ignored or fended off with pleas of busyness, another ant with her head down, working, working, working. Maybe she can’t have Vermentino with lunch, but there are other earthly pleasures to pursue.
JULY 3