Dolly All the Time(78)

I make a fire before bed and leave the door open to the night. The fall noises are different, more sinister, and the sound of the waves is louder without the din of tourists in town. I used to like this time of year in Whitfield when I was little, it felt like a coming inward, a rest. My dad would always have a fire going in the living room and we would roast marshmallows and watch movies. I think I was still under the crocheted blanket back then.

Patsy and her family are coming for Thanksgiving, and everyone acts like she’s doing us a big favor. We’re so grateful that she’s going to drive a couple of hours and let us cook for her. We feel terrible that she’ll have to stay at the Whitfield Inn with their fluffy robes and European-made pillow chocolates. Poor Patsy with her husband, who’s not perfect but who she gets to keep.

On Thanksgiving morning, I sleep late because I was up from three to five a.m., contemplating this injustice. In the middle of the night there is nothing to clean or paint or care for. I am a fountain of grief, and it pours in every direction and never runs out. I wake and it’s already light out. Gus is sitting on the side of my bed.

“Hi,” I say, sitting up. “Wow, I overslept.”

I get out of bed; I need to get the turkey in the oven. But Gus stays there.

“Mom?” he starts. I sit back down because this is unusual. “Was my dad a good guy?”

I put my arm around him, but he squirms away. “That’s a big question. I’m not sure what it means to be a good guy. Pops is a good guy for sure. Your father was friendly and I think mostly kind to people. He was smart and worked really hard. Those are all good qualities.”

“But he didn’t want to be with you.”

“True,” I say. “But we weren’t right for each other.”

Gus gives my hand a squeeze. “I want to be a good guy, I think. Is Stewart a good guy?”

“Yes.” My heart does this thing now, it’s a quick jab of pain. I think of it as the Stewart punch. “He is. It was a fun summer.”

“There’s a race next summer.” He says it like he’s apologizing.

“What kind?”

“Sailing. It’s out of the yacht club and it’s sort of hard to enter, but I want to try.”

God, I love this kid. “That’s great, you should.”

“You need a yacht club member to sponsor you.”

My heart sinks. “And you want to ask Stewart.”

Gus nods. “Is that okay? Is he still someone we can talk to?”

I put my arm around him and pull him in close. Somewhere along the line, my kid learned how to ask for what he wants. “Sure. Text him. And if you don’t hear back, I can text Busy.”

“You think he won’t text me back?”

I know he will. Even if he doesn’t want me, I know deep in my heart that he won’t ignore Gus. “He will,” I say. “As long as he’s on a break from doing whatever he does, fluffing up his rich-guy hair.”

Gus laughs, and if that’s not the most heavenly sound on earth, I don’t know what is.



* * *





We move the folding table into the kitchen to accommodate everyone. Patsy arrives empty-handed, which annoys me, even though she asked what she could bring and I said nothing. She looks tired. She and Jeremy, who she gets to keep, don’t talk directly to each other, and her twins, Maggie and Kate, are adorable but seem like they’ve been freebasing sugar all day. After dinner she sends Jeremy and the girls back to the inn and wants to sit with me on the porch swing. I bring Grandma’s crochet blanket and two mugs of milky tea.

“Dad seems good,” she says, opening the door to one of our trademarked nothing conversations. I do not want to sit here and comment on all the things that are fine. I’m not entirely fine.

“He is good,” I say.

“Yeah, good,” she says. We’re quiet for a bit.

“Everything okay with you?” she asks.

“Of course,” I say. “I’m fine.” Lying is really just like any other skill. The more you do it, the easier it gets.

“What’s going on with you?” I ask.

She sips her tea. “Nothing. Why?”

“You didn’t eat dinner.”

“I don’t like turkey.”

“No one likes turkey, everyone eats it.”

She cups her hands around her tea and blows into it. It’s not quite cold enough to see your own breath, but the steam rising from her cup reminds me that it will be.

“I might be a little lost. Turning thirty-nine, that kind of thing.”

I don’t say anything. And I think of how Stewart used to stay quiet to draw words out of me. It aches, this thought.

She sips her tea. “I’m in therapy.”

“What does your therapist call you?” I ask.

“Patsy. Why?”

“No reason,” I say.

“I feel really locked out. Of our family.”

“The door’s open, Patsy,” I say, a little bite to my voice.

“Is it though?” She’s looking straight ahead at the maple. “Dad calls you when there’s a problem. And you don’t even mention it to me, like I’m useless.”

“No one thinks you’re useless,” I say.