Nate wasn’t sure exactly what he was expecting from his father and mother’s hometown, but driving down the main drag of Shaw Avenue reminded him of a sprawling suburb—mini-malls, big-box stores, chain restaurants, gas stations, and office buildings. It seemed calm, pleasant, a good harbinger for the weekend.
“I worked so many different jobs in there during high school,” Amy said, as they stopped at a light by an upscale-looking, open-air shopping center. A sign read: “Fig Garden Village.” Nate was impressed by the colorful floral plantings that flanked the entrance.
“Doing what?” Nate asked, wondering if she meant before or after her pregnancy—or maybe even during part of it.
“Oh, the usual teen gigs: cashiering mostly, a little waitressing. Bagged at the supermarket one summer.” And, as if she’d read his thoughts, Amy turned to him and said, “Not that summer, of course.”
Nate, startled by her intuition, quietly nodded. He tried to say something, anything—a response seemed called for. But just then, the light turned green, a horn honked behind them, and Nate drove off, effectively concluding that part of the chat. Amy looked lost in her own memory.
Gazing out at the road, Nate pictured a teenage Amy, maybe the spring before “that summer,” working a cash register at Fig Garden, her barely discernable baby bump cloaked by loose-fitting clothes. When he connected that “bump” to himself he felt yet another weird twinge course through him. Something told Nate he’d better get used to them.
Amy directed Nate to the older, more modest university district near Cal State Fresno and they were soon parked in front of her parents’ house. It was an unremarkable, two-story, Cape Cod-style home with front and side dormers, boxy windows, and faded gray shingles. A droopy, ancient-looking Chinese elm tree lorded over a blotchy front lawn.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Amy as they got out of the truck and faced the house, “that you could landscape the hell out of this place.”
She had him there. “Well, I could suggest a few improvements,” he said with a sly grin. It wasn’t as untended as his father’s house had once been, but it was pretty drab. Nate would start by giving the massive elm tree a serious haircut to help open up the yard. Cody darted for the old tree and heartily marked his territory.
“Don’t waste your imagination,” Amy told Nate as he gazed at the front yard. “Changing even a light bulb sends them into a tizzy.”
“Got it,” Nate said, glad to take off his landscaper hat for one weekend. “So this is where you grew up?” he asked as he went to grab their overnight bags from the truck. Cody followed him as if it was already time to go home.
“Yep. My parents have owned this place for forty-nine years. Moved in the day after their honeymoon—and never left.” She noticed Nate’s wary expression as he returned with their gear. “Everything alright?”
“Yeah, sure,” he answered, standing stock still. Nate could tell Amy didn’t look persuaded. “It’s just … the second we walk through that door, I’ll have grandparents. And a sister. It’s kind of a mindfuck.” As soon as the word came out he was sorry, but Amy looked unfazed.
“Like I said: one foot in front of the other. And remember, it’ll be ‘kind of a mindfuck’ for them, too,” Amy said, taking her bag from Nate. He realized she was right: it would be weird for everyone. The thought somehow calmed him down.
Amy crossed to the spider-cracked cement front path. “Ready, Teddy?” she asked, forcing an upbeat smile.
“Let’s do it,” Nate said, relaxing his shoulders and facing the front door just as it opened, framing a wide-eyed, slightly stooped, gray-haired couple.
“There they are!” Amy enthused as her parents stepped out to greet them. Cody turned uncharacteristically shy, sitting on his haunches at Nate’s side. Nate tensed again.
“Hi, Mom! Hi, Daddy!” Amy said, sounding more like an eager child than the measured adult Nate had come to know. He watched as she warmly hugged her parents, whose eyes were fixed, almost in wonder, on their grandson. Amy swung around. “This is Nate.” Everyone stood there, unsure what to do, so Amy quickly added, “Nate, meet Gene and Diane Lucas.”
As if someone hit the “play” button, Gene and Diane sprung to life. “Look at you!” his grandmother marveled. “You’re even more handsome than your pictures!” Nate hadn’t considered that Amy had sent them photos, even if that made total sense. She’d shown Nate a picture of them, but it was old and they’d aged dramatically since then.
Gene stepped up, extending a hand. “Hello, son, it’s nice to meet you—after all this time,” he said with practiced formality. Nate shook his hand, the older man’s bony fingers belying a no-nonsense grip. He eyed his grandfather, took in his tall, slender frame (in marked contrast with Diane’s shorter, stouter one), slightly protruding ears, Amy’s same gray-green eyes, and thought maybe he looked like him—or maybe he didn’t. Either way, Nate was encouraged by Gene’s full head of straight, neatly cut hair, recalling that baldness was passed down from one’s maternal grandfather (or was that a myth?). Jesus, he thought, is that what I’m thinking about? Now?
Gene looked down at Cody, who was still seated as if awaiting an introduction. “And what’s this beauty’s name?” he asked, his tone lightening.
“This is Cody. He’s very friendly,” Nate answered, and watched as Gene bent down to pet his new granddog.
Diane, who Nate had instantly assessed to be the more bashful of Amy’s parents, opened her arms. “Come here and hug your old grandma,” she said, a tremolo in her kindly voice. He gently embraced her—she held him close; her face and neck were warm, moist—but it felt like too much too soon. He could sense his limbs stiffen—and hers quaver. “Can you feel me?” she asked on cue. “I’m shaking like a leaf.”
Nate let go, then awkwardly held onto one arm to calm her. But she burst into tears. Amy went to her mother. “Mom, what is it? What’s wrong?”
Diane, clearly mortified by her reaction—as was Gene, if his stricken look was any indication—gazed at Nate, her wide, lined face a map of sorrow. “What have we done? We’re terrible people. Look at this beautiful boy we never knew.”
It occurred to Nate that they were still standing outside; he was desperate to take this into the house. But no one moved until Gene stepped in, calmly put his arms around his wife, and said, “Now, now, Diane, it’s okay. It’ll be alright.”
Amy sent Nate a beseeching look. Before it could get any weirder, Diane settled down and her tears subsided. She shook back her hair, smoothed her blouse, and took a cleansing breath. “Okay, folks, show’s over,” she said with a wan smile.
“Let’s go on inside,” said Gene, crossing to the front door. “Robin’s waiting for us.” The term “one-two punch” popped into Nate’s head as he and Cody followed Amy and his grandparents into the house.
Gene and Diane’s home looked more pulled together on the inside than out. Though the furnishings appeared old, and the paint, wallpaper, and paneling unintentionally retro, the rooms were clean and orderly, with a lifetime’s worth of framed photos and knickknacks neatly hung or displayed. A whole world Nate had known nothing about.
Robin came rushing out of the living room to greet Nate and Amy as soon as they’d stepped foot in the house. She was more petite than Amy, but just as attractive in her own way—maybe more so than she’d looked in her picture. Her wide-set eyes were similar to Nate’s (which were similar to Amy’s) but otherwise, he didn’t see much of himself in her. She hugged Amy tightly while sending a warm glance Nate’s way, one that said I’ll get to you next.
“How are you, darling?” Amy asked Robin, pulling back to study her. As far as Nate knew it was the first time she’d seen her daughter in person since moving away.
“I’m good, Mom,” she answered, then took in Diane’s unsettled expression. “Is … everything alright?”
Diane pushed out a little smile. “Oh, don’t mind me, Robin June, I was just having a good cry.” She indicated Nate and said, “Say hello to your brother.” Nate assumed June was Robin’s middle name (he was right) and wondered if they knew his middle name. (It was Charles, after Jim’s father, who died when Jim was six.)
Robin took a deep breath and charged up to Nate. “I’m Robin. So nice to meet you!” She extended a hand, then, as if feeling silly about such a formal gesture, quickly went in for a hug. “How was your ride? Was there traffic?” she asked into his chest. Nate hoped she couldn’t hear his heart hammering. She reached out for the bag he’d forgotten he was still holding. “Can I take your bag?” Robin asked and then, before he could answer, she machine-gunned out: “How long are you here for? This must be so wild for you. You’re actually very brave!” She checked herself, and, with a nervous grin, said, “Okay, why don’t I shut up now?”
Nate was so overwhelmed by her greeting that all he could think to say was “Nice to meet you, too, Robin!” He hadn’t realized they’d all already migrated into the living room. Nate had never given Robin his bag—had no idea where to put it or where in the house he’d be staying. It begged other questions: Would he be sharing a room with Amy? What were they going to do now that they were actually there? And how far away was Amy’s—now Robin’s—condo? He had to get better at asking questions.
Nate looked around and saw that while he was contemplating the universe, everyone had taken a seat, even Cody, who had curled up on a woven throw rug in front of a walnut-mantled fireplace and made himself at home. They all sat quietly, stiffly still, maybe waiting for the other to speak; they reminded Nate of chess pieces, each bound to their own square. He parked himself in the one empty seat, a creaky armchair covered in nubby beige fabric, placing his bag on the floor beside him.
Like a game of whack-a-mole, the second Nate’s butt hit the chair, Diane popped up from the couch and anxiously pressed her hands together. “Where are my manners? Nate, can I make you a nice cup of tea? Or maybe you drink coffee?” She looked desperate for something to get her out of there.
“Unless you could use something a little stronger,” Gene offered from his perch in a plaid reclining chair, which he was decidedly not reclining in.
Diane made a tsk-tsk sound and said, “Gene, it’s only eleven thirty! And lunch is in thirty minutes!”
But Gene was undaunted. “Know what? I think I’ll have a beer. Care for a cold one, Nate?”
Nate was so grateful you’d think the cavalry had just burst in. “Sure, why not?”
Without skipping a beat, both Amy and Robin’s hands shot up and, in unison, they chirped, “Me, too!” and giggled.
Diane stood there like a cross schoolmarm waiting for her class to behave. Realizing she was outnumbered, she sighed and started for the kitchen. “Four beers, coming up,” she said as she made a noisy exit. Cody leaped off the rug to follow her, sensing she was the key to all things edible around there.
When Diane was gone, the living room crowd burst into an icebreaking chuckle. “I can hear you!” shouted Diane from points beyond, which only made the group laugh again.
Those pre-noon Budweisers, déclassé as they may have seemed, clearly helped ease everyone—except maybe Diane—into lunch mode, and the group seemed a bit more relaxed by the time they were settled around the dining room table. Nate and Amy sat on one side, Robin across from them, and Gene and Diane at opposite heads. Nate wondered if he should have let Robin sit next to her mother but dismissed the thought; there’d been too much walking on eggshells as it was—and he’d barely been there an hour. Meantime, Cody was sprawled under the table, in prime position for wayward crumbs.
“I made your favorite, Amy Beth”—okay, now Nate knew his mother’s middle name—“deviled eggs and my famous tuna salad and I got that pink lemonade you used to like.”
“When I was ten, Mom,” Amy said lightly, sending Nate a conspiratorial kick under the table: Did I tell you or what? The gesture made Nate feel like part of a special club.
Diane looked surprisingly unruffled. “Well, you’ll always be ten to me, sweetie,” she said as she passed the plate of deviled eggs to Robin to begin its trip around the table.
Nate looked at the mounded platter of tuna in front of Gene as he scooped some onto his plate. He wondered what made it “famous” and asked as much.
“Taste it and you’ll find out!” Gene said with a wink, handing the platter to Nate. His grandfather was proving warmer than Nate imagined, even if the guy still looked a bit like a deer in the headlights.
It turned out that chopped green olives were Diane’s “secret” ingredient and, when Nate noted that, she turned on herself in a way that he didn’t see coming.
“Yeah, I’m really gonna give that Rachael Ray a run for her money, aren’t I?” she asked, her lips pursed, eyes darkening.
“Well, it’s very good,” Nate said, though the tuna was kind of dry and there were too many olives for his liking.
“Absolutely, Grandma! So good!” Robin piped in with the kind of overenthusiasm that implied it wasn’t her first time boosting Diane’s ego.
But seconds later, when Gene asked where the crescent rolls were, Diane realized she’d left them baking in the oven and flew out of the room. She returned from the kitchen holding a basket of blackened bread, hanging her head in shame.
“Sometimes my cooking’s a damn disgrace,” she said, plopping the rolls on the table, eyes brimming with tears.
“The good news is, it keeps me thin!” Gene kidded, though no one laughed, least of all his wife.
“Fine, embarrass me in front of our grandson,” Diane snapped, snorting back tears. She sat back in her chair and gazed at her empty plate. Gene stared at his hands; Amy and Robin traded uh-oh looks.
“Mom, please, just calm down. Dad was only joking. You’re a fine cook,” Amy said, though there was an unmistakable edge to her voice. She put down her fork, took a breath.
“Actually, Diane—” Nate began.
She looked up from her plate. “Grandma,” she emphatically reminded him.
Nate couldn’t quite wrap his tongue around that just yet. “Okay, well … I hear you make a great lasagna.”
“Truth be told, that one’s been passed down from my side of the family,” said Gene unhelpfully. Diane bolted up from the table and disappeared back into the kitchen. With a helpless glance at the others, Robin went after her, leaving Gene, Nate, and an embarrassed Amy to contemplate their tuna and eggs.
“Poor thing,” Gene finally said, “I think this has all been a little overwhelming for her.”
“Well, think about what Nate’s gone through!” Amy lashed back.
“Really, Mom, it’s okay—” Nate stopped cold, shocked that, without thinking, he’d called Amy “Mom” for the first time. It was doubly startling since, just seconds before, the word “grandma” had been so entirely out of reach. The moment was not lost on Amy, who was wearing a faint smile, nor, it seemed, Gene, who clucked his tongue, then started picking at his tuna salad.
They were all silent for a moment until Gene looked up from his plate and turned to Nate. “Son, I can’t explain or justify what happened thirty years ago, so I won’t,” he said with a catch in his voice. “I just want you to know I—that is, your grandma and I—are just so happy to know you. You’re a fine young man. I wish we could say we had something to do with it, but ...” He faded out, like a radio being turned off, but he kept his gaze fixed on Nate.
Amy’s mouth had formed an O as she studied her dad with both pride and regret.
Gene slapped his thigh, stood, and announced, “Well, I’d better go make sure she’s alright.” He gestured in the direction of the kitchen, then looked at Amy and said, “Thank God you don’t have your mother’s constitution.”
As Gene walked off, it occurred to Nate that he’d been thinking exactly that: how when it came to Amy, vis-à-vis Diane, the apple had fallen far from the tree—and practically rolled into another orchard. Was Amy more like her father? Nate couldn’t tell; it didn’t seem that way. But he really didn’t know any of them well enough to judge. What he did know—or had observed anyway—was that Amy seemed far more stylish and sophisticated than either of her parents. He couldn’t yet tell how alike Amy and Robin were; Robin came off shyer and more compliant than her mother, despite her occasional bursts. They loved each other a lot, that was more than evident, and certainly a good sign.
When her dad was out of earshot, Amy turned to Nate and gave a helpless shrug. “Like I said—flawed.”
Nate, who was suddenly starving, popped a deviled egg in his mouth—it beat the tuna. As he chewed, he thought, we’re all flawed, every last one of us. Doesn’t that just make us human?