Emma sets a pitcher of water on the patio table and settles into a chair. Portia is sitting with her back to the sun, the sunlight filtering through her hair, turning it shades of caramel and bronze. It’s a beautiful morning, an increasingly rare Saturday with her daughter.
“I know this sounds petty, Mom, but I swear to you, it was the most pointless piece of schlock I’ve ever seen.” Portia is retelling the story of having spent last weekend in Sacramento with Lyle’s parents. They’d gone to Macy’s to begin their bridal registry and his mother, Doris, is, apparently a woman with strong opinions.
“I mean, what am I supposed to do with a china figurine of two kissing doves?”
“Lladró is quite collectible, Portia. They’re handcrafted.” Not that Emma knows much more than that. Her style is toss more, collect less.
“Can I drink coffee from it? Entertain with it? No. Which means I don’t need my wedding guests to spend four hundred dollars to give me the pleasure of staring at two kissing doves for the rest of my life.”
Emma’s not about to argue. Portia’s always had a good head on her shoulders. She makes to-do lists and gets things done. Puts a portion of her paycheck directly into savings. Shops vintage. Today, she’s wearing a darling Lilly Pulitzer shirt with the white jeans Emma gave her for Christmas, and she looks so adorable Emma could practically eat her up.
“Doris will learn your style eventually. It just takes time.” Heaven knows her own mother-in-law had been anything but easy. Lydia May deferred entirely to her husband, Donald. What time should Emma and Devin arrive for dinner? Well, that depended on what time Donald finished his round of golf. What did she plan to serve? Well, that depended on what Donald wanted. Did Lydia wish to join Emma for lunch on Tuesday? Well, that depended on whether Donald’s dry cleaning would be ready to pick up.
Soon after learning of Devin’s affair, when Emma was feeling especially bitter and very drunk, she’d fought the temptation to call Lydia in the nursing home and ask, “Would you like me to come over and tell you about Devin fucking his legal assistant?” just to hear what Donald—by then long deceased—could have possibly had to say about it.
“I wonder if that’s true, though.” Portia spoons a helping of fresh-cut fruit onto her plate. The strawberries at the farmer’s market this week were the size of walnuts and filled the air with sunshine and sweetness. “Lyle’s mom does this thing... I don’t know how to describe it.”
“Does she criticize you?” Emma feels her spine straighten at the implication.
“No, it’s not that. I think she likes me fine. As much as she can like anyone besides herself and her precious son.” Portia points her fork for emphasis. “That’s the issue.”
“Oh. He’s a mama’s boy.” This surprises her, with Lyle being as attentive and generous as he is. Portia drives his new hybrid Honda CR-V after he offered to swap for her gas-fueled 2018 Civic because she drives so many more miles than him.
“He’s not a mama’s boy so much as... I don’t know. Like I said, she does this thing.” Portia picks up her empty water glass and examines it, pinching her lips and scowling. She sighs, then hmms and puts it down again. “Like that.”
“She’s discerning?”
“No. The sigh...hmm. She doesn’t give an actual opinion about anything. She just—” Portia does it again. Sigh. Hmm.
“Oh.” Emma thinks she gets it now and it’s worse. “She’s passive-aggressive.”
“Yes! To the extreme. And it’s like a dog whistle to Lyle. As soon as he hears it, he springs into action.” She imitates, “‘Well, what about this one, Mom? Is this other one better?’ I don’t even think he’s aware of it, honestly.”
“Families usually aren’t.” Emma hadn’t been the perfect mother or wife. No one is. That’s what it means to be human. But neither did she understand many of her shortcomings until divorce was already barreling full speed toward her heart.
It leads her to a sickening thought. “Does Lyle feel comfortable around me? I hope I don’t manipulate our time together. I’m trying to be a good future mother-in-law.”
“Mom, you’re fine! You’re great.”
“But do you know that? Have you asked?”
Portia sighs again, this time with exasperation. “Yes. In fact, I don’t need to. He tells me regularly how much he appreciates you and Daddy.”
You, specifically, Mom, Emma wants her to say.
“Well, if that ever changes, you let me know. I have no interest in being overbearing or difficult to deal with.”
“Yes, Mother.” Portia smirks and reaches for the mini quiches.
Emma watches. Some of her moments of greatest pleasure as a mom have simply been observing her daughter. The way she moves. Laughs. Chats with friends. Converses with strangers. There’s a confidence about Portia. Even now, picking only the spinach quiche, leaving the bacon and cheddar untouched. Of course, it’s a small thing, and a woman Portia’s age ought to know what she likes to eat. But many wouldn’t. Or they’d take them out of politeness, not wanting to offend.
What mini quiche would Donald choose? Emma chuckles and folds an entire slice of bacon into her mouth because, frankly, she doesn’t give a damn.
“I have a thought.” Lord, who’s the passive-aggressive mother now? I have a thought. As if it’s a miracle. “Hear me out.”
Portia’s looking at her expectantly.
“Maybe I can help smooth the transition with Doris. We’re around the same age. Certainly, we have a few things in common. If nothing else, we both raised an only child. This is the one wedding we get.”
Finger crossed, she silently adds.
“It sounds as if she may enjoy playing a role in your decisions. Everybody knows the mother of the groom tends to get short shrift. Why don’t you and Lyle include both mothers in your planning excursions?”
“You mean, like registering?”
Emma flashes to the planning app Portia showed her. She’d entered dates and budget and ideas, and it spit out a list of tasks that needed to be accomplished in the order in which they needed to be completed. “We can start with the wedding registry, sure. There’s plenty of stuff. Choosing flowers, wedding dress shopping—”
“No.” Portia holds up a hand. “I draw the line on dress shopping. I’m not going to have her sigh-hmm her way through the showroom.”
“Fair enough.” Far be it from Emma to disrespect her daughter’s boundaries.
“But I don’t hate the idea of double-teaming her for other stuff.”
“I’m not sure that’s what I’m saying.”
“Yes, you are.” Portia laughs. “I can already see it. You’re gonna just butter her up, ask all kinds of questions about what she likes and this and that. And whenever she tries the passive thing, you’re going to draw out an opinion before she even realizes you’re doing it. ‘Oh, Doris,’” she mimics Emma in a remarkably accurate manner, “‘I was wondering about that myself, but I didn’t want to say anything. What are your hesitations?’”
Emma draws in a deep breath and sighs it out. “Hmm. I suppose I could do that.”
“Oh, my God.” Portia throws a strawberry at her. “That just gave me the shivers.”
It’s settled. Emma is officially on point with Doris throughout wedding prep. “I just want you to start your marriage off on the right foot. It’s stressful to fight over family issues, and I don’t wish that on you or anyone.”
Time for dessert. Emma pops up and retrieves the brownies from the kitchen.
“Hey.” Portia doesn’t wait for her to set the plate down before grabbing one. “Lyle told me you know his uncle Ben.”
Images of boxed rice dart across Emma’s brain. “We graduated from high school together.”
“You know he’s like this big-time crisis PR guy, right? Lyle says he keeps a go bag packed in his office so he can catch a flight on a moment’s notice.”
“Sounds awful.” Truly. She tries to picture what she’d even keep in a go bag. Would she have to buy doubles of all her cosmetics?
“I think it sounds amazing. He gets calls from companies all over the world. He handled that big pipeline leak in South Dakota or Montana or whatever a few months back. Apparently, there aren’t many hotels in the area and all the rooms were booked up by press, so he lived in a trailer for a month.”
Emma studies her over the top of her sunglasses. “And that sounds awesome to you?”
“Not the trailer, obviously. But the high stakes, catch the first flight to Geneva or whatever, yeah. Plus, think about all the insider knowledge he has. All the crap these corporations have pulled over the years.”
This isn’t her daughter at all. “You’re watching too much television.”
“Nobody watches TV anymore, Mom. And he’s interesting. I like him. Lyle thinks we should all get together for a BBQ or something.” Then, Portia does something that makes the brownie try to crawl back up Emma’s throat. She wiggles an eyebrow and says, “He’s single, too, you know.”
“Portia Elaine.” Of all the things she does not want her daughter thinking about, her love life tops the list.
“I’m just saying. And handsome, too.” That wiggling brow again.
Emma stands and throws a napkin over Portia’s face. “I’m gonna pluck that eyebrow out of your forehead if you keep wagging it at me.”
She needs coffee. Or brain surgery. Anything to get her off this patio.
“It’s only a barbecue!” Portia calls after her.
But Emma answers before retreating out of earshot. “No. No thank you. Nope. Nuh-uh. Take your pick. They all work the same.”
Later, when they’ve finished and Portia kisses her mother goodbye, Emma stands in the driveway watching her go, not turning away until she’s down the block and out of sight. Emma has always been an attentive mother, but this is a new habit, stealing every last glimpse of her daughter. It never feels like enough.
How can it be that I’m already done? she wonders as she waves. There are no more children to raise, and as soon as the wedding is over, Portia and Lyle will officially be their own family. Which leaves Emma alone.
Technically, she’s been on her own for over a year now, and she’s grown to appreciate the silence of coming home to an empty house. But math is math, as she likes to tell her students. Take three people, subtract one, and you have two. Take two people, subtract one, and the cheese stands alone.
“I am alone.” She speaks the words aloud. Maybe if she says them enough, she’ll become desensitized. With repetition, she might even stop needing to choke back the tears that accompany them. “I am—”
Is that what she thinks it is?
Emma steps off the front stoop and walks a few feet into the grass. Sure enough, a dog has pooped on her lawn. This isn’t Kanga or Roo’s handiwork. Emma’s dogs go in the back, and she’s quick with the cleanup. The neighbor, however, has a white something about the size of a pig. Black spot on its back. She’s seen it sneaking into her yard more than once.
The neighbor, Kent, is a single guy somewhere in his early thirties who lives alone and drives a very un–Northern California gas-powered Land Rover. He parks it in the street because his garage has been full of unpacked boxes for over a year.
Kent moved in shortly after Devin moved out, and Emma was briefly pleased to know that she would have a more capable and sprightlier neighbor than the elderly Mrs. Harrison on the other side. Then she noticed that he had a habit of putting his garbage cans out on the wrong day and instead of correcting his mistake, simply left them at the curb until collection day eventually rolled around—sometimes close to a full week.
And now his dog seems to have defecated on her grass.
She retrieves an empty bread bag from her recycling and scoops up the mess, then walks to the curb and deposits the mess into Kent’s cans which are, conveniently and unsurprisingly, still out even though it’s Saturday. Next time he’s outside, she’ll kindly ask him to keep better watch over his pet. She can do that now. Saying “no” may just be her new favorite hobby.