Charlotte Snyder, head teller of Avalon State Bank, greets Isabel and Bettie in the lobby.
“So exciting!” she exclaims, leading them to the back of the bank. “When I got your call, I wasn’t sure what to think. Lost safe-deposit keys! It’s like something out of a movie.”
Isabel just feels weary. She’s had to take more time off from work, much to the chagrin of her kid boss who’s still managing to somehow keep KP Paper & Son afloat. She’d expected that he would complain, possibly even fire her, but instead he surprised her by saying she’d been given a raise. Apparently her sales numbers have been at an all-time high, something Isabel hadn’t been paying much attention to. She credits this to not really caring about her job, which makes handling rejection all the more easy. She keeps at it until she gets a yes, and then keeps at it some more.
But keeping at it is starting to take its toll on Isabel. She’s been running on caffeine and adrenaline since the fire, and it’s finally caught up to her. Even with Bettie now living at Abe and Imogene’s, Isabel still doesn’t seem to have enough time to tie up all the loose ends. There are too many to count.
And now, this. Bettie’s box, not to mention the surprise safe-deposit box that was held in Bill’s name. Isabel had to get a court order to get permission to open the box, and while it wasn’t all that difficult, it just makes everything feel more serious, more formal. Whatever Bill was hiding, Isabel is about to find out.
“Hey, sorry I’m late.” Yvonne comes up behind them and gives Isabel’s arm a squeeze. “Have you opened the boxes yet?”
Isabel shakes her head. “I’m thinking maybe we should leave Bill’s alone. There must have been a reason I didn’t know about it, right? And I’m not so sure I want to find out what’s inside.”
“I sure hope I stashed some goodies away,” Bettie tells Mrs. Snyder. “I could go for a nice surprise. Say, are you still serving free pastries?”
“Every day before ten,” Mrs. Snyder titters. “Though we’ve replaced the doughnuts with Amish Friendship Bread. So delicious!”
Bettie turns to Isabel, eager. “What time is it?”
Isabel looks at Yvonne. She doesn’t have the energy to even lift her wrist to look at her watch.
“It’s ten,” Yvonne confirms.
Bettie lets out a whoop. “Charlotte, I tell you, there is nothing sweeter than free Amish Friendship Bread.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Mrs. Snyder says, nodding her head fervently. “Today was my baking day, so I brought in chocolate-dipped Amish Friendship Bread biscotti—it has a touch of coconut. Perfect with your morning coffee!”
“I can’t stand Amish Friendship Bread,” Isabel mutters, “but coffee?” Her tired eyes perk up.
“Try water,” Yvonne says. “You could fuel a rocket with the amount of caffeine in your system.” She turns to Mrs. Snyder. “So, what now?”
“Well, we have Bettie’s box ready. And if you have your key”—she nods in Isabel’s direction—“we can have yours brought out right after. Since you got that court order, the box is all yours. It’s a shame you didn’t know about it earlier.”
“I don’t think I could have handled it earlier,” Isabel says. She turns to Yvonne. “I’m not even sure I can handle it now. Bill probably meant to give someone else power of attorney after the divorce was final. Ava, maybe. She should be here, not me.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Yvonne tells her. “At this point you need to see what’s inside. It could even be empty, Isabel, and all your worrying will be for nothing.”
Empty? Isabel’s not sure what’s worse. Finding something she didn’t know about or wondering what Bill had been planning to put inside.
“Enough chatter,” Bettie declares excitedly. “I want to see what’s in my box—I have no idea what’s in there!”
Mrs. Snyder’s face is washed in pity. “Because of your … condition?” She whispers the last word like it’s a secret.
Bettie gives her an exasperated look. “No, Charlotte. Short of having it deducted from my checking account once a year, I haven’t bothered to touch it in almost fifteen years. I forgot I even had it.”
Mrs. Snyder nods. “It’s funny how people tend to forget what they have. Okay, have a seat and I’ll be right back!”
Bettie and Yvonne sit down, but Isabel is pacing. Bettie is considering the possibilities, running through each one with Yvonne.
“What about gold bars? Wouldn’t that be something? Or a wad of cash!”
“Diamonds,” Yvonne adds. “Rubies from Madagascar.”
Isabel gives her friend a look. This is definitely not helping. “Bettie, whatever is in your box is something that you put in. Did you have gold bars or a wad of cash?”
“No,” Bettie says, her face falling for a moment. “But you never know, right? If my brain’s no longer reliable, who knows what I might have done over the years?” She turns to Yvonne, her face bright once again. “Stock certificates! Lottery tickets!”
Isabel resumes her pacing. Regardless of whatever is in Bill’s safe-deposit box, what’s troubling Isabel the most is that she can no longer trust what she knows. She’s starting to doubt her own memories about her life with Bill, because there is clearly so much that she didn’t know about.
Ava, obviously. She hadn’t seen that one coming but once it happened, she could see it for what it was—a series of chance and missteps, a fork in the road, his ultimate decision to choose one path over another. She knew her marriage had issues, and while she hadn’t expected he would ever leave her, she knows why he did.
But this is different. It’s deliberate, intentional, premeditated. Bill came to the bank, signed his name to the form, put money down for a box that neither she nor Ava knows anything about. He came here with the express intention of putting something into that box that he didn’t want to keep at home.
So what is it?
Mrs. Snyder reappears with a long metal box. She slides it onto the table. “Here you go, Bettie. Buzz me when you’re finished and then I can take you back to the vault, Isabel.”
Isabel and Yvonne flank Bettie as she stares at the box. “It’s bigger than I remember,” Bettie says, fingering the numbered plate on the front. She takes a deep breath and pushes back the metal lid.
It’s full of plastic bags, old magazines. Bettie pulls out a few Ziploc bags filled with documents folded in half. Isabel reaches for them, opens the first bag. The original deed to the house, the pink slip for her car, insurance papers, Bettie’s birth certificate, social security card, medical records. Isabel’s relieved to see them, because it makes a lot of things easier. She’ll make copies as soon as she can.
“Wow,” Yvonne breathes, and Isabel looks up to see her holding up a bundle of cash, mostly twenty- and hundred-dollar bills, also in a sealed Ziploc bag. “So you do have a wad of cash in there after all. It looks like there’s a few thousand here, Bettie. Is this yours?”
“Yes,” Bettie says, her voice hollow. She glances at it, uninterested. “Twenty thousand, I remember now. Proceeds from the first five years of my scrapbooking business.”
“Why didn’t you deposit it?” Isabel asks. She knows Bettie has both a savings and checking account at the bank, as well as an IRA.
“I did deposit some,” Bettie says absently. “I was saving the rest for …” Her voice trails off as she pulls out a Ziploc from beneath the magazines. Inside is something soft and rectangular wrapped in white tissue. Fabric? A sweater? Bettie’s face suddenly crumples.
Isabel slides into the chair next to her. Bettie’s hands are shaking. “Do you want me to help open it?” she asks.
Bettie’s eyes are wet. She shakes her head. “No. I’ll take it home with me.” She clutches it to her chest. “I want to go now.”
Isabel nods. She puts everything else into a bag and closes the lid of the empty safe-deposit box. They all stand up.
“Wait,” Yvonne says. “What about Bill’s box?”
Bettie’s face is drawn and pale, and Isabel wants to get her back to Imogene’s. “I’ll do it later,” she says, but Yvonne shakes her head.
“Do it now,” she says firmly. “I’ll take Bettie to the Garzas’. Call me later.” Yvonne puts an arm around Bettie’s shoulders and leads her out.
Isabel watches them leave, tempted to run after them. She’d been counting on having some company when she opened the box and hates that she has to do it by herself.
“How are we doing?” Mrs. Snyder enters the room and looks around in confusion. “Oh, did Bettie leave already?”
“She wanted to go home.” Isabel holds out Bill’s key. “So do I give this to you?”
“Oh, no, dear. You hold on to that. Follow me.”
They walk into a small room filled from floor to ceiling with three walls of safe-deposit boxes. Mrs. Snyder lifts a ring of keys as she scans the wall. “Two-one-five, two-one-five … here it is.” She motions for Isabel to step forward. “You put your key in there. I’ll put the master here … and turn.”
Isabel does as she’s told and the small door swings open. Mrs. Snyder briskly removes the long metal box inside and hands it to Isabel. They walk back to the small table outside.
“Usually when a safe-deposit box is dormant we turn it over to the state treasurer’s office,” Mrs. Snyder tells her. “But Mr. Kidd paid for it in advance, twenty-five years! You still have nine years to go, isn’t that nice?”
Isabel counts back the years. That would have been right around the time they got married.
“Let me know when you’re finished,” Mrs. Snyder says, pointing to the small button on the wall. “Don’t you run off on me, too!” She gives Isabel a wink and disappears.
Isabel slides into the chair and stares at the box. It’s gunmetal gray, just like Bettie’s, but smaller. She looks for a clue as to what might be inside, but there’s nothing. It’s a standard-issue safe-deposit box.
Isabel puts her hand on the cover and hesitates. The last person to open this box would have been Bill, his fingers in the same spot as hers. She wonders what he was thinking, if he knew that someday she would be the next person to touch this box. She suddenly feels anxious, unsure if she should look inside. After all, there must have been a reason that he didn’t tell her about it.
She flips open the lid before she can give it a second thought.
At first she stares at the contents, blinking. Yvonne was right—it’s practically empty. There’s a thin manila envelope and a small white envelope with Isabel’s name written in Bill’s unmistakable style.
She slowly reaches for the envelope, her mind spinning. An apology, maybe, or a belated confession? Isabel, I want to explain what happened. Or maybe a favor from the grave? Isabel, I know you must be angry with me but there’s something I need you to do. Isabel turns over the possibilities in her mind, none of them quite convincing enough.
She finally turns the envelope over and breaks the seal. It’s a card. Isabel pulls it out, stares at the simple drawing of two red intertwined hearts. Below it are the words, MY BELOVED WIFE.
This can’t be right. Isabel feels almost light-headed as she opens the card. It’s dated March 17, the year after they got married. Their first anniversary.
Dear Isabel,
Today is our first anniversary. Hard to believe that a year ago we exchanged rings and a promise to be together forever. I am so happy to be sharing my life with you, and I look forward to all the years to come.
So much has happened lately—our first home, the dental practice, the news of our first child on its way. I don’t think there’s anyone happier than me in this moment. I don’t want to ever forget it. I’ll admit the idea is not my own—I borrowed it from an article in Reader’s Digest, about writing down the details of our first year together and putting it in a safe-deposit box to open on our 25th anniversary. It seems like a fitting way to make sure the small memories of the beginning of our life together don’t escape us.
So here it is. I can’t wait to see what the future holds. I love you.
Always,
Bill
Inside the manila envelope she finds a handful of pictures—waiting in line at the Ferris wheel at the county fair, large plates of spaghetti from the questionable Italian restaurant near Bill’s dental college, the night he proposed, their wedding, their disastrous honeymoon in the Bahamas where they both got food poisoning. Standing in front of the house the day they bought it, Bill’s hand resting proudly on the mailbox as Isabel stands next to him, laughing, tucked under his arm. A notarized copy of Bill and Randall’s partnership papers, his first business card. A long list written by hand of what was happening in that year, the beat-up Honda they were driving, places they visited, their favorite foods and movies. A bar napkin with a short list of baby names they’d come up with when they found out Isabel was pregnant, two weeks prior to their anniversary. The miscarriage would happen five weeks later.
Isabel looks at the evidence of her early life with Bill, spread out in front of her like a show-and-tell project. She feels her eyes sting with tears and, at the same time, is shaking her head with a wry smile. Because this is exactly the kind of thing Bill would have done. A romantic gesture that would have been lost on Isabel because Isabel is the least romantic person in the world, but it would be just like Bill to do it anyway.
It’s been so long since she’s thought of him in this way. Her chest hurts, like the ache that comes with holding your breath for too long. To be able to think of him with fondness, with a smile on her face, to remember the good moments. When was the last time she could do this?
The pain catches her off guard, a sudden sting, a punch in the gut.
Bill, she thinks. He can hear her, she’s sure of it. She glances around, then settles back in her chair.
“Bill,” she says aloud. “If you’re up there somewhere, watching me look through all this, well, I can’t help but wonder if you forgot about this box. We were so young … I’m sure you didn’t think it’d end up like this. I sure didn’t.”
She hesitates, then takes a deep breath. “So things are going okay for me. I’ve been fixing up the house, as you probably know. Bettie’s house burned down, though, but she’s okay. We’ve become friends, actually. I know, I know. To think she used to drive me crazy all these years. Turns out she’s all right. More than all right. She’s kind of become like family to me. I’m glad you helped her out as much as you did when you were alive.
“You know how you were always telling me to go out and meet new people? Well, I have a new friend, Yvonne. She’s a plumber here in town. Really nice, very pretty, great teeth, gums to die for.” Isabel smiles. It was a standing joke between her and Bill—while most men judged women by their bodies, Isabel would tease him that the first thing he looked at was their teeth. “Work is going okay, too. I keep thinking I’m going to leave, but I just heard from my boss that I’m going to get a raise. Did you know I haven’t used a single vacation day since you died? I guess I should have taken one earlier—I seem to make more money that way.” She shakes her head, gives a small smile.
“So I guess if you hadn’t died you’d probably be married to Ava by now, maybe even have another kid.” Isabel is silent for a while. “Max is cute, Bill. He looks like you. I gave him some things of yours that I found in the attic. Well, gave them to Ava. She’s been hanging around a lot, but you probably knew that, too. It looks like they’ll be moving. It’s probably a good thing—the place they lived in was a dump, and Randall was a jerk to her so she can’t get another job as a dental assistant. She does these bottle-cap things—necklaces and rings—they’re pretty good but it’s not enough. When you died all our money was tied up with the dental practice, and you know how that went. Randall bought out your share of the business, but it was such a paltry sum based on your partnership agreement. The lawyer explained it to me like you tried to a million times. Wish I’d listened better but I was too mad at the time.
“Ava’s all right. Not that you’re asking me for my approval or anything. I mean, I suppose if you’re going to leave me for someone, you could have done worse than her. Lately it seems like I’m the one who’s married to her. Did you see what she did when she put my name on her emergency call list? I had to go pick up Max from school! We had a fun time, though. I do wish he was at a better place. Ava and I kind of got into a fight about it. Not that it’s any of my business.”
Isabel picks up one of the pictures. Their first Thanksgiving as a married couple, gathered round the large oak dining table at Bill’s parents’ house. Everything was too big—the table, the turkey, the amount of food. Edward and Lillian had teased them, saying that they were waiting for grandchildren to fill the table.
“Anyway …” She gestures to the things on the table. “I’m not sure what I’ll do with it, but it’s nice to have it. I threw out a lot of things when you left, I was pretty angry. But I’m not angry anymore, and I’m glad to have them. So thanks.” She glances up at the ceiling, unsure if she should say anything else. “And um, take care.”
Isabel is gathering everything together when Mrs. Snyder pokes her head in. “Everything all right?” she asks, eyebrows knit in confusion. Her eyes look around the room. “I thought I heard you talking to someone in here.”
“It’s just me,” Isabel says. She stands up. “I’m finished here. Thanks for all of your help.” Her arms are full but she suddenly feels lighter.
“That’s what we’re here for,” Mrs. Snyder says, still looking around the room. She gives Isabel one more perplexed look. “Are you sure there wasn’t anyone here with you?”
Isabel pauses for a moment, feels a shimmer of electricity that tickles her arm. “No,” she says honestly, but before Mrs. Snyder can ask any more questions Isabel steers them out the door. “You know, I think I’ll take some of that Amish Friendship Bread after all.”
“Connie, there’s someone here to see you!” Madeline calls from the bottom of the stairs. A familiar bleat fills the tea salon followed by the sound of running footsteps. “Serena, goodness, give that back!”
Serena? Connie quickly finishes trimming a photo with her new paper cutter and hurries to the door. She throws it open and runs down the stairs, her face bursting into joy when she sees Serena run past, a dishtowel in her mouth, her nails skittering on the hardwood floor. Connie lets out a whistle and Serena skids to a stop, the dishtowel falling out of her mouth as she does an about face and trots toward Connie.
Connie already has her arms around Serena’s neck when Madeline appears behind her, slightly out of breath.
“I swear, that goat knows this house better than me,” Madeline says. “She had us going every which way.”
“Us?” Connie says. She looks up and sees Eli Ballard hurry into the room, a relieved look on his face. She almost doesn’t recognize him without his white lab coat.
“What are you doing here?” Connie asks, not sure if she’s referring to Eli or Serena.
“Supervised visitation,” Eli says with a wink. “Jay Doherty came into town to run some errands and brought her with him. Asked if I could babysit Serena for a couple of hours so I thought I’d bring her by.”
At the mention of Jay Doherty’s name, Connie smiles. Connie’s grandparents had all died when she was young, and Connie thinks that was one reason why her father’s death was so hard on her mother. Connie doesn’t have a memory of them at all, but if it were up to her, she’d have a grandfather like Jay Doherty.
“Don’t you have patients to attend to?” Connie asks, straightening up. Serena leans hard against her legs, happy, and Connie scratches her under her chin.
“This is technically my lunch hour and I am allowed to eat,” he says. “But why is the CLOSED sign up?”
Madeline smiles. “It’s just for the week,” she says. “We’re closed for inventory.” She exchanges a smile with Connie. They’ve both been working on their scrapbooks, getting some much needed rest, and enjoying their quiet days together. It’s also given them a chance to talk about the tea salon, about setting some new goals for the next year. Connie still wants Madeline to think about selling her tea blends online. Another stream of revenue might mean that they won’t have to feel as much pressure about the tea salon doing well all the time. This time off is giving them a chance to talk about all that, and they both agree that closing the salon more often is a good idea. The tea salon is Madeline’s labor of love, but it’s no fun if they’re laboring all of the time.
Eli looks disappointed. “Just my luck. The one day I choose not to bring in a sandwich …”
“We still have to eat,” Connie says quickly. “And I’ve got to feed this girl, too, don’t I, Serena? I got a nice green salad waiting for you!” Connie sits down on the bottom step and wraps her arms around Serena, giving her a big hug.
“Okay, then,” Eli says. “Then I’ll have what she’s having.” He turns beet red when both Connie and Madeline turn to look at him with their eyebrows raised. “I meant the salad.”
“Oh dear, I think that’s the phone,” Madeline says suddenly, disappearing even though Connie didn’t hear the phone ring.
“Thanks for bringing her over,” Connie says. With Madeline out of sight, she lets go of the leash and lets Serena sniff and wander.
“Boy, it’s like you’re asking for trouble,” Eli says. He goes to pull the two side parlor doors closed. “This place is like one big playground for her. Goats like to get into everything.”
“Serena’s a good girl,” Connie says loyally. “She listens to me.”
Eli nods but continues to grunt as he works the heavy pocket doors. “Someone needs to add oil to these rollers,” he says.
“That someone has heard you and will add that to her list,” Connie says with a grin.
“It’s just the two of you?” Eli asks. He manages to get the doors closed and satisfied that Serena won’t be running amuck, flops onto an overstuffed Victorian parlor armchair.
Serena looks up the stairs, curious, and Connie shakes her head. “Don’t even think about it,” she tells the goat. She turns back to Eli. “Yes, but we have a lot of friends around.” Connie likes how that sounds.
“I mean, is there a boyfriend, fiancé, husband? Anyone available to help you out? For, um, either one of you?”
Connie hides a smile and decides to be direct. “Eli, are you interested in asking me out, or Madeline?”
Serena wanders over to Eli and gives him a sniff.
“You,” he says, his ears turning red.
“I’d love to,” she says honestly. “But are you sure you want to go out with a girl who hangs with goats?”
“Connie,” he says, arching an eyebrow. “You seem to be forgetting that I’m a vet.”
“Good point.” She rescues the new supply of business cards from Serena’s mouth and Eli takes them from her, replacing them onto the table. They grin at each other, and Connie feels butterflies in her stomach, suddenly self-conscious. “So I guess we’re on then.”
“I hope so.”
Serena is looking restless so Connie stands up. “I know that look. I’d better get her outside before I end up having to scrub out the rug.”
Eli stands up, too. “I’ll go with you.” He reaches the door before Connie and holds it open, and Serena is the first to exit. If Connie didn’t know better, she was sure she saw Serena wink at her as she passed by.
Frances sorts through the remaining squares on Mei Ling’s One Hundred Good Wishes quilt. She’d love to have it done before they go, but if not, it won’t be the end of the world. After watching the pandemonium that erupted after Peter Linde admitted to the goat-napping, Frances realized that all she wants is for her family to be together, to learn how to help each other out.
She’d watched as Sandra stared at Peter in disbelief, and then anger. His brother Jamie was livid; Hannah was horrified, since Connie was a friend. Frances had held her breath, scared for Peter while wanting to shake him at the same time.
Then Sandra got on the phone with her husband and they agreed to go to the police station. As Frances watched them pile into the car, grim but together, she realized that she didn’t care about all of the things she’d bought for Mei Ling or whether or not Nick was going to let her sew him a Halloween costume. She didn’t care about the size of their house or whether or not they had enough money for a family vacation. As long as they’re together, be it through good times or bad, is all that matters to Frances.
She went home with a renewed sense of clarity. Some clever rearranging of furniture, a purging of things they no longer needed, and suddenly there was enough room for everyone.
Now she lays a few squares next to each other, thinking, when the doorbell rings. When she answers, she’s surprised to see it’s Bettie Shelton.
“Bettie!” she exclaims.
“I only have a few minutes,” Bettie announces. “Got my babysitter waiting in the car outside.” She turns and gives Isabel Kidd a wave.
“Would you like to come in?” Frances asks.
Bettie shakes her head. “I’m paying a visit to all Society members, to let them know that I’m okay. Of course, things get spotty for me sometimes but I’m still me and I’m available to help you with any of your projects, at least while I can.”
“Thank you,” Frances says gratefully. “I think I’m hooked for life. I’ve already made several albums for my boys and I just mailed another small album to Mei Ling in China. I want her memories of us to start now—she’s already a big part of our life, and she’s not even here yet. It’s a huge comfort to me to know that she has these pictures of us, these images of our family and our home in Avalon. Her family, her home.”
“Yes,” Bettie says. “She’s a lucky girl.”
“We’re the lucky ones,” Frances says, and she means it.
Bettie stands on the porch for a moment longer, lingering. “October is one of my favorite months,” she tells Frances. “I love the smells, you know? The end of autumn, the onset of winter. Leaves, crackling fires. Of course, I hadn’t expected I’d be getting a lungful of smoke with the fire at my house. I meant the kind that’s contained in a fireplace, but what can you do.”
“I was so sorry to hear about your house,” Frances says gently.
“Everything is gone,” Bettie says with a look of amazement on her face, as if she were recounting someone else’s bad news. “My life went up in smoke, literally. Except for a few things in a safe-deposit box at the bank. I’d completely forgotten about it. We got the manager to drill the box open, and it turns out I was smarter than I realized. Had copies of all my important documents and a few other important things in there.” Her eyes seem to be misting and she blinks rapidly.
Frances nods, making a note to talk to Reed. They don’t have a safe-deposit box but she definitely wants to get one now.
Bettie pulls a small square of pink felted wool from her pocket. “I wanted to give you my square for your quilt,” she says quietly. “It’s from a baby blanket I’ve had for a long time. It’s very special to me and it makes me feel good knowing that it’ll be with a baby girl who’ll be in a family who loves her.”
Frances takes the square from her. It’s soft and thick, and she presses it against her cheek. “It’s lovely, Bettie. Thank you.”
Bettie doesn’t answer right away, suddenly squinting as if the sun’s too bright. “Well, I should go,” she finally says. “I’m working my way through the membership list and I want to finish up before dinner.”
Frances nods. “Of course.” She waves as Bettie makes her way down the walk and climbs into the waiting car.
She closes the door, pressing the square against her chest, can picture Mei Ling running her fingers along the different textures of her quilt, lingering on this simple, pale piece. Frances imagines Mei Ling tucked in with the quilt at night, a reminder of all the people who love her and who waited for her arrival.
“Mom.” Brady suddenly appears at her side, clutching a toy pilot in one hand and a toy stewardess in the other. “Play with me.”
“Not now, Brady,” Frances says, wanting to get back to Mei Ling’s quilt.
“Now,” Brady intones, a hint of whining in his voice. It’s a new thing still, the two of them in the house during the day, though in a month that’ll all change again. Frances reluctantly puts the new quilt square on top of the others and lets Brady drag her into the hallway. “Look!”
He’s pointing to the dollhouse in Mei Ling’s room. Frances sees that he’s brought in all his cars and trucks, his trains and mini people, the wooden trees and animals. In fact, it seems as if he’s dumped his entire toy box onto the floor.
“Brady!” Frances scolds, dropping to one knee so she can start picking things up. “This is Mei Ling’s room—you can play in your room.”
“Play here,” Brady insists, patting the play carpet. He puts the airplane pilot into the living room of the doll house. The stewardess follows. Within minutes the house is crammed with little toy people and animals.
“No, Brady,” Frances begins, about to pluck everything out, when she realizes that Brady is playing with the doll house. Not just playing, but creating scenes—people watching pretend television, their faces pointed to the screen. People gathered around the dining room table, eating a meal. Three ponies are hanging out in the attic. A fireman is lying in the master bed, an astronaut is standing in front of the bathroom mirror. Lego people are playing outside with a small rubber ball between them and a giraffe is standing next to a girl holding a balloon. “Oh, Brady, this is wonderful!”
Brady stops for a moment to beam. “I know! Thanks, Mom!”
Frances sweeps the stray pieces aside and settles down on the carpet. In the small nursery a stewardess stands over a crib with a panda bear inside.
Her breath catches. “Brady,” she says gently. “Did you know that pandas are from China? See your panda in the crib? It reminds me of Mei Ling.”
Brady stops for a moment to study the panda in the crib. He frowns. “No, Mom,” he says with a shake of the head.
“No, what?”
“Mei Ling isn’t a panda. She’s a girl!” he crows.
Frances smiles. “You’re right about that, Brady.”
Nick and Noah appear in the doorway. “We’re home,” Nick announces, dropping his backpack on the floor. “Can we get a snack? Hey, what’re you doing?”
Frances beams. “Brady’s playing with the dollhouse.”
Brady is lining up cars in a row in front of the house. “Look, car wash!” he says.
Noah sits down next to him and reaches for a handful of airplanes. “Gotta wash these, too,” he says.
“Yeah!”
Nick peers into the house. “That’s cool, Brady.”
Brady nods to the nursery. “That’s a panda,” he says. “From Chiner. Like Mei Ling. Except she’s not a panda. She’s a girl.”
“And our sister,” Nick adds. He picks up a few stray items that have fallen to the wayside and sets them up in the house, then begins to rearrange the fake trees and hedges.
“Sister,” Noah agrees as he brings a helicopter in for a landing.
“Sister,” Brady repeats, then pretends to wash the vehicles. “Pssshaw!”
Frances leans back against a dresser, watches her three boys playing together, a smile on her lips. It’s a small thing, this new word that will soon become a part of their everyday vocabulary, and for all the months it’s taken her to get her family to this point, it suddenly feels moot. Brady’s acknowledgment of a sister, of whether or not they’ll be able to handle the challenges ahead, or even if they’re challenges at all. Being in her mind these past few months hasn’t done her much good, just created more anxiety and doubt if anything. But being in her heart is something else altogether.
Frances feels the same heightened awareness as she did when she was expecting each of her boys, the rush of adrenaline that comes as the “delivery date” grows nearer. It’s the difference between thinking something and knowing it. And right now she knows it’s all perfect—her, sitting on the floor of Mei Ling’s room, and her children talking and playing around her. She doesn’t have to think about it—she knows it feels good. It is good. If she stops the chatter in her mind and lets herself feel, this is exactly where she wants to be. Period.
She knows this is a moment like any other, one that can change in a second if Nick gets a phone call from a friend or if Brady has to go to the bathroom. It’s a snapshot in time, just one of many, and Frances knows there are still many more to come.
Frances gets that she doesn’t have to have it all figured out. That she doesn’t need to try and predict the future, which is impossible anyway. She needs to be here, present and observing, participating if she wants to but above all, appreciating what she has.
