Aunt Liz already had her apron on and was ready to get cooking as soon as I arrived that afternoon—well, almost. I followed her into the kitchen, where she plucked a garbage-bag tie out of a drawer and used it to pull up her hair in about three seconds flat, after which Aunt Liz looked like she’d just come from the salon, where the chicest updo ever had been created on her head. What can I tell you? Aunt Liz is the only person I know who can make something so elegant using a lowly garbage-bag tie—I wished I had some garbage-bag ties at home but we buy drawstring bags—and somehow I knew I’d never master this technique, not with all the garbage-bag ties in the world.
Anyway, after Aunt Liz performed her hair magic, we turned on the radio and sang and danced, cooked and tasted, and laughed and laughed. I was as happy as a birthday cake, right up until Aunt Liz said, “Listen, Fizzy, when I called your house to make plans to cook with you this week, your mom asked me to talk to you about Keene.”
I froze right where I stood.
Aunt Liz put an arm around my shoulders and gently guided me to the kitchen table.
When were both seated, she said, “What is it, Fizzy? Why don’t you like Keene?”
I still didn’t want to tell Aunt Liz, but I knew I had to now. Because Mom was so determined for Keene and me to like each other, she had broken one of the A.D. Rules. As far as I can tell, the A.D. Rules are these:
1) Mom and Dad don’t speak to each other. If they absolutely have to communicate—about me or my schedule—they do it by email or text. If they end up on the phone with each other—while trying to reach me—they say “one moment, please” and give me the phone, or they take messages in a polite way, like they’re speaking to someone they’ve never met. (Occasionally, they speak of each other to me, but they never say the other’s name and they always put a “your” in front of it, like “Your mom wants you home at two o’clock,” or “Your dad wants you to call him,” as if to say, Don’t forget: These are your people. Not mine. Yours. All yours.)
2) Mom and Dad don’t see each other. Whenever they’re in the same place at the same time, like at a school play, or even in front of their own houses when I am being dropped off or picked up, they each pretend not to see the other. There is no waving, no smiling, no nodding, no nothing. (I’ve decided they think waving, smiling, and nodding are too friendly—or maybe too forgiving. They do not feel friendly or forgiving toward each other. At all.)
3) All of these same rules apply to most of the extended family, which is to say that Dad’s side of the family no longer exists as far as Mom’s side of the family is concerned, and vice versa. Except for Aunt Liz, who doesn’t seem to know any of the new A.D. Rules. Also, sometimes Mom waves at Aunt Liz—but only sometimes—when she’s in a good mood. (Mom and Aunt Liz used to be close.)
4) While I am allowed to speak to or see any family member almost anytime, it’s best if I play along according to the above rules. In other words, it’s best if I don’t say too much about the side of the family that no longer exists to whomever I’m with. So, usually, it’s easiest if I don’t say too much of anything at all. Otherwise, I have to think—and carefully sift my thoughts—before I speak. For example, I can say to Mom matter-of-factly, “We went to the zoo this weekend.” But it’d be a mistake for me to gush, “Dad took Suzanne and me to the zoo and he bought me a stuffed leopard!” There is a world of difference between those two sentences. One is acceptable; the other will ruin the rest of the day.
Of course, nobody’s ever actually explained these A.D. Rules to me, but they exist as surely as both sides of my family, believe me. So Mom actually speaking to Aunt Liz about personal stuff meant that Mom was desperate. Desperate to marry Keene, desperate for everyone to be okay with it, just desperate. I knew then that Mom was probably going to marry Keene Adams. And it made me . . . angry.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Do you think I’m smart?”
“Of course,” Aunt Liz said.
I lifted my chin. “Keene doesn’t think so.”
“How do you know?”
I hesitated. Then I lowered my head and confessed, “I can hear everything that goes on in the living room through the vent in my bedroom.”
“I see,” Aunt Liz said evenly, and somehow I knew she was trying not to react. When I looked up, Aunt Liz’s lips were all puckery but her eyes were laughing.
I felt a little encouraged, so I explained, “After Mom introduced Keene and me for the first time, I went upstairs to my room.”
“And?”
“I could hear Mom through the vent, trying to convince Keene what a great kid I am—like I heard her say, ‘She’s really smart,’ and stuff like that.”
“What did Keene say?” Aunt Liz asked.
“He said that all parents think their kids are smart, but if they really were, we’d have a world full of geniuses.”
“I see,” Aunt Liz said. “Well, there’s some truth in that, Fizzy, but it doesn’t mean you aren’t smart. It just means that Keene will have to decide that for himself. And I’m sure he will.”
I bit my lip.
“Anything else?”
“He doesn’t believe I can win the Southern Living Cook-Off,” I said.
“That’s not going to be a problem, since you are going to win,” Aunt Liz said, smiling.
I shook my head. “Also, Keene doesn’t want my mom to love me anymore . . . so she’s probably going to stop soon.”
That’s when I think Aunt Liz started to get it because she frowned and said, “I need you to explain that to me, Fizzy.”
I uncrossed my arms, leaned across the table, and whispered, “I once heard Keene ask Mom if she loves me more than she loves him.”
“What did your mom say?”
I sat back and shrugged. “She just said that I’m her daughter and he’d understand when he had a child.”
“That’s true,” Aunt Liz said. “Did Keene say anything else?”
“He lowered his voice so I couldn’t make out the words. But I could tell from his tone that he was sort of . . . I don’t know . . . mad maybe—he wasn’t happy, that’s for sure.”
Aunt Liz scowled for a split second, but I saw it. Then sleet began pinging the windows and she twisted around to look. By the time Aunt Liz returned her attention to me, she was wearing her pleasant little smile again.
I tried to give her a pleasant smile back but, honestly, I wasn’t feeling all that pleasant anymore.
• • •
Because of the sleet, and because Mom was running late, I stayed and ate dinner with Aunt Liz and Uncle Preston. “Dinner” was a variety of completely unrelated foods that Aunt Liz and I had cooked that afternoon. But leave it to Aunt Liz to pull any meal together with the perfect theme—or a garbage-bag tie.
As soon as Uncle Preston arrived home from work, Aunt Liz announced, “We’re having an Around-the-World tasting menu tonight, courtesy of the Southern Living Cook-Off!” Uncle Preston looked very impressed, and he’s not an easy guy to impress—he’s literally been around the world many times on his business trips.
We’d just started in on the desserts—a French apple tart and a German combination of ice cream and hot fruit sauce called Eis und Heiss, which means “ice and hot”—when the doorbell rang.
Aunt Liz went to answer it while I put on my coat and grabbed my backpack. Uncle Preston stayed with the desserts.
When I stepped out onto the front porch, Mom said, “Hi, sweet pea. Go on out to the car. I’ll be right there.”
I did as I was told, while Mom and Aunt Liz stood talking under the cover of the front porch, hugging themselves and rubbing their arms against the cold.
When Mom finally came rushing out and got into the car, she didn’t look at me, and I could tell she was sort of upset. She slammed the door shut, shook the icy rain off her coat in an agitated way, and put on her seat belt. Then she backed out of the driveway and started home, all without looking at me—still. That’s when I thought maybe Aunt Liz really had understood. Maybe Mom understood now, too. Maybe she wouldn’t marry Keene after all.
I watched the windshield wipers scrape back and forth in rhythm.
When we were almost home, I said in a voice barely loud enough to be heard, “Mom, I don’t want Keene to come to Parents’ Night.”
“All right, all right,” Mom said, as if I’d told her this forty-three times already, when I hadn’t even said it once.
Mom parked, pulled the keys from the ignition, and turned to me. “Fizzy, you are my daughter. That means I’m always going to love you. Always. No matter what. Do you understand?”
I shrugged.
Mom continued, “There’s nothing you or anyone else could ever do that would make me love you any less.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay?” Mom said.
I nodded. “Okay.”
I did feel a little better. I felt like I’d been heard. And maybe even understood.
Maybe.