Three

Sara

Favorite book: All of them—I can’t help it!

The bathroom doorknob jiggles. “Sara? Are you in there?” My mother-in-law’s voice is as brisk as her knock, easily reaching me where I sit. On top of the closed toilet seat. Reading. Hiding.

I consider staying silent, but the door is locked, and my car is parked in the driveway. There’s no way I can pretend that I’m not home. “Yes?”

“Are you planning to come out soon?” Dorothy, never Dottie or, God forbid, Dot, moved in three months ago after hip replacement surgery that didn’t go smoothly. Although the home health care workers are now gone and she is, according to her doctor, fully mended, she’s still here and in no rush to move back to her home in Greenville.

My husband, Mitchell, has no problem with this, primarily because he got a new job and has been working in Birmingham for the last six months and comes home only on weekends. This makes Dorothy, who has always made me feel that I am not good enough for her son, my responsibility.

Each month, our three-bedroom, two-bath home—the very first I’ve ever been able to call “mine”—gets smaller. There’s virtually nowhere left to hide. Including, it seems, the master bathroom.

“Yes. Of course.” I wait for Dorothy’s footsteps to recede, but my mother-in-law stays put. I glance around the bathroom looking for an escape route, but the lone window that overlooks the backyard is small. I’ve always been almost painfully thin, but I wouldn’t lay money on being able to squeeze through it. And even if I managed to wriggle out, I’d have to come back at some point.

“Any chance it’ll be this millennium?”

I curse myself for not locking the bedroom door, even though barging into a closed bedroom and knocking on a bathroom door is a stretch even for Dorothy.

“Are you all right?” I ask in case this is an emergency.

She doesn’t answer. I listen intently, but there’s no ragged breathing, no body crumpling to the floor. I set my book on the vanity countertop, reject the instinct to flush the unused toilet just to prove I’ve been doing something legitimate, and open the door. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” Dorothy’s puff of thin white hair is deceptively grandmotherly and looks freshly washed. She’s wearing makeup. Her purse hangs over one bony shoulder. “I just wanted to see if you’d heard from Mitchell.”

My parents left me in a rest stop bathroom on the Florida-Georgia state line when I was three years old. I have virtually no memory of them, but highway rest areas still make me queasy. I grew up in foster homes—six of them—before I finally aged out. After that, I worked multiple jobs to keep a roof over my head and pay for night school until I finally got my teaching degree. Meeting Mitchell Whalen at a friend’s birthday party was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. I’d never had a boyfriend. The fact that he’d never known his father and I couldn’t remember either of my parents gave us something important in common. When he asked me to marry him, I felt as if I’d won the lottery; I was going to have a husband and a mother. Unfortunately, what warmth Dorothy has is reserved for her son. I have tried my hardest, but it’s impossible to have a relationship all by yourself.

“No, I haven’t. But he must be on his way.”

The drive from Birmingham is just over two and a half hours, but Mitch doesn’t drive home on Friday nights for fear of rush-hour traffic, nor does he jump out of bed early on Saturday mornings. Normally, he rolls in around noon, which is when I typically leave for my weekly Saturday afternoon shift at Between the Covers. I check my phone. It’s eleven thirty.

“I’m sure he’ll be here any minute and ready for your lunch date.” This is the one-on-one time Mitch gives his mother each week. We share him Saturday evening. Once she goes to bed, he’s all mine; we tiptoe past her bedroom and into ours like naughty teenagers. There we make love (as quietly as possible), then curl up together to watch Saturday Night Live. It’s my favorite part of the week.

He heads back to Birmingham on Sunday afternoon so that he won’t have to fight rush hour getting out of Atlanta on Monday morning. “Did you call him?”

“No.” A former efficiency expert, Dorothy does not engage in idle chitchat, at least not with me. If she’s ever poured her heart or thoughts out to her son, I’ve never witnessed it and he’s never mentioned it. “You know I don’t like to bother him or distract him if he’s driving.”

I hit speed dial. Mitch picks up on the fourth ring sounding oddly out of breath for someone sitting in a car.

“Hi. Where are you?”

“Home.” He pauses. “I mean, in the apartment. I’ve got some kind of bug. I’m, uh, not going to be able to get back this weekend.”

The bathroom is small, but I manage to turn away from Dorothy. “When were you planning to let us know?” I whisper as the disappointment seeps through me. “Your mother’s expecting you.” And so am I.

“I’m sick, Sara. It happens.” He coughs loudly. A less charitable person might say unconvincingly. This is not the first time he’s bailed at the last minute.

“It’s only a couple hours’ drive,” I point out. “I’m not scheduled to work at the bookstore today. I’ll make a great big pot of chicken soup, and you can lie in bed and be waited on.”

“Sorry. But I can barely get out of the bed I’m in,” he says. “Besides, my mother’s had surgery. I promise neither of you want to be around these germs.”

The anger gurgles up from somewhere deep inside of me. It’s an emotion I rarely give in to. One of the keys to surviving a lifetime in other people’s homes is tamping down your feelings and not making waves.

“Hang on a sec. I want you to explain that to her.”

“Oh, no. You can’t . . .”

I hand the phone to Dorothy. Unable to get by her in the tight space, I’m forced to watch her face fall as she listens to her son’s excuses. Her lips quiver as she hands my phone back.

I feel like crying, too. I love my husband and I want him here, not in some furnished corporate apartment two hours away. And if I have to be here when he’s not, I don’t want to be left with this woman who barely tolerates me while she waits for his appearance on the weekends.

Since I’m not getting either of those things, I want a pint of ice cream. And I want to eat it lying in bed reading a novel that will take me somewhere else. Let me be someone else. Books are what got me through the foster care system and every other situation that I’ve had no control over. Don’t get me wrong, I like to read when I’m happy or even just okay, but books—and the words that form them—have gotten me through a lot of things I’d like to forget. If I’d relied on ice cream alone, I’d be the size of a barn.

Dorothy, who’s normally puffed up beyond her diminutive size, looks small and shriveled.

Before I can think it through, I ask her if she’d still like to go out for lunch.

Dorothy sniffs. Her eyes are moist with tears that don’t dare to fall. “I can make myself a sandwich.” She looks at me suspiciously. “Assuming there are things in the refrigerator.” Like her son, Dorothy chooses to believe that grocery elves come in to stock it while she’s asleep.

“We could make grilled cheese or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but I wouldn’t mind picking up a few more things. I think we should go out and have a bite together.”

“Why on earth would we do that?” She looks as horrified as I feel.

“Because I know you were looking forward to going out. And it might make us both feel better.”

We do a bit of a stare down. Her gray eyes are identical to Mitch’s, only without the warmth. I will my green ones—they’ve always been my best feature and help to cancel out my stick-straight carrot-red hair and ghost-white skin—to telegraph sincerity even though I already regret the offer.

“If you like.” Her tone is grudging, and I have to remind myself that I’m doing a nice thing and that is supposed to be its own reward.

“Anyplace you’d especially like to go?” I ask.

She shrugs.

“Okay. How about the Brooklyn Café? They have good salads. Then we can stop by Between the Covers. I want to pick up the book club book even though we won’t be discussing it until January. Then I can run into Whole Foods.”

She nods glumly.

We get into the car, and I back it out of the driveway. As we drive to the restaurant, I attempt to fill the silence. I tell her about how I first started working at the bookstore where we’ll be stopping after lunch, on Saturday afternoons and then over school holidays and summer break. (I’m a reading specialist at Eastend Middle School.) Then I go on to tell her about how Annell Barrett, the owner of Between the Covers, first formed the book club, how long it’s been in existence, and that it takes place in a carriage house. Just thinking about book club and how warm and welcoming a group it is, I feel lighter.

Dorothy doesn’t ask a single question, so I ramble on about how the book club’s on hiatus over the holidays because everyone’s so busy. (Present company excepted.) I’m an introvert by nature, and when I’m uncomfortable (which is always around Dorothy) or nervous I develop logorrhea. In case you’re wondering, that’s

log·or·rhea

lȯ-gə-ˈrē-ə

noun

Origin: Greek, early 20th century.

1. uncontrollable talkativeness

2. a tendency toward overly complex wordiness in speech or writing

Ex: “If I’m not careful, my logorrhea leads to foot-in-mouth disease.”

As we enter the restaurant, it’s clear I’m going to need not just the new book club book but a LOT of ice cream to get me through this weekend.

At the table, I order an appetizer to share and a glass of wine. At her sniff of disapproval, I say, “Normally, I don’t drink until after five p.m. But it’s got to be five o’clock somewhere, right?”

She doesn’t crack a smile and only tastes the appetizer when I push the plate toward her and ask her to tell me what she thinks.

“Not bad. If you like roasted brussels sprouts. I didn’t realize that was a thing.”

“I love them,” I admit. If I knew who thought of seasoning and roasting them this way, I would send a thank-you note.

My mother-in-law harrumphs. I didn’t realize until she came to live with us that harrumphing was still a thing. I met Mitch twelve years ago and have been married to him for ten, but I could probably count the number of times I’ve been alone with Dorothy on one and a quarter hands. Although she’s very attached to her son, I’ve never witnessed a serious display of affection between them. When I ask Mitch about his childhood, he says, “It was fine. Pretty ordinary. Virtually no drama.” This, I have learned over the years, is how he likes it.

I think now about how restrained Dorothy is, and for the first time, I wonder why.

“Did you and Mitchell argue?” Dorothy looks up from the panini and salad she’s been picking at. “Is that why he’s not coming home this weekend?”

I blink in surprise. Has she really just blamed me for Mitch’s absence? His fake cough and lame excuses are on the tip of my tongue, but I pop another brussels sprout in my mouth and remain silent.

“You should be living in the same city, not forcing him to drive back and forth every week.”

I put down my fork. “You might want to mention that to Mitch. He’s the one who didn’t want to sell the house or uproot me until he was sure he was happy with the new company.”

“What’s not to like?” she counters. “He has a bigger title, and he’s making more money. I would have thought you’d want to be with him.”

“Of course I want to be with him. But there’s nothing wrong with taking it slowly.”

She raises an eyebrow. “If you’d had children, he might not have been so quick to leave you behind.”

I blink against the automatic press of tears. It takes everything I have not to push back my chair and run out of here at the injustice. “Mitch has never wanted children.” He’d made that clear before he’d asked me to marry him, and I’d been so in love, so happy and grateful that someone loved me and wanted to marry me, that I’d believed I could make him change his mind. Only that never happened. “And he didn’t ‘leave me behind.’ I’ve filled out an application for the Birmingham Public School System, and I’m watching the postings. Real hiring for the next school year usually starts in March.”

She gives me an oddly knowing look, but this woman knows nothing about me or my relationship with her son.

Although my appetite is gone, I force myself to finish my salad, and for some reason I don’t understand but am going to blame on logorrhea, I can’t let myself give in and eat in silence. So, I ask her about the work she used to do as an efficiency expert, how she ended up in Greenville, all the things I should have already known. Anything to keep her talking about something besides me and Mitch.

She picks at her lunch and gives short, succinct answers while I chew and swallow food I no longer taste.

When our meal is finally over, my mother-in-law sits in the car while I run into Between the Covers.

“Are you all right?” Annell, for whom I’d give my right arm and all the roasted brussels sprouts in the world, hands me a copy of Educated, by Tara Westover, along with a look of concern.

“Mitch is sick and isn’t coming home for the weekend, and my mother-in-law can be a bit much.”

“Poor thing.” Annell, who barely reaches my shoulders, steps out from behind the counter and wraps me in a hug. Though she has never, to my knowledge, given birth, she is the mother I wish I’d had or been given a chance to be. “Shall I come out and explain to her just how lucky she is to have you for a daughter-in-law?”

“Tempting, but I think I’ll survive.” The sincerity of the offer and her obvious affection give me the strength to force myself back outside to the car when I’d much rather hang out here in the place I love, around people who are more like family than my husband’s mother has ever wanted to be.

At the grocery store, Dorothy once again remains in the car. I pick up staples and sandwich makings and easily assembled meals like the good “elf” that I am.

Then I go to the freezer section, where I fill the rest of the cart with teetering piles of pints and quarts and gallons of ice cream.