Thirty-Three

Judith

I’ve spent the last five days waiting for the kids to call—they haven’t. Even the daily texts have stopped. Despite her own meltdown over Frank’s disappearance and her disillusionment with online dating, Meena keeps reminding me that whether to sell the house or not is my decision. So is what I do next with my life.

I’m tired of waiting, waffling, and second-guessing. When I get in bed on Friday night, I stare into the ceiling and give myself a Meena-esque pep talk. By the time I turn the light out, the one thing I know for sure is that as much as I love my children, I can’t live only for them. It’s time to stop beating myself up and set things straight. It’s time to reclaim my life. Or, more accurately, begin to build a new one.

For the first time since Nate died, I sleep through the night. At ten on Saturday morning, when I’m sure they’ll both be up, I place a call to Ansley. When she answers, I ask her to hold, then quickly add Ethan to the call before she can refuse.

“Yeah?”

At his tone, I swallow back the apology I had intended to lead with. “I hope you’re both fully awake, because there’s something I need to say to you.”

“Yeah.” His response is slightly less hostile but nowhere near apologetic.

“Yes, Mother,” Ansley says in the tone that has always accompanied an eye roll.

I let go of any hope that this is going to be a poignantly beautiful meeting of the minds and force myself to continue.

“I’ve been thinking about our last conversation,” I begin. “I loved your father. And I love you both more than anything in the world. The last thing I want is to hurt or disappoint you.”

Their silence is heavy and unnerving, but I’ve made my decision, and I need them to understand my reasoning. “But you both live where you’ve chosen to live, and I believe I deserve the right to do the same. This house is too big and too empty. I can no longer stay here alone, stuck in our past. Somehow, I need to carve out some kind of future. I have to find a way to move on. So . . .”

When neither of them speaks, I expel one breath and draw in another, gathering my courage. “I’m going to begin preparing the house to go on the market. I’d like you to come down over Memorial Day weekend—that’s five weeks from now—to help go through things and decide what you’d like to keep.” I hesitate, trying to strike the right tone, because as much as I want them to come be a part of this, I am not asking permission. “I would love for us to do this together.”

I wait, barely breathing, as the silence spools out.

I’m about to hang up when Ansley breaks the silence. “I’ll be there, Mom. And . . . I’m sorry for carrying on the way I did. It’s just . . .”

“I know,” I say softly to them both. “Everything about this has been so hard.”

“And I’ll see if Hannah can come with me.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” I breathe, still waiting for my son, afraid he won’t speak. Even more afraid of what he might say.

“And if I can’t make it?” Ethan finally asks.

I close my eyes. “I hope you’ll come, sweetheart. Truly, I do. Otherwise, I’ll . . . I’ll have to assume there’s nothing here you want.” I swallow. “Or care about.”

Another silence, one I’m careful not to fill. I’ve said what I needed to say.

“I’ll think about it,” he says. Then they both hang up.

Sara

Mitchell and I no longer have a need to communicate, not that we’ve done much of that since our attorneys took over. And there’s not all that much to divvy up. The biggest plus for me was the ability to dodge part of the debt Mitch ran up. The biggest loss will be the house, but at least I’ll get enough from its sale to start over in something smaller. Which is just another word for ‘cozy,’ right?

I also get Dorothy. She has nowhere else to go and not enough funds to get there, so as far as I’m concerned, she’s mine. We’re pooling our resources, and when she’s not chatting with or mooning over Dean, she’s surfing real estate sites, looking for houses that we can afford and open houses we can attend.

Bonnie Traiman says all that’s left is for the paperwork to make its way through the system. Apparently, the average divorce takes about nine months from filing to final decree. Exactly the length of a pregnancy. The ironies certainly do keep piling up.

It’s Saturday night, and I’m more than a little surprised when a text arrives from my soon-to-be ex-husband asking to come by next weekend to pick up the rest of his things. (I didn’t manage to throw everything out in the yard.)

Come while I’m at work. You can schedule with your mother.

She there now?

No. I actually smile as I type, She’s on a date.

The cursor blinks. There is no sign of typing. I enjoy what I assume is a stunned silence. But that’s life for you. Even the seventy-five-year-old mother you abandoned might have something better to do than sit around waiting to hear from you.

A date?????

Yep.

How?

How does anyone meet someone new? (Yes, that’s a dig.) Online. I don’t mention his name or Harvard or the big house out in Sugarloaf, because that might make Mitch think Dorothy has access to money, which might make Mitch think his mother has something left to steal.

Holy shit.

I make no comment. Watching Dorothy evolve has been inspiring. It reminds me of the George Eliot quote, “It’s never too late to be who you might have been.” God, I hope it’s true.

Like to see you, too, Mitch texts.

I consider responding “not if I see you first.” I can’t imagine what we could possibly have to say to each other. Perhaps now that he’s almost free of me he imagines we can be “friends.”

Or maybe there’s something he still wants.

I settle back on the sofa, in a spill of light, and go back to reading this month’s book club pick, which is set in three different time periods at the Ritz in Paris. I’m grateful not only for the escape from real life, but not to have to huddle in the bathroom or hide from Dorothy while I’m escaping. Sometimes Dorothy and I sit here in the very same room reading. In our own worlds, but not alone.

I’m at the end of a chapter when a car pulls into the drive. I glance at my phone. It’s only nine o’clock. Thinking I might be about to meet the infamous and fascinating Dean Francis, I uncurl myself and straighten my clothes. But I hear the car back down the drive at almost the instant the front door opens. The door closes. No footsteps sound on the floor.

“Dorothy?”

“Yes?” Her voice wobbles. “I’m just . . . I’ll be right there.”

She walks into the living room. Her shoulders are back, her chin is up. She’s wearing a lovely lilac dress with nude low heels, but the smile she left with has disappeared.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” She lowers herself onto the chair facing me. She looks as if she’s trying not to cry.

“You don’t look so good.”

“Why, thank you.” Her attempt at sarcasm falls flat. It’s completely lacking in energy.

I wait, but she still doesn’t speak. “Did something happen?”

“I . . . I’m not sure. It felt like something went wrong, but I can’t think why.”

“Tell me what happened.” I close the book and set it beside me.

“We went to dinner at Il Giallo, you know, the Italian place that Meena mentioned. Dean had never been there, either, and he seemed up for trying it. At first everything seemed fine.” She hesitates as if running it through her mind. “I thought things were going well. But . . . I don’t know.” She pauses again. “We were having dessert when he mentioned putting his house on the market and possibly looking around here in Sandy Springs or in Dunwoody for something smaller. He said he thought it was time to let go of the past and to stop mourning. He even brought up the idea of us taking a weekend trip up to the mountains this summer.”

Her hands clasp in her lap.

“He’s so attentive—it’s one of the things I enjoy about spending time with him. And he’s had such exciting life experiences. I told him I’d like to introduce you and that we were going to be looking for a new house, too. That led to a conversation about Mitchell and his . . . his behavior. I hadn’t brought it up before because I didn’t want to come off as too needy or sound as if I hadn’t tried to be a good mother and raise him properly.”

Her face reflects her uncertainty. Her teeth worry at her lip. “He listened to everything I said. He seemed sympathetic at first. But then he got the oddest look on his face. He demanded to know why I hadn’t told him any of this before.” She swallows before forcing herself to continue. “He told me that he was hurt that I hadn’t been honest with him. That he didn’t know if he could continue to see someone who would keep so much of herself a secret.” She lets out a jagged breath.

“The worst part was the way he looked at me. Perhaps he holds me responsible for Mitchell’s actions. I know I do.”

Her lip trembles. I have the oddest urge to reach out and take her in my arms and tell her she’s not to blame. That everything will be all right. But I’m not sure how she would react. And I’m not at all sure that everything will be all right.

“It certainly sounds as if he overreacted,” I say in a measured voice. “You’re a victim, Dorothy. In many ways even more than I am.”

We sit in silence for several long moments.

“I don’t know,” she says finally. “His expression was . . . it was like a light switch turning off. He barely spoke on the way home. When I was getting out of the car, he said he’d be in touch, but he sounded so different. I don’t know what it was that I said or did. But I clearly did something wrong.”