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And the second my finger hits “Send,” I remember she’s from the East Coast and doesn’t have family here. Immediately I type another e-mail. “Do you want to come home with me for turkey?”
She sends an answer. “Josh has invited me to his house.”
“Great,” I type. “That should be fun.”
“No, it won’t,” she replies. “You know how he said his parents are stiffs? He was right.”
“All parents are stiff,” I type back, thinking we might as well be instant-messaging, or talking to each other face-to-face. It’d be much more efficient timewise.
I get a new e-mail from Tessa. “Your mom isn’t.”
My mom would be flattered.
Driving home Wednesday afternoon, fog shrouds the fields lining the highway, and massive, gnarled oak trees look like lone soldiers in the sea of gray, their dark green leaves soupy with clouds.
I’ve heard others say this drive through the Central Valley is lonely and boring, the winter fog depressing, but it’s a melancholy beautiful to me. The fog is symbolic somehow of what we see and don’t, what we imagine versus what we know.
We’re always wanted at home for the holidays, and usually it’s just Ashlee and me who make the trip home.
I don’t know why Jamie can’t fly in from Phoenix. It’s not as if he couldn’t afford the airfare. He’s got a good job in sales, and a serious live-in girlfriend who enjoys the house and lifestyle he provides.
But even though Jamie’s not coming home for Thanksgiving, Mom’s still excited and has been baking all week. She’s a great cook. Her pies are the best I’ve ever had: perfect flaky crust, fillings that are light, flavored just right.
Jean-Marc used to say he fell in love with me after eating one of Mom’s banana-cream pies.
Mom loved it when he said that. She’d blush and shake her head, get that little-girl shine in her eyes, that little-girl smile.
I hated that she’d get so excited over a compliment about pie, but I understand it now. It’s wonderful when someone can make you feel good. Important. Valuable. God, I used to take that for granted. No more. I swear, I will never look a gift horse in the mouth again.
Ashlee arrives home late Wednesday night, and within a half hour of kissing Mom and downing a Diet Coke, she’s out the door to hook up with friends she hasn’t seen since her last time home.
Mom’s face falls as Ashlee blithely sails out the door in a cloud of Bliss beauty products and Estée Lauder Happy perfume. “Are you going out, too?” Mom asks.
I think of the friends I could call, people I know who are sure to come home from Los Angeles, San Diego, Sacramento. It’d be great to get drinks with my old high school crowd, compare notes, but most of them don’t know about the divorce, and I’m not sure I’m ready to explain. “Nope. I’m here for the night.”
Mom’s pleased. “We can make the pies together, then.”
In the kitchen, Mom tackles the pie crust and I start the filling. The radio’s on, and we’re chatting about Christmas and we’re doing great until she asks, “So what’s Jean-Marc doing this weekend?”
I nearly drop the nutmeg. “Why would I know?”
“You were married.”
“For about three weeks.”
“It was a year.”
I grind my teeth together, dump the nutmeg in the bowl, and focus on the cinnamon, hoping Mom will take a hint.
She doesn’t. “You are still friends, aren’t you?”
I sigh exasperatedly. “No.”
“Why not? There’s no reason you can’t be friends.” She’s rolling out the first pie crust, and I don’t understand how her touch with the dough and rolling pin can be so deft, so light, while her conversational sensitivity is next to nonexistent.
“You’re not friends with Ted,” I say, dumping the cinnamon on top of the nutmeg.
She frowns as she lifts the crust, turns it. “You shouldn’t call him Ted.”
