Maggie
When I pull into the parking lot of the Divine Diner in Pennsylvania, I immediately see Dad’s old blue Prius, and it’s like
a warm blanket around my shoulders. He got that car when I was six, and somehow it’s still running. Or running enough to get
him where he needs to go anyway. I’m sure there are at least three warning lights he’s been ignoring for weeks.
I deliberately left a smidge later than usual this morning because I was tired of always getting here before him. He and I
do a monthly Sunday brunch with Vivian, and it’s always one of my favorite days, an escape from whatever’s going on. Even
though everything that’s going on right now is pretty good—Chord and I are still dating, and I’ve been highly successful in
my effort to avoid Carter in the month since the concert. He’s been avoiding me too, so that helps. I’m moving forward.
Vivian can’t come this morning because of some paper she’s writing or some film she’s editing or some play she’s rehearsing
or some Ultimate Frisbee she’s throwing, I can’t remember. I’m honestly a little glad, though, as I love getting alone time
with Dad.
“Hey, darling,” the blond woman in her fifties standing at the front podium says, chewing gum as always. “He’s back at your
usual booth.”
“Thanks! How’re you?”
“Oh, you know. Can’t complain.”
We have this exchange every time. I fucking love it.
As I approach Dad, his mug of coffee is already in front of him, and his head is down in his phone. His bald spot is looking
bigger than ever. Vivvy and I tell him he should just shave his head, but he said he’s holding on as long as he can, hopefully
till his nineties.
“These kids today,” I say, once I’m in earshot. “So addicted to their screens.”
“Oh!” Dad says, not acknowledging my bad joke. He holds up the phone and presses a button. “Greetings, Maggie,” an alien voice
says. “We are so pleased to see you.”
“No, Dad,” I say as I laugh. “I do not approve of this.”
“Wait, wait.” He swipes his finger across the screen and holds up the phone again. “Greetings, Maggie,” a dignified British
man says. “We are so pleased to see you.”
“That’s a little better.” I slide into the booth across from him. “Though I’d still prefer to actually speak to each other.
With our normal voices.”
Dad quickly types into his phone and holds it up again.
“Okay, sweetie,” a monster’s voice growls. “We can do that.”
“Thanks, weirdo,” I say. “You and your apps.”
“They’re so amazing, though, Mags!” Dad says in his actual voice. “When I was a kid, you’d have to buy goofy contraptions
like this individually. Now you can get ’em all on this one machine, it’s unbelievable.”
“You sure Apple isn’t paying you to go around saying this stuff?”
“Shhh.” Dad dramatically puts a finger to his lips before bending down under the table. I assume it’s part of the bit until he reappears with some kind of painting on a square of cardboard. “For you, my love.”
“Whoa. Dad.” It’s a mixed-media piece, with paint and newspaper scraps and what appears to be melted crayon, combining to
form the image of a very familiar cartoon beaver. “This is beautiful.”
“Just some new techniques I’m messing around with,” he says. “Thought Billy needed a comeback.”
“Damn right he did.” Billy Beaver is this character Dad first came up with when I was little, inspired by my obsessions with
Daniel Tiger and Peppa Pig. Billy was meant to be a more countercultural cartoon buddy, featured in silly art pieces for me
and Vivian, usually imparting some lesson like Always question authority or Don’t assume something is good just because it’s mainstream! (He might need to talk to Dad about his iPhone addiction.) In this latest work, Billy Beaver is standing on a riverbank gnawing
on a chunk of wood represented by shreds of newspaper.
“I assume that was damn spelled D-A-M,” Dad says.
“Naturally. What’s the message of this one?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Dad pats the table like it’s a pair of bongos. “Try new things even when you feel old and past your prime?”
I hate hearing him say that. “Come on, Dad, you’re still in your prime. You might live another fifty years!”
“Eh, fair enough.” He pages through the menu, though he’s going to order the same thing he always does: an omelet with Swiss
cheese and mushrooms. “I was thinking: Why didn’t I make the beaver female, you know? Like, I had two daughters. Why didn’t
I make it Becky Beaver? Or Bonnie Beaver?”
“Uh . . . Maybe because it instantly feels ninety times more inappropriate once you do that?”
“Ha! That’s a good point.” There may be nothing better in the world than Dad laughing at one of my jokes. “You’re funny.” Okay, maybe him saying that.
“I try,” I say, definitely blushing. “Seriously, though, I love this. Thanks, Dad. Long live Billy Beaver.”
Dad and I each put our hands together, as if in prayer, and solemnly bow our heads. When we’re done, Dad is giving me a little
grin. I grin back.
“Taking a while for Doreen to get here,” he says, looking around. “I bet she thinks we’re still waiting on Viv. You know what
you want? Any deviation from the norm?”
“No deviation, sir. How about you?”
“’Course not.”
Dad flags down Doreen, who’s blond like the woman who stands in front, but at least ten years older. I order my spinach feta
scramble, Dad orders his omelet, and Doreen scoops up our menus and goes.
“Okay, then,” Dad says. This is always the best moment of these meals, when we transition from the jokes to the real stuff.
“How’s everything with you, Mags? How you recovering from that heartbreak? I hate thinking of you having to feel that.”
Dad knows about my relationship with Carter in broad strokes: that I was dating someone I really liked and that we broke up.
But he doesn’t know, for example, the part about my boyfriend being the forever-teenager, who recently regressed a year and
forgot that I exist. I told Dad I had to end it because it wasn’t working. Technically true!
“I’m actually doing a lot better,” I say, and I really mean it. “It’s still hard, but—”
“Well, hello there,” my older sister says, appearing from nowhere and sliding into the booth next to Dad, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “What’s still hard?”
“Viv, you’re here!” Dad says, putting an arm around her shoulder and squeezing as she shimmies out of her parka.
I try to make words, but it comes out more like a mangled mix of “Hey” and “What?”
“Nice to see you too, Mags,” Vivian says, laughing and taking off her deep purple wool hat. She smooths down her vibrant,
always-luscious dark brown hair.
“No, yeah, I’m so happy you’re here,” I say. “I just— You said you couldn’t make it.”
“Yeah, well, plans changed. Is that okay?”
“Of course. Of course!”
“Better than okay,” Dad says. “I love when the whole trio is together!”
“Hey.” Vivvy reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine. “Everything all right? What’s still hard?”
No no no. Bad. Must change subject.
“Did you and that guy Chord break up?” Vivian asks.
“No, Chord and I are good. Great, even. Dad and I were talking about . . . other stuff. Nothing, really. It’s not— It’s stupid.”
“Okay.” Vivian’s on to me. Maybe it’s time to go to the bathroom.
“Oh! Viv.” Dad reaches under the table again. I’m so relieved. “I thought I left it in the car, but it was in the same bag
as Maggie’s. This is for you.”
He pulls out an actual canvas this time—about half the size of our table’s surface—upon which is painted an absolutely gorgeous
scene of a woman emptying clothes from a dryer.
“What the . . . ?” Viv stares down at it. “Ohmigod, Dad, is this based on Lost Sock?”
“It is,” Dad says. “I felt really inspired.”
Lost Sock is a short film Vivian wrote and directed in the spring last year, a dark, funny story that takes place during one load of
laundry. Like everything Vivian does, it’s fantastic.
“Thank you,” Vivian says, her eyes teary.
I look down at my cardboard Billy Beaver and suddenly feel silly. Like, Vivian gets this masterpiece you could easily envision
in an art gallery, and I get . . . a cartoon rodent.
“I actually just submitted it for six more film festivals,” Vivian says. “So, fingers crossed.”
“Man!” Dad says. “You’re so on top of it. I was horrible at that with my own work. Still am. It’s like you got all of my creative
artist stuff plus all of Mom’s type-A-get-shit-done stuff. A killer genetic brew. I’m jealous.”
“I dunno about that.” Vivian flicks a hand in the air. “I think more likely I have a powerful combo of both of your unique
anxieties.”
Vivian’s so consistently good at downplaying these moments. But the damage is already done. She’s the gorgeously rendered
painting; I’m the goofy, bucktoothed cartoon.
“Well, whatever it is,” Dad says, “it’s working!” He turns to me. “Not sure what genetic mix you got.”
Oof. I know this is Dad’s sense of humor, but I’m not in the mood for it right now. My stomach clenches, and I wildly blink
to stop tears.
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” Dad says. “You’re incredible too, Mags. You know that.”
“She is, Dad.” Vivian is also very good at coming to my defense. “Did you see those videos from her show? Seriously unreal. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.”
“Oh god, yes,” Dad agrees. “Of course I saw the videos! Maggie’s a straight-up rock star, I already told her that. Didn’t
I already tell you that?”
“You did,” I say. I’m still fuming even though I do appreciate the compliment.
“The catering gig was a mess,” Dad says. “I would have much rather been at your show.”
“You know what you want, hon?” Doreen says, appearing at the table now that Vivian’s arrived.
“Uh, can I see a menu?” my sister asks.
Dad and I give her deadpan stares.
“What? I wanna deviate!”
Doreen trudges to the front and returns with a menu. After fifteen seconds of frantic looking, Vivian says, “Okay, I’ll do
the avocado toast, light on the salt.”
“Glad I brought this,” Doreen says, winking as she takes the menu back and walks away.
“I really did think I’d try something else,” Vivian explains. “But then you were all looking at me, and I panicked.”
“We’re not judging you,” Dad says. “We got our usual shit too.”
“Maggie’s definitely judging me.”
“Me?” I say. “Judge my older sister? Never.” Even as I’m saying it, I have no idea if I’m joking or not. The thing is, I don’t consciously judge Vivian that much; I’m too busy comparing myself to her and feeling inferior. If anything, I’m always feeling
like Mom and Dad and Vivian are judging me.
“Speaking of judging,” Dad says, “can I ask you girls a question?”
Vivian and I exchange a look. We know what’s coming.
“Is it okay if we say no?” Vivian asks.
“Unfortunately not.” Dad grins as he takes a sip of his coffee. “I’m wondering what you make of this wedding situation. With
Mom.”
“‘This wedding situation’?” I say. “That’s what you’re calling it?”
“What else would I call it?”
“Maybe just ‘Mom getting married’?”
“Fine,” Dad says. “What do you—”
“I think it’s really great,” Vivian says, punctuating her thought with a sip of water. “Mom seems happy. So.”
Vivian’s always been firmly Team Mom when it comes to our parents’ relationship, whereas I’m more wishy-washy, siding with
both of them at different times. Maybe it’s because I was eleven when they divorced, and Vivian was fifteen, so she understood
better the nuances of what was happening. Or maybe it’s because I know my parents will love Vivian no matter what she says
or what stance she takes, and I don’t feel like I have the same luxury. Like, of course they won’t stop loving me, but they
get annoyed by things I say in ways they don’t with Vivian.
Or maybe that’s in my head. I don’t even know.
“Yeah,” I say, with less enthusiasm than Vivian. “Mom does seem happy.”
“Wow, okay,” Dad says, flipping up his eyebrows as he takes another sip of coffee. “I knew she and Ron were . . . enjoying
each other.”
“Ew, Dad,” Vivian says.
“It just didn’t even occur to me that they might get married.”
“A lot of things don’t occur to you, Dad,” Vivian says as she pats his arm.
“Ouch.” He rubs the spot Vivian touched as if she’s left burn marks.
“It’s okay to feel weird about it,” I say. “I definitely do.”
“Apparently not weird enough to stop you from agreeing to be the entertainment, though,” Vivian says, which I find supremely
annoying.
“The entertainment?” Dad asks. “What do you mean? At the wedding?”
“It’s not a big deal,” I say as my insides shrivel up into a ball. “My band is just gonna play some songs.”
“Oh geez, wow, that’s . . .” Dad is thrown. Maybe even a little hurt. I wish Vivian had kept her mouth shut. “That’s great,
Mags. Wow.”
I shrug, looking toward the entrance to the kitchen. SAVE US, DOREEN.
“Hey, as long as you promise to one day play my wedding too,” Dad says, trying to smile but unable to keep the sadness out
of his voice.
“Of course, Dad.”
“Not that that’s happening any time soon,” he adds, staring at his folded napkin as if the meaning of life is embedded somewhere
inside.
“Are you still seeing . . . ?” Vivian leaves the question hanging because I’m sure she can’t remember who Dad was last seeing.
It is hard to keep track.
“Nadia. No. That ended. It’s a long story.”
“Oh,” Vivian says, finally feeling bad for the guy. “Sorry, Dad.”
“It’s all right, Viv.”
Dad unfolds his napkin, placing it in his lap like it’s a burial shroud, while Vivian joins me in staring longingly at the
swinging door to the kitchen. WHERE IS OUR FOOD? Seeing no hope there, Vivian turns to me.
“But in brighter news, you said things with you and Chord are going well?”
“Oh. Yeah. They are. He’s really sweet. And attractive.”
“We love to see it,” Vivian says with a smile. “And whatever you were talking about when I first got here . . . I mean, it’s
none of my business, but I’m just saying, I’m here if you need me. I’ve known some heartbreak, know what I mean?”
It’s like Vivian is peering into my soul. Like she can see everything.
My pits are sweating. I should take off my sweater.
Later. I’ll do that later.
If I do it now, it’ll seem too much like I’m panicking and trying to hide something.
Because I am.
Panicking and trying to hide something.
From Vivian. From Dad.
Even from myself, if I’m gonna be completely honest.
The thing is, Carter Cohen did indeed heartlessly dump somebody the night before this whole horrible looping business began.
But the person he dumped was not Layla Banerjee.
No.
It was Vivian Spear.
My older sister.
“Okay,” I say. “Yeah. Great. Super. Thanks.”
Vivian is about to say something else when—thank the sweet lord—a feta spinach scramble touches down in front of me, followed immediately by Dad’s and Vivian’s plates dropping into place.
“Food’s here!” I shout.
“Well, aren’t we enthusiastic today,” Doreen says.