6
The children, two girls—Ainsley and Addison—woke her before dawn, as was their custom. If they knocked on her bedroom door, it was too soft to hear. She just felt them crawl into her bed, right beside her. Oh, she loved that feeling. Their little bodies. The way they smelled. Their shampoo. Their breaths. Their little hands in her hair. Nestled inside the coves of her arms. In so many ways, Vivian’s life amounted to a series of detours. Detours through bad jobs, disappointing men, lonely nights, anxious times when having money was like holding sand, when everything in her life was broken or so worn down it might just as well have been broken. But these children and these mornings—how they loved her, and how she loved them back.
She could hear Melissa gathering her things. Her purse and keys. Heard her faintly slip into her shoes, and then the door was shut and locked, and Vivian closed her eyes, thought about last night. So long since a man had kissed her. So long since she had felt a man’s hands explore her body. It was one thing for a man to touch her, but Charlie’s hands last night…they were not just touching or feeling…but remembering. Remapping her. She blushed, just thinking of him. Then it felt wrong to replay the evening with her grandchildren wrapped around her, so she rose carefully and quietly and drew a robe over her shoulders and walked into the kitchen while the girls remained in her warm bed, asleep again.
Her daughter was thoughtful. In some ways, at least. She always made them a pot of coffee in the morning, which was not nothing. And the kitchen sink was always clean each morning. There were any number of ways in which her daughter was less considerate, but where mornings were concerned, there seemed an understanding it was difficult enough to engage in it all without any unwanted messes. Without any cleaning to confront first thing in the day. She sat at the little kitchen table where they took their meals. On her aged cell phone there was a text from him: I had a lovely night. You looked beautiful. Dinner next Saturday? I can pick you up.
Then her phone dinged again. Right there. In real time. Another message: I can’t stop thinking about you.
She felt like a teenager. Long before cell phones. When a family was lucky to have more than a single landline telephone. Back then, if she wanted to talk to a friend, or a boy, she had to wait until after her parents were asleep before she could slink down the stairs and sit in a chair, the cord wound around her wrist, her finger fidgeting while she whispered into the receiver, terrified that any second her mother would flash on a light and ask her who she was talking to and did she know what time it was, or how much those calls cost?
She held the phone in her hands and thought about her response for so long she almost didn’t send the message: Saturday works perfectly. Six?
She wasn’t sure Saturday would work perfectly. Wasn’t sure what Melissa’s plans might be. And, of course, every Sunday she was occupied. But Vivian had asked for so little. And now she was happy. Now this man, her ex-husband, had returned to her. A different man, it seemed. A better man. Oh, the things he said to her. The kind, kind words that came out of his mouth. No one had ever said such things to her. No one had ever told her they had dreamed of her. Not even Charlie himself, back in the day… She sat and stared out the window at the tiny backyard barely covered by the white of last night’s snow. By what looked like the sheerest of old white bedsheets. Faded plastic toys nestled in the green grass and white snow. Her daughter’s sad excuse for a vegetable garden, neglected tomatoes black on the vines. She watched as a tabby cat stalked a cardinal in the lilac bush, and then stood and drummed her knuckles against the window, causing the bird to alight.
Ainsley padded into the kitchen and walked right into her arms. Climbed up into her lap. She swayed the girl back and forth, back and forth. Heard herself humming. Felt her lips kissing the top of the child’s head.
Can I fix you some breakfast? she asked her granddaughter.
Yes, please, the child yawned.
What would you like, my love?
Pancakes.
Pancakes, she repeated. I can do that.
One difference she found between being a grandmother and a mom was that she mostly did not mind being a short-order cook. Mostly. Easier simply to ask the girls what they wanted, than to foist and force food down upon them. No longer was she in the business of pushing vegetables or the venison her uncles gave her every autumn. She was too tired to fight. No energy for unnecessary screaming matches or battles of will. These were her grandchildren, and she’d feed them as she saw fit.
She set about mixing the batter from scratch. It was cheaper that way. And tastier. She thought about Charlie as she measured flour, sugar, baking powder, salt. As she cracked eggs and poured vanilla. As she sprinkled just a dusting of cinnamon into the works. As she zested the skin of an orange. As the pan heated and the butter began sizzling.
She was suddenly not just excited about the prospect of Saturday, not just eager, but desperate almost. She wanted to call him just then. They had only scratched the surface, she realized. She didn’t really know anything about his life. She wanted to see his house outside of Spooner, and wondered what that old farm looked like. She wondered how he occupied his days. Had he ever married again? Was he now divorced? And, if so, since when? Was this, as her daughter sometimes said, a rebound? How much did he drink? He said he was retired. From the railroad, she assumed, but she wasn’t sure. They had so much to work through, to talk about. That excited her. Those future conversations.
Grandma, Ainsley said, smoke.
She realized with a start that the pan was too hot. The butter was burned. She’d need to wash it and wipe off the char. Start all over.
I’m sorry, pumpkin, she said. Grandma must be a little tired.
You were talking to yourself.
Was I now?
The girl nodded and hid a smile behind her little hands. Her hair was a series of wicked tangles and knots, and they would have to spend time that morning brushing it out. Ainsley never enjoyed this, but Vivian did. It had a medicinal effect. Counting each stroke of the brush. Running her fingers through the sweet-smelling hair, as the little child, restless at first, finally started relaxing. Succumbing.
They would watch cartoons in the morning. The girls half playing with LEGOs or drawing. Half watching the television. After lunch, both girls took a nap, or at least some sort of quiet time, and most days, if she was being honest, so did Vivian. Just in the recliner. It felt so good. Because, at first anyway, she’d forgotten that exhaustion, that parenting exhaustion. How parenting seemed to suck the life right out of you. But now, she was often fatigued, more so than when Melissa was a child. She thought about that, children as vampires. No—too dark a thought for so early in the day.
She prepared almost all their suppers in a Crock-Pot that sat on the kitchen counter. Seasoned ground beef for tacos. The girls liked that meal. Or barbecue pork. Pulled chicken. She watched the sales at the grocery market, bought pounds of cheap meat. Cooked meals that provided leftovers her daughter could bring to work. Meals that created minimal cleanup, minimal waste. Lasagna was popular. Baked ziti. Homemade macaroni and cheese baked with a breadcrumb crust. Most evenings, she crawled into bed in her small bedroom and read romances. Mysteries. They lived within walking distance of the library. On Saturday mornings, when Melissa slept in almost to noon, she would gather the girls and meander over to the library and let them loose to roam the aisles. To read and explore. It was a safe place, and free.
Only now there was this man. This unfamiliar familiar man. She wondered what space he might occupy in her future.
She finished cleaning the skillet and replaced it on the stove. Melted butter. Poured the batter into pale disks and watched as they slowly bubbled. Dropped a small handful of blueberries into the batter before flipping the pancake. One batch of batter made about twelve or fifteen pancakes. Enough to feed her and the girls all through the morning until the grilled cheese sandwiches they would have for lunch.
The girls slept in Melissa’s room, where two narrow mattresses paralleled the larger bed on the floor, jammed in alongside it. Though most nights, Vivian suspected, they slept with Melissa. Or on her bed anyway. Vivian kept the thermostat as low as she could. She knew that Melissa would sometimes sleep in the living room, on their secondhand couch, after a late night working at the bar, for instance. Or on a twin mattress in the basement, which sounded worse than it was. The basement was dry and quiet. The girls’ toys were all down there, but they liked to be upstairs, so the women had created a little space for themselves. That mattress, a soft chair, a lamp, a shelf of paperback books bought at the library’s annual fundraiser. It was the unspoken policy: if either Vivian or Melissa felt overwhelmed or tired or simply needed a break, they could go to the basement—no judgment.
The basement was also where Vivian stored all the clothing she had bought over the years for the business she had once imagined, Violet Vintage. Racks and racks of clothing, already cleaned and priced. Dreaming of the day she might open her own storefront, she’d even started by opening a Facebook page, which was, of course, how Charlie had found her. So perhaps, in some strange way, the business had succeeded. It had connected them.
She wanted to text him again, already. She was lonely for another adult to talk to. But she wasn’t sure how things even worked these days. Were they dating? Was that what they were doing? And whether they were or not, would texting him again make her seem too eager, too desperate? She didn’t care. Maybe she was desperate. For some change. Some companionship. She sent: Hey, I know it’s a drive, but maybe you’d like to join us for lunch?
Almost immediately, he replied: Yes!
She smiled. Smelled smoke. Realized she had burned the pancakes again. Quickly lifted them up and out of the pan and presented a plate of three pancakes to her granddaughter, unburned side facing up.
Butter? she asked. Syrup?
The girl nodded her head.
Her phone dinged again and she all but rushed to it. Another message: Or I could take you all out to lunch.
Well. That sounded nice to her. But the car seats were in the minivan, with Melissa. She typed: We’d have to walk.
The phone dinged: See you at noon.
She smiled. Realized that, even as she was doing so, she hadn’t smiled this much in many years. She felt tears forming and brushed them away. Don’t be silly, she thought. Get it together. She was the type of person who cried when she was happy, which drove her daughter bonkers. But it was what it was. How she was hardwired. New tears formed again, and she felt a thrill of happiness coursing through her, of excitement. She hadn’t been out to lunch in a long time. She would need to get ready.
Now Addison was awake too, chewing her pancakes. Grandma’s going to take a quick shower, she said to the girls, and then later, we’re going out to lunch. With a friend of mine. You’ll like him. Her phone dinged: What’s your address?
What’s his name? one of the girls asked.
She typed the address.
Grandma?
Oh, Charlie. His name’s Charlie.
Charlie? they giggled. They said his name, goofily, like a joke, Char-lie. Char-lee. Giggled some more.
Yes, Charlie. She found herself laughing lightly too. Why? What’s so funny?
The girls must have sensed something. Something about the way she was acting. The phone dinging again and again with text messages. The burned pancakes. The smile she couldn’t quite hide. Didn’t want to hide it.
Is he your—boyfriend? Ainsley asked, giggling harder, laughter that rollicked her from her little belly up. She pronounced the word, boyfriend, in two long, long syllables. Boooyyy…fffrrriiieeennnddd.
Can I tell you a secret? she said, leaning down to talk to the girls.
They didn’t say anything, went utterly silent. Only leaned towards her, their mouths full of pancakes and butter and syrup.
Once upon a time, she said conspiratorially, he wasn’t just my boyfriend; he was my husband. We were married.
How can your husband also be your boyfriend? the girls said, doubled over in laughter.
Oh, how that tickled them. Sent them into unrestrained giggles. Addison dropped her plate onto the kitchen floor. Vivian didn’t care. It could be cleaned up. They were all laughing now. Even the voices droning out of the TV suddenly sounded cheerful, less phony or canned. A dog barking a few houses over sounded playful, rather than annoying. What a day, she thought, taking in the sunlight just now shining on the bright new coating of snow on the ground. Icicles clinging to the gutters like blown glass. They were all going out to lunch.
She took a shower and dried her hair, then put on a little makeup and was just about to borrow a spritz of Melissa’s perfume, before wondering if that was strange. If he was attracted to that smell, did it mean he would also be attracted to her daughter? She washed it off quickly. Fine. No perfume then. Just soap and shampoo. Her body lotion. Maybe after Christmas, she thought, I’ll buy a new bottle of perfume.
She glanced out the window at eleven forty-five to find a big navy-blue truck idling beside the curb. It was snowing again, though lightly. Was that Charlie’s truck? At eleven fifty, she looked out again, and could clearly make him out in the cab. It looked like he was talking to himself. She smiled behind her hand, wondered briefly if she should have her teeth whitened.
Just before noon, he rang their doorbell and the girls rushed to the entryway. Before she could say anything, they had allowed him inside. She didn’t like that, didn’t want that. It made her nervous. There were things she hadn’t told him yet, and perhaps this house might yield those secrets. He was kneeling between them, a dozen roses beneath one of his arms. She drew closer and could see that he held a plastic bag filled with water and two goldfish. The girls poked at the bag. One of them had a small hand on Charlie’s shoulder. All of this did not seem possible even a week ago. Twenty-four hours ago. And now, here he was. Here was Charlie, back in her life.
Hi, he said, smiling up at her. You look beautiful.
***
The girls were too smitten with their new goldfish to giggle, to notice. But oh, the things he said to her. The things he said to her that she didn’t remember him ever saying when they were married. The things he said to her now, that she couldn’t recall any man saying to her, unless they were drunk, unless they wanted something from her. Sex. Or money. Or to be taken care of. Coddled. But he didn’t seem to want any of those things. Or maybe he did. Maybe he did but simply hadn’t been entirely forthright with her… But she didn’t think so. On the contrary, he seemed vulnerable, even to a fault. Still, the reality of him standing here, inside her house, before she had had the opportunity to clean…it filled her with anxiety. But hope and happiness seemed to trump her trepidation, at least for the moment.
She hoped that he was honest, but it seemed wise to tamp down her dreams. Not to get too excited. Though it was difficult. Difficult when he stood up to kiss her on the cheek, handing her the red roses. It had been decades since someone had given her flowers, and she didn’t even know if she owned a vase. So, she just held the bouquet, felt the stems through the thin clear cellophane in her hands, and raised the blooms up to her nose to smell them.
I bought a light bulb for your car, he said.
What?
Your headlight. On that old Saturn of yours. It was out. So I, uh, bought a new bulb for you. I could replace it for you now if you’d like.
She allowed herself to laugh. She couldn’t help it and held one hand over her chest. Not quite her heart. But the way people did in commercials for Publisher’s Clearing House when they won a jackpot. One of those oversized checks. Gestures like this did not happen to her. What did happen to her was that she was always too distracted, too tired, too broke, too busy, and the headlight, if she knew it was out, would stay out, all the way until a cop pulled her over and gave her a ticket. A twenty-dollar headlight became a fifty-dollar fine. That was her life, the life she recognized. She did not know what to say.
He smiled. I’ll just go ahead then, and replace the bulb, he said, producing it from his jacket pocket and holding it up like a good new idea—eureka. Unless you’d like to give me a tour of the place?
Uh, no. Not yet, she said, making her body wide to hide whatever lay behind her.
Girls, do we just let people into our house? she scolded, suddenly aware of how the house might betray her, what secrets hung off the wall in her bedroom or on the door of the refrigerator in the form of photographs, what letters and forms might be sitting on the counter, there for him to see.
But you said he was your husband, Ainsley said.
Ex-husband, she said quickly. Then, speaking to Charlie, Thank you for the flowers.
Of course, he said, peering around the cramped space. Would you be more comfortable if I waited outside? I didn’t mean to intrude.
If you don’t mind, she said. It’s just—I haven’t had a chance to tidy up.
No problem, he said, inching back outdoors, and closing the door.
She sighed with relief. Next time, she would take greater care. Allowing him into this house was as good as allowing him all the way into her life, and she wasn’t quite sure she was ready for that, even if she was the one to invite him over. She just wasn’t ready to reveal herself to him completely, not yet. She glanced at herself in the mirror that hung just inside the door.
Okay? she said. I’ll just, uh. I need to find a vase or something for these.
***
They held hands and walked behind the girls. For the first time in days, the sun shone brightly, with water dripping off roofs and into the gutters. Old men were out with shovels, clearing the sidewalks and shaking salt onto the thawing ice. Downtown was busy and they ended up at a delicatessen—Lucy’s. She tried to think if the girls had ever been out to lunch. They kept turning to her and asking if they could order this or that, and he kept saying, Order whatever you’d like. Orange soda? they asked. Sure. Grilled cheese? Sure. A chocolate chip cookie? Of course, whatever you’d like. Soup? Absolutely. The bill came to something like sixty dollars, and she reached into her purse, but he was ready with his credit card and paid for everything.
You didn’t have to do that.
I wanted to.
Well.
This is fun for me. I don’t—
What?
I don’t think I’ve ever had an occasion to be with kids before.
Never? she asked, as she felt a sad pang in her heart.
He shook his head. No, never.
Come on, I think the girls have found a table.
They ate contentedly and in near silence save for the sound of the girls’ legs beneath the table, swinging in errant circles and nudging the table, which she recognized as a telltale sign of their happiness.
After they walked home, he turned to her. Is there anything I can help you with? he asked. Or your daughter? Anything around the house? I’m retired now and truth be told, I think I need projects. Something to keep me busy.
Am I one of your projects?
His face grew suddenly red, and his shoulders slumped. No, no, no. Then, very seriously, as if there had been some crucial misunderstanding, Not at all.
Her arms were folded across her chest against the cold, but she walked towards him and kissed him on the lips, and then, walked backwards to the front door. Goodbye.
Will I see you again?
You’ll see me next Saturday, won’t you?
But before then?
Boy, she said, sucking in her breath and pretending as if his question really merited her thought. I don’t know. We’ll have to see.
Seeing his face momentarily slide into some confusion verging on despair, she unfolded her arms, walked towards him, and reached up, taking his face in her cold hands, and kissed him deeply. She was interrupted only by the banging of small fists on the glass of the front door where her two granddaughters were singsonging, Boooyyy-fffrrriiieeennnddd, boooyyy-fffrrriiieeennnddd, boooyyy-fffrrriiieeennnddd.
I have to go.
Okay.
Thanks for fixing the car.
It was nothing.
I’ll call you.
He just stood there, waving his hand gently, watching her go.
She turned and said, Shoo, then.