Chapter 18
Cherry’s sister was at the door. Stevie was going ballistic.
“Just a second!” Cherry called. “House, Stevie. House.”
“Call off your hounds!” Honny shouted. None of Cherry’s sisters were dog people. They all found Stevie either irritating or
terrifying.
Stevie reluctantly went to her kennel. Cherry gave her a treat and locked her in. When Cherry opened the front door, Honny
walked past her.
Honny was three years older than Cherry, almost forty. She looked a lot like Cherry. A little fatter. A little more ethnic. They were part Sicilian, and Honny actually looked it. She was wearing a puffy pink coat (not puffy and pink in a way Cherry
would endorse), and she looked put out. “Mom says you have her health insurance card.”
Cherry frowned. “Do I?”
Their mom was only in her mid-sixties, but she’d never been good with paperwork or bills. Cherry and her older sisters had
been handling everything since they were teenagers.
“She says you took her to the eye doctor,” Honny said.
“Oh, right.” Cherry remembered now. “It’s probably in my purse. Is Mom with you?”
“She’s in the car. She’s got a mammogram at one.”
Cherry’s purse was in her bedroom. “Let me look. Just a second.” She ran upstairs.
The card was in her purse. “Found it!” Cherry called, coming down the stairs. “You’re lucky I was working from home.” Honny wasn’t in
the foyer. “Honny?”
“What is going on here, Cherry?”
Honny was standing in the living room with her hands on her hips. Her face was aghast.
Cherry’s living room was a little . . . deconstructed.
The entire main floor was.
One whole corner of the dining room was stacked with boxes—and that was the only sign of order. Cabinets were open. Drawers
were open. There was stuff spread out on the dining room table. There were Post-it notes everywhere. Long Post-it note conversations . . .
“Tom came home last week to pack,” Cherry said.
“Tom came home?” Honny looked shocked.
“To Omaha.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Her eyes narrowed. “Did you tell everyone but me?”
“No, of course not. There’s really nothing to report.”
“Your husband came home for the first time in a year, and that’s nothing?”
“He’s not actually home,” Cherry said. “He’s just packing.”
The front door opened. “Honny?”
“Mom, I’m coming,” Honny said.
“Did you get my insurance card?” Their mom walked into the living room. She looked a lot like Cherry and Honny, but with all
the Italian deducted. Her hair—salt and pepper now—was darker than Cherry’s, but her skin was pinker and her eyes were bright
blue.
“I’ve got it.” Cherry held up the card.
Their mom was looking around the room. “Cherry, are you moving?”
“Tom came home,” Honny said.
Their mom’s face lit up. “Tom’s here?” She looked at the ceiling and raised her voice. “Tom?”
Cherry’s mom loved Tom. She loved all her sons-in-law. She thought they were all very long-suffering to put up with her daughters.
“He’s not here now,” Cherry said.
“But he came back? He came home?” Her mom was getting tearful.
“No. Just to pack his things.”
“Oh, Cherry . . .” She touched Cherry’s cheek. “This is a good thing. You have to talk to him.”
“It’s not like that, Mom. We don’t even see each other—he comes while I’m at work. There’s no talking.”
“Looks like there’s a bunch of note-writing . . .” Honny said, picking up a Post-it-plastered DVD.
Cherry took it from her. “We’re trying to sort everything out. It’s messy.”
Her mom was still trying to touch Cherry’s cheek. “That’s your husband.”
Cherry flinched. “Ex-husband.”
“Not yet,” her mom argued, petting her cheek. “And not in the eyes of God. Take this opportunity to talk to Tom. You can still
heal, Cherry. Forgiveness is powerful. And it’s ongoing.”
“Marriages aren’t built on forgiveness,” Honny muttered, looking irritated.
“Sometimes they are!” Their mom was daring them both to argue. She felt very righteous about her own marriage. She was the
queen of forgiveness; Cherry’s dad had given her ample opportunities. “I’m sure that Carl forgives you sometimes.” Carl was Honny’s husband.
“Leave Carl out of this,” Honny said.
“Leave me out of it, too,” Cherry said.
“Cherry”—Honny waved her hand around the room—“this is disturbing. It looks like a forensics team has come through here.”
“Because it’s complicated,” Cherry said. “Untangling two lives is complicated.”
“You’re letting Tom make it complicated, I can tell. You’re letting him be Tom about it.”
“He is Tom.”
“Yeah, but he’s not your problem anymore, Cherry! Why are you letting him be your problem?”
“He is her husband,” their mother said. “He will always be her problem.”
Honny shook her head. “For Pete’s sake, Mom, you’re even more disturbing than Cherry.”
Cherry set down the DVD. (It was Rise of Skywalker. There were twelve Post-it notes on it—twelve reasons why the other person should have to take it.) “I’m not letting Tom be my problem. And I’m not taking him back.”
Honny looked doubtful. Their mom looked devastated.
“I’m actually seeing someone else,” Cherry said, raising her chin.
Their mouths dropped open in unison, like in a cartoon.
“You’re what?” Honny said. “How could you keep that a secret? Did you tell everyone but me?”
“No! I’m telling you now! I’m telling you both! I’m dating someone. I’m not getting back together with Tom—who doesn’t want to get back together, by the way. He’s moving to Los Angeles.”
“Oh, Cherry . . .” There were tears in her mom’s eyes. “You’re a married woman.”
Honny was frowning. “You are a married woman.” (Cherry’s sisters were anti-Tom, but they were also very legalistic about marital vows.) (This was why they were anti-Tom.)
“I’m glad I could find something for the two of you to agree on,” Cherry said. “I’m an adulteress.”
Her mom closed her eyes. “Don’t tell me this.”
“You’re sleeping with someone?” Honny’s hands were on her hips again. “Do you even know what diseases are out there? If you don’t already
have HPV, forget about it. You should get that vaccine they give teenagers.”
“Maybe I will,” Cherry said. She handed Honny the insurance card. “Go get that mammogram.”
Their mom’s eyes were open. She took Cherry’s hand in both of hers. “Cherry, you know I love you very much.”
“I love you, too.”
“And Jesus loves you.”
“Okay.”
“Jesus does love you,” Honny said. “He can’t get enough of sinners.”
“Great, thanks.”
“Come on, Mom,” Honny said, leading her toward the door. She reluctantly let go of Cherry’s hand.
Once their mom was out, Honny turned back to Cherry. “Are you really dating someone?”
“Yes.”
Honny frowned. “We were just waiting for your divorce to be final so we could introduce you to a guy from church.”
“Oh my god, Honny—no.”
“He’s an architect, Cherry—and a widower. Do you know how in demand widowers are? At your age, all the men are either divorced
or weirdos.”
“Thank you for thinking of me. But I’m honestly seeing someone.”
“Someone nice?”
“Of course someone nice.”
“You never know.”
Cherry shut the door behind Honny and let Stevie out of the kennel. The dog immediately ran to the door to bark. Come back, come back, she was saying. I didn’t even get to say hi!
Cherry gave Stevie some consolation pets. Her fur was soft and clean. Tom must be brushing her after all their walks.
Cherry looked around the house . . .
It did, in fact, look like a forensics team was working in here.
Cherry had, in fact, been letting Tom make things complicated.
She’d hoped that he’d move through the house in a sensible fashion, from room to room—but Tom had never worked that way. He
seemed to be wandering around the house, picking things up and setting them down, and leaving long, polite Post-it notes for
Cherry.
They were having entire Post-it note parleys about things that didn’t even matter—the stapler, a jade plant, an electric kettle that was apparently no longer in production. And Tom had started bringing things down from the attic.
Cherry didn’t know how to discourage this process, especially if she wasn’t here with him in the moment, and she didn’t think
it would help to drastically disrupt him.
If Cherry were to throw everything into a box with a note that said, Take all this or throw it out, Tom would just unpack that box and lay everything out on the dining room table with a dozen new notes.
And if she were to tell him he was being ridiculous, he’d shut down altogether.
Stacia thought that Cherry should give Tom a deadline. Cherry had laughed out loud. If Tom got too frustrated, he’d just walk
away. He’d leave the house like this, turned inside out.
“Who cares?” Stacia had said. She and Cherry had lunch together sometimes during the week, over videoconference. “Then you
win. You can just box his shit up and get rid of it.”
“I don’t want to win,” Cherry had replied.
“I just mean, then you’d have your house back.”
“I don’t think I want the house back.” Cherry poked at her chicken salad. “I think I want to start over.”
“Oh,” Stacia said. She looked sad for a second, and then said, “Yeah, why not? Start over!”
“In a way,” Cherry said, feeling encouraged, “Tom’s doing me a favor. He’s helping me do this big cleanse. If he doesn’t want
something and the thing makes me sad, I’m throwing it out.”
“Huh . . .” Stacia looked thoughtful. “It’s like reverse Marie Kondo.”
“Exactly. It’s like I’m touching everything in the house to see if it sparks misery.”
“I don’t know . . .” Stacia frowned again. “I think you might throw out things that you end up wanting later. Everything in that house is going to bring back sad memories right now.”
“I’ll just buy new things with Tom’s money.”
“Why does it sound so depressing when you say that . . .”
Cherry set down her fork. “I thought you wanted me to put Tom behind me and let in new energy.”
“I do. I do. But your house is so cute.”
Cherry had laughed and raised her eyebrows. “Yeah, not anymore.”
Her house was a huge mess.
It accurately reflected Cherry’s life.
She could influence Tom, but she couldn’t change him. Their marriage was going to end the same way it had begun: drawn out
and overly complicated, with too much thinking and not enough talking, and Tom forever hung up on small things.
Eventually Cherry would say, “Enough,” and they’d move on.
Eventually Cherry would say, “Enough,” and Tom would be truly gone.