4. Sunday
The sound of silverware tinkling against plates and dishes is the backdrop to the dinner at Sunday’s round table. She’s added as many chairs as she can fit so that there’s room for her, Banks, both of her girls—Cameron and Olive—and their respective men, Liam and James. Squeezed in between the girls is their father, the ex-Vice President, Peter Bond.
“Is Owen okay in that playpen?” Sunday asks as she starts to stand up and make her way into the front room to check on her sleeping grandson.
“He’s fine, Mom,” Cameron says. Sunday sits again. “Let’s talk about how things are going here,” she says, reaching for the dish of rice pilaf to scoop some onto her plate. “What are you doing to stay busy these days?”
Sunday knows that things are a bit stilted with her ex-husband sitting there at the dinner table, and she even understands why, but she doesn’t feel the least bit apologetic about inviting Peter to join them. He’s recently given up his bid for the presidency, and while Sunday knows he has a vibrant and colorful social life in D.C., she’d seen his face on the evening news announcing his intention to pull out of the race and known immediately that, deep down, Peter Bond was lonely. Dark, cold, concrete basement lonely.
After enough years of being married to the man, Sunday knows him well enough to know that, in spite of his bravado, his tough exterior, and his smooth political jargon, he is a man who feels adrift in the world. And regardless of which young, muscled male model he’s currently going home to at night, he could use a quiet holiday with his family. And for better or worse, Sunday and Peter share two girls and a grandson with one another, and in Sunday’s book, that makes them family.
“Oh,” Sunday says to Cameron across the table, “I stay busy. Banks and I walk on the beach a lot, and I read. I spend a fair amount of time at the bookstore with Ruby, and we have our book club meetings. I’ve made friends here. It’s a nice life.”
“You seem too young to be retired,” Peter observes. He stabs at the roast chicken on his plate, and while his words sound aggressive and accusatory, Sunday is aware that he’s just trying to make a point of some sort. “How are things going with the adoption board? Do they keep you busy at all?”
Sunday sits up straighter; she’s proud of her work with the National Adoption Council, and after giving up her infant son as a young, single woman, she knows that the adoption process is an important and beautiful thing, and she wants to do everything she can to support and promote it.
“We have a Zoom meeting once a month.” Sunday is cutting her chicken slowly with a knife, her fork holding it in place on her plate. “And I fly up to D.C. every three months for the quarterly board meeting. It’s going well.” She nods and puts a bite of chicken in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “I think Julia Roberts is going to co-chair our next fundraising event.”
“Wow!” Olive passes the bread basket to James, her boyfriend of several years. They own a bakery in Connecticut, and she inspects the bread and rolls that Sunday has nestled into the wicker basket and wrapped in a linen napkin. “That’s awesome, Mom. Good work.”
This praise makes Sunday smile. She watches her beautiful daughters as they eat and pass dishes around the table beneath the small crystal chandelier in her dining area, marveling at the way that fate brought her family together in the first place. Sunday and Peter had decided to adopt Cameron from Guatemala when she was a small baby, and a few years later, Olive had joined them from China. Her own daughters are a shining example of the miracle of adoption, and Sunday loves them both deeply.
“Have you considered moving back up there permanently?” Peter asks as he snatches a roll from the passing bread basket. “There’s so much going on in the city. You could really get involved there and not waste these years of your life baking under the sun down here.” Peter waves his butter knife around casually. “It’s beautiful and all, but it’s kind of dead here, politically speaking.”
Banks clears his throat and Sunday senses that he wants to speak up in her defense. To stop him, she slides her hand onto his thigh beneath the table and squeezes gently.
“Well, Peter,” she says with a patient smile. “I like it here. And I don’t feel like I’m wasting these years of my life. I’ve never been as involved or interested in politics as you are, and frankly, I feel like I’m contributing by being a part of the National Adoption Council. Banks and I are happy here.” She turns to face her boyfriend, melting a little as she looks into his eyes and smiles. In return, he holds her gaze.
“What about you, Dad?” Cameron asks her father. Her eyes flash as she looks at him, and Sunday feels a wave of gratitude towards her eldest daughter for stepping in. “Now that the White House is off the table, what are you going to do? Aside from the obvious?” She arches one eyebrow at him, letting him know that she is, in fact, referring to his extracurricular activities that involve dark bars, strange men, and nameless interludes.
Peter shoots her a warning look. “Well, Cameron. I’ve decided that I can best serve this country by using my power in different ways.”
Olive, generally the sweeter and more pliable of the Bond daughters, splutters as she sips her ice water. “Dad,” she says imploringly. “What does that even mean?”
Peter looks mildly flustered, which is unusual for him. He hadn’t even looked ruffled a couple of years earlier when Sunday caught him with his pants around his ankles—quite literally—in the food pantry of the White House kitchen with Adam, their head chef.
“It means that I can use the fame I have to do good things,” Peter says, sounding pious. He sets his silverware down gently and places his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together as if he is about to start a very important lecture. “In fact, I’ve signed on to make a documentary that I think will be a huge hit at the Sundance Festival.”
The table goes quiet; all movement stops. Just then, Owen wakes up in the front room and lets out a yowl to inform the world that he’s up and wants attention.
“What’s it about?” Sunday asks, unable to stop herself. She can scarcely imagine.
“I’m taking part in a documentary about what it means to be a closeted gay man in America.”
The silence continues. No one says a word, but Owen continues to yelp from the playpen. Cameron sets her napkin on the table and stands as if to go and retrieve her son, but Banks stands first, holding up a hand.
“I’ve got him, Cameron,” he says. “Please, you finish eating with your family.” Before anyone can protest, Banks makes his way to the front room and leaves Sunday, Peter, their daughters, and Liam and James to sit with this bombshell.
“Oh, Peter,” Sunday says. In an effort not to drop her silverware, she sets it down gently on the edge of her plate and then leans back in her chair. She’s watching her ex-husband across the table. “That’s very…brave.”
“Are you going to be in the documentary, Daddy?” Olive asks, eyes wide. James reaches over and puts an arm around her shoulders.
Peter clears his throat. “I think so. I lived a lot of years in hiding, and because I did, I forced everyone around me to collude with my lies. I’m ready to show people that stepping out into the light is true freedom. Letting the people around you live their lives without the burden of your secrets is also freedom.” He looks at Sunday and they exchange a long, searching look. “I’ve done a lot of things wrong, but I think taking part in this documentary would be doing something right. For once.” He smiles, but it’s wry and sad.
“Good for you, Dad,” Cameron says. She’s eyeing him appraisingly.
Out of the two girls, Cameron has always been the most critical of her mother and father, watching them closely for signs of being too embroiled in the falsity of the political machine. At the first sign of disingenuity from either parent, Cameron has always been ready to pounce. In fact, she’d punished Sunday for years for staying married to Peter just because of the optics of their union; in her mind, a woman who stayed with a man for any reason other than love was living a bald-faced lie. The fracture in their mother-daughter relationship had hurt Sunday, but she’d reminded herself over and over that Cameron was young and idealistic; life and time would soften her hard edges.
“I’m proud of you, Peter,” Sunday says gently, standing up from her chair and dropping her napkin onto her seat. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’m going to make sure that Banks and Owen are good. You all keep eating.”
Sunday walks out of their line of vision to catch her breath. The notion of Peter doing something altruistic and actually owning up to his mistakes and his life choices has shaken her, but she’s impressed and happy for him.
“Hey,” she says to Banks. He’s standing at the picture window in the dim front room, lit only by a lamp. Banks is holding Owen, who is eight months old and full of personality. “You two men doing okay out here?”
At the sound of his grandmother’s voice, Owen’s head turns swiftly and a smile spreads across his chubby, smooth face. “Gah!” he says forcefully, kicking his legs and waving his arms wildly.
“Hi, baby boy.” Sunday walks over to where Banks is standing and reaches out to hold Owen’s small hand in hers. She doesn’t move to take the baby, and instead, she smiles up at Banks, admiring the way he has Owen wrapped in one of his strong arms. From the dining room comes Olive and Cameron’s laughter as they joke about something. Sunday is happy in this moment, oddly enough: her girls are there and everyone is on speaking terms; Banks and Peter are at the same dinner table, and there isn’t really even a frisson of discomfort. It’s clear that neither man sees the other as a threat for Sunday’s affection. And, most importantly, Owen is happy and healthy and strong, and Sunday’s heart is full of pure, unadulterated joy at the sound of his squeals and babbling.
“What do you think, Sun?” Banks sounds gruff—emotional. He looks right at Owen, whose soft head of baby hair is just inches from Banks’s face. He tips his head forward slightly and puts his forehead to Owen’s. In turn, Owen giggles and places both of his little hands on the sides of Banks’s whiskered cheeks. “You think we could do this?”
Sunday glows with pride at the sight of the man she loves holding her precious grandbaby. “Watch him on our own? Sure, we could ask Cameron and Liam if they want us to?—“
“No,” Banks interrupts. “Do you think we could be parents?”
It takes Sunday a moment to realize that Banks isn’t kidding, and the smile on her face dims just slightly. She is well beyond biologically being able to give him a baby, and he knows this, but the realization of it stabs her in the heart just the same. “I…how?”
Banks pulls his forehead away from Owen, who is still holding Banks’s cheeks and examining him closely, his baby face serious and intent.
“I think we should adopt, Sunday. I really think we could do this.”
Banks is fifty and Sunday is fifty-five. She has one daughter who is twenty-eight and another who is thirty-one. Banks is standing there holding her grandson, for crying out loud. She blinks a few times, watching him as he bounces Owen gently in his arms. There is something about the image of them together that feels so right, so…possible.
Against her own better judgment, and against anything she would have ever imagined coming out of her own mouth, Sunday nods. She reaches out with both arms and wraps them around Banks and Owen, holding them close. “I really think we could do this, too,” she whispers, laying her head gently against her sweet-smelling grandson. Oh god, she thinks, the smell of a baby is intoxicating.
“Let’s be parents together, Sun,” Banks rasps.
She lifts her head and looks up into his eyes. Sunday nods one more time. “Let’s,” she agrees.