Chapter 13
I slump in my seat, bandage wrapped around my palm, staring at the table. The meal is an unmitigated disaster. And not just because I got blood in the salad dressing.
The confit is far, far too salty, just past overcooked and into burned.
I had plated it without tasting—which I never do.
When had I oversalted? The bucatini fell to mush in the water, even though I only boiled it for two minutes.
It should have come out a perfect al dente.
And then I reserved too much pasta water in the sauce anyway.
The Caesar salad is the only edible thing on the table apart from the bread, and it’s only because I gave up and used a bottle of Newman’s Own from the pantry. Because again, blood in the dressing.
What the hell is wrong with me? I do this all day, every day, and have for years.
I know the easy answer is grief, but I feel fine! I’m dealing with it! So why, suddenly, can I not do the one stupid thing I’m good at?
Austin takes a bite of pasta soup. “I think it’s pretty good.”
As he does, Nora opens her mouth and lets her bite fall freely to the plate, saying, “Yeeeauch.”
Her father gasps. “Nora! That’s rude, isn’t it? Didion worked hard on your dinner!”
“She’s right. Nora, you’re right. It’s disgusting. I am a failure.”
“Daddy, she knows she’s a failure, it’s okay!”
It’s very obvious that everyone at the table finds this funny, possibly because my vibe has been so unpleasant, possibly just because it’s funny when kids are blazingly honest, but everyone else at least makes the polite effort to conceal their amusement.
“Nora, we’re going to chat about this in a little bit and then you’re going to give Didion an apology once you understand, okay?”
“I will, Daddy. When I understand.”
“So ridiculously cute,” Sammie says, skewering a slippery bite of pasta, nose tightening from the salt.
I give up. “Please don’t eat this. I think I saw some boxes of Kraft in the pantry.”
Sammie rises. “I got it. That’s some of the only cooking I can do.”
Twenty minutes later, we all have bowls of Sammie-doctored Kraft mac ’n’ cheese in front of us, the sloppy homemade pasta mess having been unceremoniously removed from the table and put in the trash.
Nora makes a sound of approval and then points at her bowl of orange noodles. “Now, this is good.”
Matt sighs at me. “I’m sorry.”
“Really brings out the terroir of the wine,” says Austin. “Don’t you think, Samantha?”
Sammie, a devilish grin crossing her face, sits up. “Oh, indubitably, my friend, quite right. I think it’s the way the radioactive neon juxtaposes with the organic nature of the varietal.”
Once again, I had abstained from having any wine, but I’m starting to wonder why.
“So, I hate to bring up the elephant in the room,” says Matt.
“Which elephant?” quips Austin.
“Ha, well. The house one. It would be great to be on the same page tomorrow when Miranda returns. What are we thinking we want to do?”
Sammie turns and looks in through the screen door. “How could we ever get rid of Birdsong?”
“You want to own a house with a bunch of people you haven’t seen in years?” I challenge.
Matt and Austin glance at each other. And then I see that even Sammie is turning her face away from me.
Oh. Shit.
“Do you guys … I mean, do you all like … hang out?”
“Well … not all the time or anything.” Matt looks uncomfortable. “Sammie and I have seen each other here and there. Austin and I have spent time together. I met his girlfriend last year when they were in town.”
My face flushes and I’m not sure which detail made it happen.
The fact that they keep in touch? I mean, I’m not sure why I’m surprised.
We all used to hang out, I’m the one who stopped.
That doesn’t mean they’d have to—but wait, Austin has a girlfriend?
Austin and said girlfriend were in town meaning … New York? Where I live?
Too close.
“Ex-girlfriend,” Austin corrects him.
“Oh, no, really?” asks Matt. “I liked that one.”
This feels like a betrayal, and I know I’m wrong to feel that way.
I shift my gaze to Sammie. She tilts her head at me. “I think you’re the only one who wanted to throw it all away.”
The temperature of my blood immediately rises, but I don’t take the bait. “Well, then, how often have you been down here? Would it even make sense to keep it?”
This time Matt outright winces.
“For fuck’s sake, am I the only one who—” I catch eyes on Nora, who looks gleeful. I realize I just said fuck at the top of my lungs. “Sorry, Matt.”
“She knows not to repeat it. It’s fine.”
“Look, Red, I’ve been here a lot over the years. My parents were still on Mercy for a while, so I came by whenever I was in town. Babe needed a lot of help around here, and I lent a hand when I could.”
The idea of him being here fixing steps and screen doors makes me feel nauseous. It aligns so much with the fantasies I had when I was younger, only it’s missing the key ingredient to me, which was … ya know, me being there too.
I’m fully aware that was my choice, but still.
I take a deep breath and then exhale. “Babe never mentioned any of that.”
I had asked her, years ago, not to talk to me about them. It’s amazing that she really did it. I think I’d assumed there wasn’t anything worth mentioning. Apparently I was wrong.
“Nora met her. My husband and I brought her down last year.”
I look at Matt and smile a little, though I’m afraid I look as pained as I feel.
“One of my favorite things about Mom, and this place, is that it’s been like a safe haven for me.
” Sammie’s eyes are dewy with tears. “Every time I had a breakup, or something went wrong, I knew I could come here. I hate the idea that we wouldn’t have a place to go if we ever needed it.
That’s what it’s always been. Even when Mom talked about her childhood years, you know?
How her friends would come stay when they needed to, how her family would come take impromptu trips—”
“I remember, I was there, too,” I snap. I hate how my sadness keeps coming out so mean.
The fissure in my heart deepens as thunder rolls above us.
After what last happened with Austin … happened, I called Babe in tears. It’s the only time I’ve ever done something like that. I never ask for help, as my bloody hand can attest. It makes me feel physically seasick almost, to imagine telling someone I’m hurt or that I need anything.
But on this one occasion, I had no choice. I was hit so hard by the shock of the pain that I had to call my mother. It was the one and only time I ever returned to Birdsong.
“I think we should sell it,” I say, exposing nothing of the memory that just flashed through my mind.
“Really?” Sammie’s voice is weak.
“I don’t think it’s practical to keep it. I know it feels like a boon to get a property these days, but I think it’d more realistically serve us to sell it.”
“Serve us how?” A slight edge has worked its way into her tone.
I see the vein below her eye flicker. Say it.
“You want me to say it? Maybe you could use it to, you know … grow up a little.”
My words are harsh. Tough love.
Sammie doesn’t blink. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right. Dad’s gone. Mom’s gone. You’re gone. All I’ve got is me, right? Better make sure my bank account is stacked, because there’s no one left to save me.”
I want to say no, that I didn’t mean that. But that was how I felt. Even so, I can’t stand to confirm it.
“If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all, huh?” she spits.
The silence on the porch is heavy.
After a long time, she puts a hand up and then lets it fall onto her lap. “Okay, Didion. I trust you. If that’s what you think we should do, then let’s do it. We sell Birdsong.”
And that is when the sky splits in half, a bolt of lightning cracking through the rain and hitting the beach in a dramatic burst of sand.
“Holy shit,” I shout, as Sammie says, “What the hell happened?” turning to look behind her.
“I was forced to go to way too much Sunday school to not feel like that”—Matt points at the spot on the sand—“was a sign of some kind.”
The doorbell rings.
Matt makes a face. “See now, if that is a horseman with three friends with him, don’t let him in.”
Austin tosses his napkin on the table and rises. “I’ll get it.”
He goes, and after a minute, he returns. He doesn’t say a word, but I can tell that something has just happened.
“Who was it?” Matt asks.
“One of the horsemen. The antichrist, told him to fuck off.”
Matt laughs, but my eyes shoot up to Austin. We used to have a not-quite-joke calling Johnny Hart the antichrist.
My eyes bore into Austin’s features, searching. His gaze lands on me, and I find the confirmation there.
He correctly reads my silent question and gives a curt nod that no one else notices.
No. No. No. I mouth, Johnny?
Another small nod.
Dread fills my chest, and it takes everything in me not to go to the front door and commit a very serious crime. As much as I hate to admit it, the only thing that stops me is the look on Austin’s face.