Chapter 51
THE NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING, TEN YEARS AGO, DIDION’S JUNIOR YEAR IN COLLEGE
Didion stared at her phone. A text from her mother.
Give me a call. You should come.
She let her phone clatter onto her desk and then walked in a limp circle around her silent apartment.
The whole campus was empty. Her apartment was empty.
Her complex was empty. And it was bitterly cold outside, not the blustery, sunny late fall day they sometimes got.
The whole last week had been gray and cold and wet.
Didion’s weird, possibly racist, definitely stupid roommate left for home yesterday and even though she couldn’t stand her, the vacant apartment felt suddenly cavernous.
Sammie had been texting Didion too. Lots of emojis with big begging eyes.
The thing was, Didion actually loved Thanksgiving.
Really loved her mother’s Thanksgiving food.
She made buttery mashed potatoes, umami-laden stuffing, biscuits with salted butter, and she omitted turkey completely, which she insisted was dry and not worth it, and instead made juicy chicken with crispy skin using something she called the “Keller method,” which Didion was a few years from knowing about.
All of this was drenched in a truly special gravy.
She also made a cranberry sangria that made Didion’s mouth water to even think about.
The problem was going back to Birdsong and being with her mother.
For the last couple of years, it seemed like they were chemically unable to understand each other.
For one thing, Didion was finding it difficult to forget the time her mother had basically told her she was a mistake that she regretted.
As somebody who worked hard to make everything as easy on those around her as humanly possible, it troubled her greatly to imagine that her mother’s unrest was because of her.
Her mother was the life of the party on Mercy Island, but what happened when the party stopped? Where did the life go?
Every time she talked to Babe, she had this distinct tone of coping or getting by. Or maybe Didion was imagining it, creating something to feel guilty for and then resentful about.
It didn’t help that her mom hadn’t come to visit her once in Baltimore, but had flown out to meet Sammie on an Italian vineyard for over a month last spring.
Not that Didion didn’t understand the allure of sun-drenched Italian wine country versus the interminably cold days of spring in Maryland, but still. It was the principle of it all. And worse than that, she had just had Austin and his new girlfriend over for dinner.
For dinner.
Didion had no right to be angry about this, as she was still dating Felix and therefore did not have a single leg to stand on.
But still, what an incredible betrayal from her mother.
Babe had apologized for both, saying Sammie had been homesick and really seemed to need a friendly face—she was a lot farther away and a lot less resilient than Didion, after all.
And as for Austin, it was just dinner. His girlfriend, Naomi, a tennis player herself, had been very nice.
The two had met and hit it off a few months ago, they weren’t that serious, Babe had just thought, why not?
She insisted that they didn’t have what Didion and Austin had, but again, Didion had a hard time hearing Babe’s opinion on them at all these days.
The resentments for things like this leaked out in all their conversations.
Babe wasn’t present when Didion needed her, giving advice like It’ll all work out and saying things like You’re strong, you can handle it.
Babe had also recently donated an entire box of Didion’s old belongings from the garage, insisting that she thought she’d told her it was okay on a previous call. Which she had not.
Her mom was just scatterbrained these days.
She wasn’t like other moms. Her friends had moms who sent money or came and visited and took them all out to brunch.
They had moms who lived quiet lives in the suburbs.
Not moms who did a nude figure drawing class—meaning, posed as the model—and then sent her daughters the resulting drawings.
Part of what made Didion so mad was that she wasn’t sure if she had any right to be mad.
Her mom was just a person. But Didion wanted her to be something she wasn’t.
And Babe wanted her to be something she wasn’t.
An academic, set on a path toward money and probably a nuclear family and savings account.
Her phone rang on the desk, the aluminum rattling against the particleboard as it vibrated.
She answered, “Yeah.”
“Didion,” said Babe, in that voice that always made Didion feel ridiculous and like a pouting, sulking child.
“What?”
“Can we please have a conversation?”
Didion shrugged, realized she couldn’t be seen and then said, “Fine.”
Babe sighed. “Look. I’m sorry things have been tense lately. I think it’s normal, moms and daughters struggle during this phase of life. You’re becoming a woman, and I’m going through menopause and figuring out who I am in a whole new way. No children in the house—”
“We haven’t been in your house full-time in forever, so I don’t think you can claim empty-nester syndrome.”
“Well, okay. I don’t mean just you. You, Matt, Austin, all your friends, everyone coming in and going out and everything … anyway, that’s not what I want to talk about. I want you to come for Thanksgiving.”
“Why? So we can fight over mashed potatoes in person instead of over the phone?”
Babe is quiet for a long moment, and Didion stares at the floor, waiting for her to go on.
“In restaurants, there’s something called family meal. Have you encountered this?”
“No.”
She’d only worked at the steakhouse and coffee shop, and neither had anything called that.
“It’s a meal the kitchen makes for everybody. Front of house, back of house. Whoever’s working. Everyone eats the same thing and takes a beat before a busy service. It’s a time to reset, to refuel, for everyone to catch their breath and realign with each other before the shift.”
“Okay … isn’t that called eating dinner?”
“No. It means something. Everyone is the same. Eating the same thing. Choosing to sit together. It’s not a time to fight, it’s a time to be calm, be with each other. You and I understand that, right? Food. What it can do?”
“Mm.”
“Mm,” she repeated. Again, that tone that made Didion feel ridiculous. “So, will you come? Have family meal with us?”
Didion sighed.
“I could really do with some help on the stuffing,” Babe went on. “You make it better than I do, these days.”
Didion knew this wasn’t true, but reluctantly appreciated it anyway.
Didion caved. Praise worked wonders on her, especially when it came from her mother. “Fine. But only because I can’t stand the idea of bad stuffing out there somewhere.”
Babe laughed, that raspy, earthy laugh of hers, and then said, “Flight’s in three hours. Check your email.”
“You already bought a ticket?” Didion’s tone was back to testy.
Babe diverted it instantly. “Before you get upset, it was a refundable ticket. Plus, I thought there was no way you’d stay up there if you knew Austin and his parents were coming.”
Didion’s heart lurched. “Is she coming too?”
Babe knew she meant Naomi. “I don’t think so. Do you want to bring Felix?”
Didion considered this. Felix obviously had no plans to go all the way back to Austria for an American holiday, so they had planned to order takeout and watch movies.
Did she really want to bring Felix around Austin, though?
“No,” said Didion. “He’ll understand.”
That Thanksgiving was an important one. Didion learned the Keller method for roasting chicken (though still didn’t know why it was called that). She learned the joy of setting aside all your shit to have a great meal.
And, possibly the biggest change that occurred over that long weekend, Didion took a perfect record of romantic fidelity and smashed it into a million, zillion, tiny little pieces.
It was Austin’s fault. Didion was never supposed to see how well he pulled off a flannel.