Chapter 2
I call my mom from work Thursday morning. Alice’s letter sits open on my desk.
“How’s the weather?” she asks as soon as we exchange greetings.
“Well, it’s late May,” I say. “So it’s as nice as California right now. But don’t worry, the heat and humidity will ruin everything in a month.”
“Ugh, and that god-awful cold and snow,” she laments. “I seriously do not know how you live there.”
She means why I live here. I moved to Eastridge, an urban college town just north of Chicago, when I married Sean.
When we met, he lived here and worked at Lakeside University as a professor of mathematics—an occupation he had in common with my mother, and the only reason she ever tolerated him.
But after he passed, suddenly and tragically, my whole family expected me to return to Los Angeles.
I couldn’t possibly raise my daughter alone in the Midwest. My mother had raised me alone—I never even knew my father; I was the product of a very short-lived romance, something longer than a one-night stand but too short to be called a relationship—but she did it with the support system of her parents, three sisters, their husbands, and an army of cousins.
The truth was, after Sean died, I couldn’t bring myself to leave.
That’s why I also said no to Sean’s parents, who live in a retirement community in Orlando, when they offered to pay for our relocation to Florida.
Because I saw Sean—at least, I saw the memory of him—all over Eastridge, standing on every street corner, eating at every restaurant, sipping coffee in the window of every bookstore.
At first, learning to live without him every day felt like acquiring a new and challenging skill, something that would take me years to master: playing the violin, becoming fluent in Mandarin, or baking perfect macarons.
I fumbled daily. In the morning, still half asleep, I would roll over to Sean’s side of the bed, my arm free-falling to the cold comforter instead of landing on his warm chest. At breakfast, I would instinctively pull out Tabasco when I made scrambled eggs, even though I never shared Sean’s affection for spice.
I still signed his name on birthday cards.
And at night, just before bed, I would mindlessly measure enough coffee grounds and completely fill the water reservoir to brew a full pot in the morning.
Over the past five years, I honed the skill of living in a world where he didn’t physically exist, a world he left. But if I leave Chicagoland, the Midwest, then I leave Sean.
Forever.
“Are you teaching over the summer?” my mother presses.
“No, I decided not to, so I can spend more time with Hannah. You know, movies in the park, waterslides, roast marshmallows on the patio.”
“Then book a flight to LA,” she insists.
I cringe. “I’m not sure I can take the time off from the museum.”
“You must have months of vacation stockpiled by now,” she argues.
I do. But while I took personal days without any regard before Sean passed, using them now is something I can’t get myself to do.
A day here or there is fine. But a week?
Two weeks? What if something happens, an emergency—I get sick, Hannah gets sick—and I don’t have enough days banked because I’ve squandered them on empty visits with my family or expensive, unnecessary jaunts to Disney World?
It feels better, safer, to leave them untouched.
An insurance policy. Plus, my boss, Elena, who is about the same age as my mother, is retiring from her position as museum director in the fall.
I’m the number one candidate to fill her spot, which includes a pay raise and better job security.
I don’t want to do anything that makes me appear undedicated.
I change the subject. “Did you watch the video of Hannah’s graduation ceremony?”
“Oh. Not yet, but I will,” she says. I hear water running and dishes clanking in the background. “So what activities is Hannah signed up for this summer?”
None. By the time I remembered to sign her up, all of the day camps and swim lessons and craft workshops had waiting lists.
“Her babysitter, April, will keep her busy,” I say instead.
“Today they’re at the beach, then probably the library for story time.
” Before she can comment about Hannah’s mind “turning to mush” over the summer, I add, “So you’ll never believe what I got in the mail yesterday.
A very weird letter from your Aunt Alice. ”
A sudden silence. “Really?” she finally says. “What did it say?”
I clear my throat and read the letter.
“That’s random,” she says. “And audacious, really. It’s like she’s telling you to come, not asking. No one has heard from Alice in decades. And now, all of a sudden, she sends you this letter?”
She sounds more angry than curious.
I think of my first cousins. “No one else got a letter, did they?”
“I don’t think so. I just saw half the family last weekend at Becky’s baby shower. Trust me, they would have mentioned it.”
I know she’s right. “What do you make of it?” I ask.
My mother sighs. “Oh, she’s a bit eccentric, Maggie. Always has been, but she’s getting up there in years. She’s probably developing dementia or the like.”
I thought the same thing last night, and yet my first impulse is to defend Alice. I bite my tongue, thinking back to the day I finally got the nerve to ask my mother about Alice point-blank.
I was in sixth grade, and for a history assignment, we had to research our surname and design a family coat of arms. Hunched over library books, I was shocked to learn that my last name, Brodbeck, means bread baker.
As in, I—and everyone in the Brodbeck family—was destined to bake bread.
By the time my mom arrived home from work, the kitchen was a village in a snow globe, coated white with a heavy dusting of flour.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” she asked in horror.
“Baking bread,” I said.
“There is perfectly good bread here.” She pointed to the loaf of soft white slices inside the yellow, red, and blue plastic bag on the counter.
“But did you know our last name means bread baker?” I charged.
“It does?” She rubbed her temples in tiny circles with the tips of her fingers.
“Well, I guess it’s a good thing our last name doesn’t mean something else, like fire starter.
” She laughed to herself. “But, Maggie, really, this is a disaster. You’re going to need to clean it up.
Later. Right now, I’m hungry. Let’s go grab a slice of pizza first.”
“Don’t you want to try it?” I asked.
“What?”
“The bread.” I reached for the mound cooling on the counter. We didn’t own a loaf pan, so I’d formed it by hand into the shape of bread. There were a lot of steps and a lot of time waiting for the dough to rise, but I ended up with something that looked and smelled and hopefully tasted like bread.
My mom looked surprised—she hadn’t seen the loaf of bread, just the messy kitchen. I tore off a piece, and she took it with apprehension. I popped a morsel in my mouth at the same time. The two of us chewed and stared into each other’s eyes, watching for the other’s reaction.
“Maggie, it’s . . .” She chewed more and swallowed. “It’s actually very good. Very good,” she repeated.
“It’s a little tough. I may have overworked the dough,” I explained.
She shook her head. “I’ve only known one other person who made bread like this, from scratch,” she said.
“Alice?” I blurted.
Her eyes grew wide. “Well, yes . . . you know about Alice?”
“I’ve heard you talk about her, sometimes,” I said.
She cocked her head as if trying to remember what she might have said, and when I might have been listening.
“Why do you and your sisters whisper about her?” I asked. “Like she’s a secret?”
“Alice is . . . different. Than us. She marches to the beat of her own drum.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“She’s just kind of old-fashioned.”
That’s not enough of a reason, I thought. It must be more than that. But just as I prepared a follow-up question, my mother clapped her hands once loudly, which meant she was switching gears, and I’d better be ready to follow.
“We’ll talk about this later,” she said.
But—and I remember because I tried to bring Aunt Alice into our conversation three more times that night—we never did. Like my father, my Great-Aunt Alice seemed a topic my mother did not want to broach.
Now, my mother picks up on my silent hesitation.
“You’re not thinking of going, are you?” Her tone is accusatory. “You just said you can’t take any time off work anyway,” she adds.
“No,” I protest. “Of course not.”
My stomach churns, a lump forming in my throat, like it’s a blatant lie, despite the fact that I never once considered going to Alice’s farm.
“Well, good,” she says. “You really don’t want to get mixed up with Alice.”
My mother’s words, mixed up with, seem dramatic, like Alice is a cocaine addict or a religious cult leader. She’s just a woman who lives on a farm in Wisconsin. What is so bad about her? I want to ask my mom, but she cuts me off.
“Look, Mags, I’ve got to run. I’ve got breakfast with a colleague and an afternoon class,” she says. “But keep me posted, if you get more letters or anything. And I’ll ask the family.”
I suddenly wish I hadn’t told my mom about the letter.
It’s just fodder. She’ll ask the family, and they’ll all have a field day speculating about Alice and her mental state.
Again, I feel protective of Alice. Why do I want to shield her from this ridicule?
Is it because being different than my mother was also my downfall?
Like Alice, I marched to the beat of my own drum, never falling in line with my mother’s carefully laid plans.
Or is it because Alice’s banishment never seemed fair, her crimes never matching her punishment?
This sense of loyalty to Alice is almost as big a mystery as why she sent me the letter in the first place.