Thirteen—Mia
T
he next week, we were on our way to my parents’ house for Sunday dinner. It’s tradition. It’s Mom’s way of taking a peek inside our lives so she can offer us unsolicited advice and make sure we start a new week with a fresh dose of motherly support. We’re adults, she knows we have lives, she understands if we can’t make it, but I usually make the effort. Mostly it’s for Bo, who never misses—she worries about him. And it’s for Camille, who rarely comes anymore. But the timeslot never changes, and the front door is always open if my sister can manage to stand up to the scumbag she’s married to. Of course, it’s for me, too, because having a daughter in love with a soldier serving in hell is always a concern. Happily, today I could report my Derek was alive and well and, according to the pic attached to the email I’d gotten in the middle of the night, winning a bundle playing cards with his buddies. Before he was deployed in March, Derek had become a regular at Sunday dinner. My parents adored him.
I’d invited Ivy Talbot again today, not really expecting that she’d be interested in joining us. She’d declined last week, but this morning she’d surprised me and accepted. Of course, I’d assured her that she could leave anytime she wanted—she could drive my car home if it came to that, and Dad could drive Bo and me back to Lullaby’s.
“There won’t be any fireworks, Ivy,” Bo promised from the backseat. “Camille won’t be there.”
Ivy looked perplexed. “Is she not invited? ”
“Oh, that’s not it,” I chimed. “Peter—her stellar hubs—just won’t allow it. It’s Sunday, after all, and Sundays are reserved for family—read: him .” I looked over at Ivy and rolled my eyes. “We’re not fans of Pete . He hates it when I call him that.”
“It goes both ways,” said Bo. “He can’t stand us either.”
“Shocking, I know,” I chuckled. “He’s a creep,” I said. “The only good Peter Diamond has managed to contribute to the world at large would be his adorable daughters.”
“So, is it a bad marriage or real bad marriage?” Ivy asked.
I glanced at Bo through the rearview mirror, then over at Ivy. “He’s awful, and my sister has never been the same since she married him,” I said.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Ivy.
“And the girls have become small pawns in their parents’ domestic nightmare,” Bo added.
“Yep,” I nodded. “And it’s killing my mom and dad.”
“Oh, my goodness! I’m so sorry,” Ivy said again. “Are you sure I should be coming? This sounds like serious family stuff. I feel like I might be intruding.”
I looked at her. I’d known Ivy Talbot less than two weeks, and every day she was just such a nice surprise. “It won’t be serious unless Camille shows up, which she won’t,” I said again. “And my parents are thrilled that you’re coming—you met them at my exhibition, remember?” I said, turning onto their street.
“I do. They were nice.”
My dad was watering the hibiscus in the front yard when we pulled up, and he greeted us with a wave and a smile. He was the older version of Bo—same height and build, wiry with the same untamed hair but shorter than Bo’s, and lots of silver. When we got out of the car, Dad pulled Bo close with gusto, and my brother embraced him the same way. Bo was my dad’s pride and heartache. “You look good, Benjamin. I hope you brought your sketches.”
“Of course. We’ll look at them later, Dad,” my brother assured .
After my father hugged me and teased that I looked fresh from a Grateful Dead concert—high praise for a girl like me—he turned to Ivy. “Dad,” I said. “You remember my friend, Ivy Talbot—from my exhibition? Ivy, this is my dad, Jack Sutton.”
“Hello, sir,” Ivy said stiffly, extending her hand. Of course, Dad pushed it away. “We’re huggers around here,” he laughed. “So, brace yourself, Miss Ivy.” Then he swallowed her up. When Ivy didn’t seem to mind, it struck me that she could probably use a few more hugs in her life. When my dad released her, she was smiling.
Mom was in the backyard setting the picnic table, and she too got smiley when she saw us. She was wearing a linen dress, no shoes, and a big straw hat. “Well, hello there, strangers,” she sang out. She too pulled Bo into her arms, which evidenced her ever-present concern for him. I’d given her a blow-by-blow of his recent panic attack and suffered a minor scolding for not calling her sooner. She eyed me now for an update. My smile said he was fine. She took hold of his face—a feat only she could get away with—and tugged it close to hers. “You look good, sweetheart. Are you?”
“I’m good, Mom. I am,” Bo said.
She hugged him again and looked at me over his shoulder. I nodded, reiterating that he was fine. My brother wasn’t as fragile as my parents feared. Yes, he was seriously obsessive. Yes, he was mildly agoraphobic. Yes, the meds he refused to take regularly would help, but he knew his limits. Yes, his germaphobia could be a pain in the butt. But there were worse things than being a human Mr. Clean. And all things considered, him spending the summer with me at Lully’s house was working out better than I’d hoped.
“Mom, you remember Ivy?”
“I do! How could I forget that hair?” my mother said, taking Ivy’s hands. “Welcome to our home.” She pulled her close, and I heard her say into Ivy’s ear. “I understand you were phenomenal with my son last week. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Oh, well…I was happy to help,” Ivy said .
My mother patted her face—Mom was very touchy-feely where faces were concerned—and hair, apparently. “You’re a doll,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Dinner was salmon grilled on cedar planks, except for Bo’s which was double-washed, sprinkled with extra virgin olive oil, and hermetically sealed in foil. Wood? Do you know what wood is exposed to? It’s nature’s petri dish! There was also Parmesan risotto, fresh baked rolls, summer salad, and fresh-squeezed lemonade.
We had just settled around the table when my nieces came screaming through the backyard. Camille, looking harried, showed up right behind them, wearing the biggest sunglasses known to man. I was so surprised to see her that I dropped my roll.