Best Seat in the House
Jason: Checking in.
Jon: We miss you.
Amanda: Do you need a hug?
Patrick: It’s been a week.
Patrick: Last stop for the pity train.
Patrick: Come visit.
Chris: Bear dinner?
Tyler: You can’t ignore us forever.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
For the last week, I acted as if I were in mourning. I worked from the couch in my underwear, ordered delivery, and hid under the blankets. The days blurred together while I waited for the sense of liberation to set in. Instead, between the cookies and wine, sadness became my silent roommate.
My fingers tightened around the handle of my suitcase.
I focused on the cold plastic and tempered the desire to flee.
The red paint on the door flaked. It had been years since it had seen a fresh coat.
Even as I heard the familiar thumping from inside, I debated if I had enough time to reach the car.
I could ignore the well-meaning texts, but once the door opened, there’d be no going back.
I straightened my t-shirt, and ran a hand through my short hair.
The door opened. Gasps.
“Michael.”
Rose’s signature white hair and knitted sweater moved with a speed that defied her age. Arms wrapped around my stomach as she pressed her cheek against my chest. Her hands clasped behind my back, giving her leverage to squeeze tighter. I returned the hug as a man appeared.
“Mike.”
The sunlight caught the bald spot on Edward’s head.
I expected a handshake or a silent nod, but he closed the gap and joined in the hug.
They couldn’t have known what had happened, but it didn’t matter.
Their love came without conditions. In two words, they thrust me into the spotlight.
As I traced the many people in my life, most saw me as Mabel.
These two had known me long before I wore my first pair of heels.
“Grammy, I’ve missed you.”
“What am I?” Edward’s head shot up. “Chopped liver?”
“You too, Sarge.”
The smile on his face drowned out my insecurities.
Grammy repositioned herself, an arm around each of us.
She wiggled, a squeal escaping her lips.
Her jig continued as she pulled us together.
I had spiraled, descending into a dark cave, and it was time to admit I needed help.
Of all my memories, none brought a smile to my face faster than Grammy and Sarge. Their light chased away the shadows.
“Wait.” Grammy stepped back. “Are you Anita Cox?” As she said it out loud, her hands shot up over her mouth. “Michael! You’re a bad boy.”
I had used a pseudonym when I signed up for their Airbnb. I had hemmed and hawed until the last minute. Until my knuckles had rapped on the door, I still had the option to run away. Another hug from Rose pushed away my anxiety. She was too darned adorable to resist.
“You must have smelled the pie.”
“Blueberry,” Edward added.
“Of course,” she said, giving me a gentle smack on the shoulder. “It’s implied.”
He shooed my hand from my suitcase, taking it inside.
Rose took my hand, dragging me down the hallway.
I didn’t have time to admire the photographs or the new afghan on the living room couch.
She refused to relent, proving that even a tiny woman packed a punch.
We reached the kitchen, the same blue linoleum on the floor I remembered from my teen years.
They had gotten a new fridge, but the oven could easily be as old as me.
Above the farm sink, a giant wooden fork and spoon still hung without a lick of dust.
Every imperfection told a story. It all came back to a single-word summary.
Home. Rose and Edward had lived in Firefly for as long as I could remember.
It wasn’t the house that made it inviting, or even the warmth of blueberries permeating the air.
The smile on her face as she pulled out a chair and the subtle glance saying, ‘sit, or else,’ filled it with love.
In a choreographed dance, she moved the pie from the stovetop to the counter just as Edward appeared, pulling out his chair.
“Make that two slices,” he said.
“Insufferable,” she mumbled.
He shot me a fast wink, but held his tongue.
I tried going down memory lane and recalling the last time I tasted her pie.
I couldn’t, not as Edward pulled up his chair to the table, licking his lips at the impending taste of Grammy King’s famous recipe.
He acted as if he hadn’t tasted it every week for the last forty years.
I’d never know if he did it for the taste or to validate her love of baking.
No matter how I navigated their relationship, I came back to the epitome of love.
“If I had known you were coming, I’d have gotten the good plates.”
I noted the subtle scolding as she set three plates filled with oversized slices of pie. The smell alone explained why Edward had a growing belly. Staying here, not even Spanx would undo the damage to my waistline. I walked in a curvy man, and I’d leave voluptuous.
“No good plates for Anita?” I asked.
Rose already had a fork covered in dripping berries. “Would you prefer paper?”
Paper plates. I had never heard Rose say a mean word about another person. Downgrading me from porcelain to paper was about as vicious as she could get. I’d have been hurt if it didn’t come with a smile beaming from ear to ear.
Edward wasted no time shoving pie into his mouth.
Before he finished the first bite, he started another.
He’d get to the end before Rose, and then he’d give puppy-dog eyes until she allowed him another small slice.
Despite the extra lines around his eyes and his thinning hair, he hadn’t changed.
Right now, I wanted to drown in their predictability and savor every gentle jab they tossed at one another.
“Are you reading to the kids?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“Volunteering with the school play?”
I stuffed pie in my mouth, buying time before I needed to speak. I stared at the white plate and the growing purple stain. Hand-picked blueberries. Only hand-picked. Rose swore she could taste the difference. When I looked up, her white eyebrow rose above her glasses.
“Another seance?”
“Technically a cleansing,” I said.
“Bingo?”
She knew every activity in town where Mabel made a grand appearance. Hearing them rattled off, I realized I spent far too much time in Firefly. They didn’t just welcome me and my over-the-top personality; they embraced it.
“Michael.” One word. The voice. Mabel wasn’t the only queen who reigned supreme over her domain. “I’m glad you’re here, but why are you here?”
“The boy came alone,” Edward said. My jaw must have dropped at the comment. He smirked. “Luggage feels a little light for two of you.”
Just like that, my decision had come front and center.
For years I hid behind Mabel, letting her take center stage.
In this farmhouse, there had never been a distinction between the two.
In every other space, I felt a division between myself and Mabel.
Here, they loved Mabel, but she remained my alter ego.
I couldn’t quite put into words how much I needed that right now.
“Forty,” I scoffed before meeting her eyes. “My life needs a change. I just don’t know what it is. Yet.”
Every fork scooped up another mouthful of pie.
Anybody else would have pushed or attempted to smooth over the roughness.
Rose and Edward weren’t strangers to hard times.
Mainers faced hardship like it were a winter storm, bundled up and ready to show Mother Nature who’s boss.
Instead of testing boundaries, they respected them.
The clank of forks and quiet chewing were the only response that mattered.
Love existed in the silence just as much as it did in the brown, flaky crust of Rose’s pie.
“Not too much space,” Edward said. “You know what they say?”
Firefly had a way of giving us what we needed.
It had become the town’s mantra. After seeing it in action with Patrick, part of me hoped it could do the same for me.
Unfortunately, I didn’t think it ever encountered a problem covered in this much glitter.
Even if the town couldn’t help, I couldn’t think of two better people at my side while I figured out how I reclaimed my life.
Right now, I needed people who understood the man behind the performer.
The final bite vanished from Edward’s plate. Before the fork clanked against the empty plate, the puppy-dog eyes and fluttering lashes started. When that didn’t prompt Rose to cut another slice, I joined in.
“I can’t with the two of you.”
But reaching for the blueberry pie, she did.
Mike: I’m wearing pants. What more do you want?
Patrick: That’s not the bragging point you think it is.
Mike: They’re clean, too!
Patrick: Not helping.
A night with Rose and Edward had done wonders.
She had pulled out the family photo album, highlighting the first time she found me wearing her pumps.
Cuddling on the couch, she turned the pages as she narrated my teen years.
At some point, we reached a spot where the photos of me grew few and far between.
The newspaper clippings and photos of Mabel, however, were plentiful.
If I stared long enough, I could almost see where I had vanished.
But I couldn’t live on blueberry pie alone.
I walked down the street toward Firefly’s center, decked out in my favorite Canadian tuxedo.
It must have been the extra helping of pie that made it snug around the belly.
Rose must have sensed my determination to sulk when she shooed me out the door and told me to grab lunch at Bistro on Maine.
With every step, I risked bumping into one of the bears and needing to explain my presence, but as my stomach growled, I didn’t have another option.
“You can do it,” I whispered.