Chapter 47
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
PRESENT DAY
Margie’s house is dark and quiet when I arrive.
It’s weird being here now, this place so full of happy memories, when at this moment I feel only sadness.
My eyes find the pair of wide steps leading from the living room to the kitchen.
When we were little, the boys and I would launch ourselves off them, trying to see who could jump the farthest. Now, there’s a dark stain at their base where someone—Mom, I’m guessing—tried to clean up the blood after Margie’s fall.
It makes the space under my ribs feel hollow. Strange.
This house is nearly a carbon copy of ours, though the decor is all different and everything smells like Margie in a way I can’t explain. Not bad and not of anything in particular, just…it smells like her. Them.
The versions of them I hold onto so tightly.
I pass Will and Cory’s childhood bedroom and almost stop. There’s this new temptation to snoop that twists through my brain like a worm. I’ve seen their bedroom a million times, but today I’d be seeing it with new, curious eyes.
I don’t have time, though.
And even if I did, Margie—like Mom—has probably already cleared most of the boys’ stuff out. I think Mom mentioned before she’d turned it into a room for Richie when he stays over, so I’m imagining a little race car bed and blue walls.
Is he too big for that stuff now?
I really don’t know. Despite spending my day with kids, it’s hard to picture them outside the classroom. I’m not sure what that says about me.
Down the hall in Margie’s bedroom, her favorite old cardigan is draped at the end of the bed. It’s tan and worn thin and it has a hole in the sleeve, but she wears it nearly every day and has for as long as I’ve known her. If anything will bring her comfort, it’s this. I toss it over my arm.
Then I grab a throw blanket from her closet and a framed photo of her and the boys.
Back in the kitchen, I search under the sink for one of Margie’s many reusable bags and find the one that looks the newest. I carefully place the blanket, cardigan, and photo inside.
As I’m crossing the room to leave, I spot the shelves of photo albums. There are several, but two I recognize right away.
One from when Margie was growing up and one of life after college.
I’ve looked through the after-college album so many times to find photos of Mom, Margie, and Ruth—arms wrapped around each other the day they bought this land, sitting next to each other at holiday dinners, hanging out on one of the porches, looking sleepy with mugs of tea in hand, crafting.
And then there are the photos of the three of us kids playing together—mud-covered and running across the yard, faces squished into goggles in one of the many blow-up pools we had over the years, riding our bikes down the road.
If it were me on that bed, this would be the book I’d want, so I grab it and shove it into the bag, too.
Then, I make it to the hospital as quickly as I can. By the time I arrive, the boys have already been taken back.
I missed him.
Mom says they’re going to let them stay in the room this time. The doctors think it’ll be good for Margie to hear their voices, for them to hold her hands and keep her calm while they try to wake her.
The process will take hours, and if she’s unable to breathe on her own for that time, she’ll be put back under, and we’ll start this whole thing over again tomorrow.
I want to ask Mom so much—about everything she told us last night, about how she’s feeling, whether there’s anything I can do. But I learned to draw my emotionally reserved lines from the best, so instead, I pull the photo album from the bag and begin to flip through it.
Mom notices what I’m doing and eventually stops her pacing to join me. I remember a time when I was little, when she became obsessed with getting at least ten thousand steps a day. I’d imagine she’s getting that number in just a few hours every time we’re here.
One of the first photos is of Margie sitting on the end of Mom’s hospital bed.
Mom’s in labor, and Margie’s holding a nearly two-week-old Will—ready to meet me—while a young Cory lingers nearby, scraping the last bit of frosting out of his pack of Dunkaroos.
Ruth is the one behind the camera—I can tell because her fingers always managed to blur the corner of any photo she took.
In another taken the same day, Margie holds Mom’s hand in one fist, a Polaroid camera in the other, looking at someone out of the frame, mid-laugh.
“Margie flirted with the anesthesiologist my whole labor,” Mom says wistfully. “She’ll swear she didn’t, but she did.”
It’s funny to see us there, where it all began. Though I guess it began well before we came along, didn’t it? When the moms met and decided to raise us together.
I don’t know much about Will’s or Cory’s dad. I know they were different men, and neither ever wanted to be involved. I don’t think the boys even know their names.
“Oh, I remember that day,” Mom says softly, tracing a finger over a photo of several lawn chairs spread out across our patchy grass.
There’s a grill near the edge, manned by Ruth.
It’s late spring, a few months after Will and I were born, so Cory was still four here, running around in nothing but striped, navy shorts and a sun hat.
Next to Margie, Will and I have been placed inside a laundry basket piled high with faded beach towels.
Will is fast asleep, and I’m turned in the opposite direction, wide awake and looking furious—driving each other mad from day one.
“Ruth burned the burgers,” I recall. I’ve heard this story before.
“She sure did,” Mom says, like she’s just remembering herself. “We tried to eat them, but god, they were bad. Couldn’t even give ’em to the dog she had at that time. What was his name?”
“Scooby, wasn’t it? Cory named him.”
Mom bobs her head. “That’s right.”
I turn the page, and the next photo that catches my eye is one of the women dressed in denim and cowgirl boots. Ruth has glitter smeared across her eyelids and is wearing a sparkly pink top. Mom and Margie have matching pigtails with hot pink tinsel.
“We went to see Shania Twain that night,” Mom says with a soft laugh. “Margie nearly got us kicked out trying to climb on Ruth’s shoulders.”
I can just imagine them—mid-twenties, screaming the words to “Man! I Feel Like a Woman” before coming home to pay the babysitter. It makes me nostalgic for a period of time I can’t remember. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen my mom look so carefree.
There are photos of the three of us as kids running through the sprinkler, Will crying because Cory shoved him down, every combination of our moms throughout the day—Ruth and Margie, Mom and Ruth, Margie and Mom—holding beach towels in the background, lost in conversation.
I can almost hear it—the happy shrieks, the steady stream of water, the dull thrum of our mothers’ laughter.
On the next page, it’s Halloween, and we’re standing on Ruth’s porch. She was always the one who decorated for Halloween, her favorite holiday.
I’m dressed in a homemade bumblebee costume, the stripes a little crooked. Will’s wearing a hand-me-down Superman costume, and Cory’s brown cowboy hat leans too far to the side.
There are two pages of one of our many lake trips.
Mom in cutoff shorts, legs dangling over the water.
Ruth squinting into the sun. Me lying between Margie and Ruth, trying to sunbathe in my little one-piece and straw hat.
Will standing next to Mom, holding the tiniest fish on a little string. Margie mid-cannonball.
With the turn of a few more pages, I reach a group of first day of school photos—Kindergarten for Will and me.
We’re all wearing oversized backpacks and our newest clothes, hair freshly trimmed.
I remember those bangs and how Will teased me over them for the longest time.
Cory is scowling, older, wiser, and annoyed.
In one photo, Mom adjusts the collar of my little plaid dress and, in another, she ties Will’s shoes.
I remember those. They lit up when he ran.
“You guys missed the bus that day,” Mom says, so softly it’s almost a whisper. “Ruth kept insisting on more pictures. You’d think we were sending you off to war the way we all cried.”
More photos—ones with the kitchen table scattered with homework and snacks. Our mismatched glasses are filled with iced tea, and I can’t help smiling when I realize in one, I’m deep in concentration on my handwriting practice while Will, hidden behind his I Can Read book, watches me.
There’s one of Margie smoking on the back porch. I’d forgotten she used to smoke.
There are snow days—snowball fights, the moms snuggled in blankets on the porch, and the three of us running around in snowsuits that made it nearly impossible to walk.
I can still hear the swish-swish of that material.
Margie building one of her famous snow thrones.
Me making a snow angel. The laughter lighting Mom’s face when Ruth tried to microwave our mittens to dry them and nearly caused a fire.
There are a few photos from a garage sale I don’t remember. In one, Mom wears oversized sunglasses at the table next to Ruth. In another, Margie is scribbling “Everything Must Go” on a sign while Ruth haggles with an old woman in a green visor.
“I think we made fourteen dollars that day. Spent twenty that night on margaritas and snacks to watch Practical Magic,” Mom tells me, laughter in her tone.
Then, “Oh!” Her face lights up, tapping a finger against a photo of the three of them gathered around a table littered with books and wine.
“That was when Margie decided we needed to start a book club. It didn’t last more than a month or two.
We could never decide on what to read. Margie wanted romance.
Ruth wanted apocalyptic thrillers. I needed a dragon or two.
” In the photo, Ruth is laughing so hard she’s crying while the books between them sit closed.