Chapter Eight #2
Her father squeezes her hand, and Diana looks down at their intertwined fingers.
She examines the dark, wiry hair on his thumb, the callus on his pointer finger, the faded scar along his wrist from the time he tried to repair a broken drainpipe.
Has she ever noticed the story he carries on his strong fingers and the cracked skin over his knuckles?
Could she conjure Tom’s hands if she tried?
She searches for his hands in her memory.
They are out of reach, gone with the rest of him.
On the other side of the room, Andrea and Evan whisper to one another, their heads bent over Evan’s phone.
Evan points to the screen, and Andrea giggles.
He kisses her, his hand against her cheek.
When they break apart, Andrea meets Diana’s eyes, and her smile disappears, guilt seeping into that moment of affection.
Diana tilts her head to the side, as if to say, “Go ahead, love him in front of me—it hurts, but this is my life,” and after a beat, she turns away.
The General carries in the lasagna, and the tangy scent of her homemade sauce spreads throughout the room. The children trail behind her like brand-new chicks clucking after their mother hen, each holding an item for the meal.
“Thank you for this,” Diana says, hoping her gratitude makes up for her earlier comment. “I appreciate it all.”
“I’m happy to take care of it all, sweetheart.” Vivian puts the lasagna on the trivet and helps the children add their contributions to the table. “Shall we eat?”
“We’re waiting for our ma?tre d’ to tell us where to sit.” Andrea gestures to Phoebe. “Mademoiselle? What would you like to do?”
Phoebe directs each family member to a chair, pausing at the seat next to her grandfather. “That’s Daddy’s seat, isn’t it, Mama?”
Diana, with one blink, sees dozens, hundreds of meals at this table with Tom in that chair.
She read somewhere grief isn’t a straight line; there is no step one, two, three.
Rather, it jumps around, remaining dormant for a time and then unexpectedly rearing up to cut at the heart, jagged and deep.
Like now, at the start of Family Dinner.
Diana’s family listens for her response, though they’re pretending to be busy settling into their seats, pouring water, and filling wineglasses. She expects her mother and sister are readying follow-up comments in the event her words are insufficient.
“Phoebe,” Diana says softly, “that was Daddy’s chair for Family Dinner. He wouldn’t want it to be empty forever. He’d want it to be yours. How does that sound?”
Phoebe nods and sits down, her mouth already stuffed with garlic bread. Vivian and Andrea relax, mirroring each other in the swift shift of their attention away from Diana and Phoebe and toward the meal before them.
Diana slumps into her chair. She can’t follow the conversations that race around the table, so she focuses on her plate of food, relieved her family is too busy eating to ask how she is.
What Else Did Tom Lie About? That’s a list she’s resisted until now, too afraid to let the words join together.
All those nights he stayed late at the office. What if he wasn’t working?
Those law conferences he attended. Was that what they really were?
He didn’t ever want to talk about the past or share stories from his childhood. Why not?
He only brought me home to Hamilton once. Why?
Her father interrupts her list-making. “Are you with us, Diana?”
“What?” Everyone at the table stares at her, forks poised over their plates. Only Noah keeps munching, sauce streaked across his cheek.
“I asked you to pass the salad, sweetheart. Two times. You were miles away. Everything okay?”
“Of course.” Diana hands him the hefty wooden bowl. “Here you go, Dad.”
“Thank you,” Francis says, as he piles greens onto his plate.
“Evan and I are making progress on the radiator. We bled it and cleaned out some sludge built up inside. Next, we’re going to turn off the heat and turn it back on again.
If that doesn’t fix it, we may need some outside help, I’m sorry to say. ”
Her father and brother-in-law keep Diana’s house in working order, like it’s an Olympic sport.
One or both of them stops by each week to check on the boiler or the HVAC system.
They wash her car, put air in the tires of the kids’ bicycles, and clear snow from the roof.
They do their best to fill the gap Tom left.
“Thanks for trying,” Diana says, biting into the lasagna. Her mother gave her an end piece, her favorite, and the top cheesy layer is crunchy from the broiler and spiked with a welcome kick of oregano.
As Noah begins an involved story about a game he and his friends play during recess, Diana studies her parents.
They’ve aged over the past year. The lines on either side of her father’s mouth are more pronounced, and his hair has turned completely white.
While he works part-time at a real estate firm in town, helping longtime clients sell the homes they raised their families in as they retire to Florida or move into assisted living, her mother has fully stepped back from teaching elementary school.
Vivian has embraced days filled with exercise classes at Alcott’s senior center and meetings of the Garden Club.
What would their lives have been like if Tom hadn’t died?
Vivian has long wanted to visit the lavender fields of Provence; Francis talked about getting a place on the Cape.
They put their plans on hold to look after their widowed daughter and grandchildren.
When will they be able to live the lives they’ve imagined for themselves?
“Phoebe, you’re up,” Francis says. “What do you have to share?”
“We found the time capsule,” she says, nearly shouting.
“Time capsule?” The General asks, looking at Diana for clarification. Diana busies herself with the last remaining shreds of arugula on her plate.
“We opened a Leap Day time capsule,” Phoebe continues. “It’s full of photos, newspapers, one of my drawings, and Duncan’s homework. Stuff like that.”
Duncan remains silent, looking at Diana with a blank stare. He’s promised to keep the letter’s contents to himself, and this is his first real test.
“There was a letter for Mommy from Daddy in it, too,” Phoebe adds.
The noise in the room stops. Diana can practically see Andrea holding her breath for what comes next.
“It was a love letter,” Diana lies.
Perhaps this cancer is the universe fixing my wrongs. If it is, I understand, though I wish leaving you was not the debt I had to pay.
“That’s remarkable,” her mother says, and the room exhales. “And surprising, I would imagine.”
“Very,” Diana says.
Duncan drops his napkin onto his plate. “Grandma, can I be excused?”
Diana notices the slight: asking her mother for permission to leave the table, not her. She lets it go. Tonight is not the night to criticize her son.
“Me too!” shouts Noah.
“Clear your dishes first, please,” The General orders.
The room fills with the clatter of silverware and plates.
The children, freed from table manners and supervision, disappear, promising to come back for dessert.
Francis returns to the stubborn heater for another attempt at a fix.
“The garlic bread gave me an idea,” he says.
Evan trails behind him, trying to hide his grin.
Diana remains at the table, finishing her wine and handing empty glasses to Andrea to bring into the kitchen.
“You didn’t tell me about the letter,” Andrea says on her third trip back to the table, the lasagna pan in her arms. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“It’s what you would expect of a letter like that.” Diana clears crumbs from the tablecloth. “We can’t let Mom do the dishes alone. We won’t hear the end of it.” She stands up to blow out the candles and pick up the last of the plates. “I’ll get the rest of this.”
“Just don’t finish the wine,” Andrea says, laughing. “I’m off tomorrow and could really use another glass.”
When she’s alone in the room, Diana realizes she’s trembling. She’s never deliberately deceived her family before—“You’re our open book,” her father always says—and she’s disturbed by how easy it is to hide things from them. She wonders if it was easy for Tom, too.