Mom calls to say my older brother has divorced his wife of twelve years to marry a girl fifteen years younger than him. “Her name’s Greta,” she says. “She still has her baby teeth.”

It’s been a few weeks since I talked to anybody other than my landlord or the cashier at Stop n’ Save. I assume Mom is making a joke. Maybe she’s gotten mean since Dad died. Maybe it’s her new thing. Or maybe it means I don’t understand jokes anymore. All I can imagine is a grown woman with a mouth crammed full of tiny teeth.

Dozens of them.

“How does that work?” I ask. “Does she eat real food?”

“No, no,” Mom says, “they’re on a necklace. She wears them.”

“Is Nick having a breakdown?”

“My travel agent says it’s a trend.”

“For middle aged men to marry teenagers?”

“The parents,” she says, “turning baby teeth into jewelry.”

The wedding’s Labor Day weekend in Maine. Mom asks me to fly out with her Friday morning. She offers to pay for the travel, and Nick will cover our rooms. This is convenient as I’ve been unemployed since Dad died. I haven’t paid rent since my boyfriend, Jeremy, moved out two months ago. Every time I carry wine home from Stop n’ Save, I expect to find the locks changed. My landlord follows me when I take out the trash. She says she understands grief and loss and breakups—but she has bills to pay, too. She hasn’t had it easy: two dead husbands, three struggling kids, failed careers, a bad hip. “Life is long,” she says, “you figure it out.”

Some days, when she follows me down the driveway to the sidewalk, what I really want to do is hug her. Wrap my arms around her slender shoulders, nuzzle my face into her silver bob, breathe in her tobacco-scented cardigan. But, of course, I don’t.

***

I pretend I’m packing for good. I take everything I absolutely need in case I never return. It’s not much. Enough to fit into one of Jeremy’s old duffle bags. Most of my clothes no longer fit. Jeremy took all the good kitchen equipment when he moved into his new place. The day he left, I asked if he really needed both crepe pans and he said, “The thing is, Cass, I have to prioritize my own mental health,” and since I didn’t want to hear the whole thing about ‘airplanes and oxygen masks’ again, all I said was, “I know, I know, but do you need both of them?”

Friday morning, the shuttle arrives. I take one last look at the duplex, as if it will be gone when I return. I climb inside the van and Mom hands me a glossy blue envelope stuffed with printed tickets.

“My travel agent made the arrangements,” she says, holding a print out of an email listing gates, connecting flights, food court recommendations, and rental car information.

Mom treats this like a girls’ getaway. She wears strappy four-inch heels and carries a flashy silver handbag stuffed with fashion magazines. She’s lost weight since Dad died, but insists it’s because of keto and spinning. She’s dyed her hair a deep shade of romance-novel red. It makes her look both very young and very old at the same time.

At security, I hoist my duffle bag onto the conveyer belt while she unbuckles her strappy heels. The last time I traveled anywhere was when Jeremy and I flew to Chicago to visit his old friends from culinary school. We spent the entire weekend gorging ourselves on hot dogs, pizza, and small plates. The flight back was only forty-five minutes. We talked nonstop about other cities we should hit for good eats: Nashville, Miami, Las Vegas, New Orleans.

When it’s Mom’s turn to join me on the other side of the metal detector, the TSA officer has to give her a friendly nudge. “Just follow your sister,” he says, smiling.

Mom flies this high all the way to our layover in Newark. Right when I think it’s dissipated, some giggling German teenagers approach her in the food court. I sit at the table, sipping black coffee, watching her bounce up and down in her high heels. Delighted.

She struts back to me with her Caesar salad combo. “Cassie,” she says, as if she’s about to whisper a secret, “do you think I look like the lady from Boogie Nights?”

***

We fly from Newark to Portland, Maine. Mom’s travel agent has arranged for us to rent a car at the airport. As Mom fills out the paperwork, I slip outside for a cigarette. I don’t say where I’m going. Everybody knows it’s not a good look to smoke four months after your dad dies from lung cancer.

When I return, Mom is still at the counter, clutching a pen. Beside her, a college-aged blonde in pink sweats is throwing a tantrum. Shrilling, stomping feet, rapping her hand against the counter.

“They’re Mickey Mouse ears,” she says, drawing her fingers from her forehead to her temples in big loops.

“I’m sorry, Miss,” the agent says. “If they turn up, we’ll contact you.”

Mom stands calmly, radiating patience. The form is filled out and signed.

“Hey,” I say, squeezing past her, “can we just get our car now?”

The girl tears up. “But I need my keys,” she says. “They’re for my house, my job. My library card.”

“Miss,” the agent says, “I’ll write a report. But I have to help these customers—”

“Oh, no, no,” Mom says, waving the pen. “Help her first, dear. We have time.”

***

Eventually, we get on the road. Mom drives at a slow clip, claiming we’re ahead of schedule (her travel agent built extra time into our itinerary). I sit in the passenger seat, the window rolled down, and flick my fingers in the salty breeze. The last time I saw an ocean was when I went to Nick’s first wedding in California. I had just turned eighteen, so Nick was about twenty-three, twenty-four. He got a job right out of college designing video games for an educational technology company. His wife, Sabrina, must have come from money, because the ceremony and reception were at a fancy hotel on the ocean in Newport Beach. Part of me thought I might meet the love of my life—some sun-kissed California surfer boy—but instead I clung close to Mom and Dad the whole time. I think the only time I talked to Nick was when he asked us to take a picture with Sabrina’s family. The whole time I stood there—sucking in my stomach, waiting to smile—I wondered how Nick was able to do this so easily. How he could go from radish fields to oceanside resorts?

The Atlantic looks darker than the Pacific, deeper somehow. Mom keeps her eyes on the road but every once in a while, I catch her lips quirking as if she’s quietly telling Dad a joke. It’s probably worth mentioning Dad was twenty-years older than Mom. When they first married, she was nineteen and he was almost forty. Their age difference never felt weird when I was little—they were both grown-ups to me. Now that he’s gone, I think about this all the time—all the years she has left without him.

***

We arrive at the resort, a cheap string of cottages around a tiny lake. A weather worn sign stands at the drive: The Bluebell Inn, est. 1948. The tires of the rental car creak over gravel and dirt. Mom flips her sunglasses to the top of her head. “How charming,” she says. “It’s like something from a movie.”

“Like a horror movie?” I say dryly.

“Cassie,” she says, tsking. “Why do you always look for the dark?”

We park outside a white and blue trimmed lodge. Birch trees line the paths. Beyond them, the water reflects the clear sky. I want another cigarette but I decide to hold off until I’m alone. As we head into a lobby decorated with handmade quilts and canoe paddles, I recognize some of Nick’s college friends from his first wedding—all grown up in pastel polos and golf shorts. They sit around an unlit fireplace, talking. A few of their heads raise as Mom clicks across the hardwood in her high heels and I can’t figure out if it’s because they’re checking her out or flabbergasted by her desperate attempt at youth. On the other side of the hallway, actual teenage girls rush down the steps in bikini tops and jean shorts, all with baby blue towels thrown over their arms.

The desk clerk is about the same age as Mom but actually looks it: gray hair, blue eyeshadow, drooped chin. An old fashioned bell painted blue and white rests on a plate beside a sign: Ring for Friendly Service!

            Mom reaches for it and I smack her hand. It’s the first time she’s glared at me all day.

“People hate that stuff,” I say.

Mom ignores me and steps closer to the desk. A moment later, her brilliant smile returns.

“Hi,” the clerk says to both of us, but only looking at Mom. “Welcome to The Bluebell.”

“Hello, dear,” Mom says, because she calls everyone “dear,” even those the same age as her. “We’re here for the wedding. I’m Helen Comiskey and this is my daughter Cassie.”

The clerk taps a keyboard connected to an ancient looking PC. Then she reaches under the desk and slides two keys across the counter, both dangling from plastic diamonds that read 204. “It’s overlooks the lake,” she says. “Lots of morning light.”

Mom takes hers but I leave mine. “There should be two rooms,” I say. “Different ones.”

“There’s only one reservation,” the clerk says.

“We need two rooms,” I say.

Mom shifts her handbag onto the counter, shoving the bell aside. It chimes, casting a sad trill through the lobby. Mom roots through her handbag, past her fashion magazines, and removes a slim, green pocketbook.

“I’ll pay for the extra room myself,” she says. “How much is it?”

“I’m afraid we’re booked all weekend.”

I kick the bottom of the desk. “Fucking Nick,” I say. “He is so cheap.”

“He’s just being practical,” Mom says, maintaining her patient smile, the same one she had at the rental car stand. “We understand,” she says to the clerk. “Thanks so much for your help, dear.”

***

As we prepare for the rehearsal dinner, Mom sits on the edge of her bed—already made up and dressed—reading questions aloud from one of her magazines. I stand in the bathroom, applying my makeup. It’s been months since I got any sun and my foundation is about one shade too warm. It looks as if I’m smearing orange paint across my cheeks.

“If you were stuck on a deserted island,” Mom reads, “would you bring: A) your CD collection, B) your crates of vinyl, C) an iPod, or D) would you make your own music?”

“Mom, how old is that magazine?”

“I think I’d bring records,” she says, scratching her pen to the page.

“But it’s a desert island.”

“So D,” she says, scribbling with a smile. “You make your own music.”

I keep brushing eyeshadow across my lids and Mom keeps reading questions. Do I bring Epson salts or bubble bath? Leonardo DiCaprio or Tobey Maguire? Flip flops or Vans? I flick mascara on my lashes and wonder how long she’ll live. Another ten years? Twenty?

“C,” I say to Mom, no longer understanding my options.

She giggles. A genuine, actual giggle. “I picked Oasis, too,” she says, tapping her pen to the magazine.

***

If Jeremy and I were still together, he’d have an opinion about every detail at the rehearsal dinner. He’d mock the cheap chafing dishes. He’d call the appetizers “1980’s chic.” (Cucumber nubs filled with smoked salmon, puff pastry triangles with spinach dip, unripe cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto.) He’d say he liked the shrimp scampi, but then he’d lean close and whisper, “Why’d they have to ruin it with that sauce?”

The main crowd is clustered on a patio overlooking the lake. I follow Mom down the lawn, slightly worried she might nosedive in those heels. Near the dock, Nick stands with a petite, dark haired girl who looks exactly like his first wife, Sabrina.

“Oh god,” I hiss, clutching Mom’s wrist. “Is that Greta?”

“Yeah,” she says. “She’s small in person.”

“Mom, you didn’t say she was Sabrina’s teenage clone.”

“Cassie,” she says, choking back a laugh. Earlier, she might have chided me but now it’s okay. We can joke around. We have Oasis.

Briefly, this camaraderie reminds me of the year when she and Dad separated. I was about ten, so Nick was around fifteen. Dad lost so much money gambling he stopped paying the mortgage. By the time Mom found out, the foreclosure process had already begun. She moved Nick and I in with one of her aunts out in Oberlin. Nick kept himself busy with friends and swim practices, but all I had was Mom. At night, we would paint our nails at the kitchen table—something Dad never let her do. (He’d call it unsanitary.) At nine p.m., she’d bake brownies and we’d eat them straight out of the pan, still warm. (Another practice Dad would nix.) On weekends, we’d drive to shopping plazas in town with pizza places and video stores. The guys who worked them always had crushes on her. They’d flirt so much we’d have to find different shops each week. No matter what, Mom would always walk out with free cans of soda, breadsticks, boxes of candy, popcorn packets, extra new-releases. At the time, I’d envy her—knowing, even then, that I’d never grow up to be so beautiful and easy-going.

Nick waves to us at the rehearsal dinner and heads over. He looks more like Mom than I ever have. Same reddish brown hair, hazel eyes, high cheek bones, slender shoulders. He wears a blue button-down untucked over black slacks, sleeves rolled at his elbows. I search for evidence of his midlife crisis, whatever led him to divorce his age-appropriate wife and marry someone who can’t legally drink yet.

“Hey, Mom,” he says, opening an arm to squeeze her shoulders. Then he moves to me and taps his shoulder to my shoulder. Half a half-hug.

Greta’s almost a foot shorter than him. Dark haired with dark, thickly lashed eyes. A golden heart dangles from a simple chain around her neck. It’s big and gaudy, about the size of a silver dollar. It reminds me of the kind of jewelry the popular girls wore in middle school. Equal parts tacky and cutesy. Something is misshapen about it but I can’t quite make out what—and then I remember the baby teeth.

She smiles, showing completely normal adult-sized teeth. Straight, white, clean. “Hi, Mrs. Comiskey,” she says, opening her arms to Mom, “it’s so nice to meet in real life.”

“Call me Helen, dear.” Mom bends at her waist to hug her back. “Welcome to the family.”

“And this is my sister,” Nick says, “Cassie.”

Greta releases Mom and turns to me. “The one who makes the bread?”

Nick puts his arm around her and I think of the Cornish hens Jeremy used to bring home after fancy catering gigs. He said they were actually the same as regular chickens, they were just slaughtered younger.

“Yeah, I’m a baker,” I say, leaving out the unemployed part.

“I brought your blueberry bread into the office,” Nick says. “That’s what won her over.”

“It was so good,” Greta says, “I did not believe he made it.”

“Cassie writes good recipes,” Mom says. “They never fail.”

“Wait,” I say, “you work together?”

“Not anymore,” Nick says. “We did. She was a design intern.”

“I like video games,” Greta says, “but my real passion is vector painting.”

“An intern?” I say, about to laugh until I feel Mom pinch my hip. Hard.

“Are your parents here yet?” Mom asks, slyly dropping her hand from my waist. “I’d love to meet them.”

***

The evening stretches into night. I don’t eat, I only drink. We sit with Greta’s parents around the fire. They’re around Mom’s age, in their late fifties, early sixties. It occurs to me that Mom’s the reason people might assume Nick’s younger than he is. Greta’s brothers are even younger than her, in their early teens. Their mother explains how she saved all their baby teeth—which she calls “milk teeth.” She had them bronzed and turned into charms made by a local jewelry artist.

Most of this conversation makes me want to stand up and vomit in the lake, especially when Greta runs her thumb along the gaudy gold heart and says, “People never believe it when I tell them what it really is.”

I run my tongue along my gums, unable to recall what happened to any of my baby teeth. I can’t imagine a version of my life where Mom saved them. And, even if she had, they probably would have disappeared along with everything else from our first house.

I sit through boozy speeches given by Greta’s friends, cousins, and one sobbing aunt. Once it’s clear Nick is not having a breakdown, I wander from the rehearsal dinner to the parking lot. The sky is unbelievably dark, peppered with stars. I smoke cigarettes and wonder what it’d be like if Dad was here with his bald head and bushy nose hair and splintered cane.

When I return, the party has dwindled. Greta and most of her friends are still hanging around the fire while Nick sits with one of his college friends. The caterers have packed the bar up except the displays. I swipe a warm Labatt’s and a can of White Claw. As I curve around the patio to the back entrance, Nick leaves his friend and jogs over to me.

“Hey,” he says, “where’ve you been? I wanted to talk.”

The group around the fire erupts in laughter. It makes me feel old. It makes Nick look old. I think of Dad at the end and how he knew it was the end and asked Mom and I to tell everyone if they wanted to say goodbye, they better do it soon. The phone rang off the hook for two days straight, mostly with old army friends and guys from Gamblers Anonymous.

Nick was one of them, calling from California.

I set the beer on the arm of an Adirondack and crack into the hard-seltzer. It tastes like cherry-fluoride. Nick leans beside a pillar in the blue glow of a bug zapper, illuminating the deep lines beneath his eyes.

“What’s going on with you and Jeremy?” he asks. “Mom says you’re taking a break.”

“We broke up,” I say. “He moved out.”

“What happened?”

“He took both crepe pans.”

Nick flicks a mosquito from his cheek. “You can afford to live alone?”

I slug the White Claw. Nick and I have barely talked since the funeral. And this is what he cares about? “I don’t know,” I say. “I’ll probably move back in with Mom.”

“You talk to her about that yet?”

“She’d love it. It’d be nonstop girls’ night.”

“She told us she wants to sell the house. Move in somewhere smaller. Spend the extra money traveling.”

I sip the warm White Claw. Foam dribbles down my fingers, onto my chest. The girls around the fire burst into shrill laughter—sounding more like screams than giggles. Greta rises from her spot at the firepit and stumbles. Everybody laughs. I think of Aunt Stephanie’s radish fields and how, when we first arrived, it felt like it might not be that bad if Nick was stuck there too. Briefly, I wish we were back there. Feet sinking into the dirt, manure in the air. Not here. Not around all these people who are not having breakdowns.

Nick kicks himself off the pillar and heads in Greta’s direction. “You want my advice?” he says, walking backwards. “Work things out with Jeremy. Whatever it is, figure it out.”

He tramples back to the firepit with Greta, swooping an arm around her tipsy waist. I leave the empty White Claw on the patio and grab the Labatt’s.

***

Mom’s asleep when I return. The room smells like lemon Pledge and lavender lotion. Outside, it’s quiet, but an anxious hum stretches along the walls. I wonder what it’s like being someone like Nick who can divorce his wife, marry a woman almost half his age, and still think the solution for everybody else is to work things out. Part of me wants to call Jeremy, just to complain about Nick. He might not mind. He always said Nick was an obnoxious tech-bro with the personality of freeze-dried parsley. And it might be nice to talk, if only to tell him about the milk teeth.

I turn the cap of the Labatt’s and feel a sharp edge on my palm. It’s not a twist-off. If Jeremy was here, he’d make fun of me—and then take my Bic lighter to it. Pop it clean off.

I decide then that I won’t call.

I slip out of the room, hoping there’s still a bottle opener on the patio. Once I make it back down there, the fire pit is doused and all the guests have vanished. The bar is cleared and emptied—even the displays.

Soft waves creak against the dock.

I head to the lobby. A few lights are on, illuminating the front desk. The bell from earlier is also gone, yet the plate and sign remain. Ring for Friendly Service!

The office door swings opens and a dark haired man in his early-30’s walks out, dressed in a blue polo, shuffling a stack of papers. In another life, I’d think he was cute. In this one, I only want a warm beer.

“Hey,” he says. “What can I do for you?”

“You guys have a bottle opener?” I ask, glancing around.

He tosses the paperwork aside. “I got a key chain,” he says, removing a set clipped to his belt. “You here for the wedding?”

“Unfortunately.”

That gets a smile. His name tag reads, “Silas.” Dark eyed, five o’clock shadow, dimples. He pushes the unopened bottle against the back of the counter. “This is embarrassing,” he says, wincing. “I’m usually a pro at this.”

While he makes another attempt, I flick the Ring for Friendly Service! sign.  “You hide the bell at night?” I say. “Smart.”

“Actually,” he says, “someone nabbed it.”

“Someone stole your bell?”

“Probably one of these dumb college kids,” he says, shrugging. “Shit. I can’t get this.” He slides the bottle back to me and I feel the warmth from his hand around the label. “Hey,” he says, “maybe I can bust into the kitchen. See if they got one?”

“No, I’m fine,” I say quickly. It’s past midnight and I am the last guest pestering the front desk about a beer I stole from a display. I am that customer.

I take the bottle and flee up the stairs. In the room, Mom’s a lump in bed, snoring. I squeeze into the bathroom and sit on the toilet with the unopened beer. Mom’s handbag takes up half the counter.

One of the magazines pokes out. I reach for it. Cosmopolitan, October 2002. Katie Holmes on the cover. The subscription sticker on the bottom corner lists the name and address of mine and Nick’s old dentist in Elyria—Dr. Syzmanski—and I wonder how long Mom has been carting that around.

            As I flip through faded pages, it occurs to me she might have a bottle opener in there, too.

I remove her other magazines, pocketbook, and protein bars. She’s also got tinctures of essential oils, a slim romance novel with a crimson cover, a paperback about Harry Houdini, a small plush tiger, a spiked dog collar, a Shell name tag that reads: “Alicia,” a Jack Daniels themed deck of playing cards, a set of keys attached to pink Mickey Mouse ears, and the blue and white painted bell from the lobby.

I hold the Mickey Mouse ears, imagining the girl from the rental car stand, fingers looping.

I drop them on the bell, causing it to ring. Quickly, I grab its chime and hold it in place, waiting for its shell to quit vibrating.

Then, as quietly as I can, I put it all back and get into bed.

***

In the morning, I stay under the covers, waiting for Mom to finish showering and dressing. Intense, yellow light slashes through the cracks in the curtains, burning sunspots across the sheet over my head. After she leaves the room I sit up, still in my dress from the night before, reeking of the fire pit.

I take a shower, avoiding the handbag.

I brush my teeth, avoiding the handbag.

I rinse my face and dry my hands, avoiding the handbag.

I apply makeup, skipping the foundation, and change into the only other formal attire I own: a sleeveless black dress with a sky-blue cardigan. It’s the same one I wore to Dad’s funeral—but with a different sweater.

Mom returns with two coffees in paper cups. “They got continental breakfast,” she says. “You like it black, right?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Cassie,” she says, tsking at my cardigan, “you look like one of the caterers.”

“It’s all I have.”

“Maybe we can run to town—get something to jazz this up.”

I sip coffee and imagine Mom at the local Target, stuffing pink scarves and yellow frocks in her handbag. “I’m gonna walk down to the lake,” I say. “I need some exercise.”

“I’ll come with,” she says. “I had way too many of those spinach-puff thingies last night.”

She wears her oversized sunglasses and strappy, four-inch heels. I slip into my flats. We pass through the lobby. It’s the older woman working the desk. She’s taken the Ring for Friendly Service! sign away, leaving nothing on the counter except brochures.

We walk across the back patio to the lake trail. Three of Greta’s college friends are in pajama pants and shorts, crawling through the grass near the firepit. I wonder if they’re engaged in a silly sorority tradition. Plucking dandelions or wild flowers, maybe.

The sunlight shifts and Mom’s glasses reflect the blue sky. I want to ask about the bell and the Mickey Mouse keys and Dr. Syzmanski’s early-2000’s Cosmopolitans, but my throat closes up. I want to believe this is something Mom started after Dad died, a reaction formation—the same way I stopped going to work or leaving the house. However, I also remember things: how Dad occasionally snapped at her when we left gas stations and grocery stores. How, when we flew back from Nick’s first wedding in California, Mom filled our bathrooms with soaps and lotions from the hotel (more than had ever been in our suite). I think about the year of separation, how Mom always got free candy and rentals, how we hit new places every week. I think of how Dad—before he died—beckoned me close and said, “Take care of your Mom for me,” and how mad I was at the time, like, Dad, who is going to take care of me?

“It’s so pretty here,” Mom says cheerfully, as if she’s not carting around a handbag of secrets.

“Yeah,” I say, sipping my coffee. “I kind of want a cigarette.”

She nods slowly. “I noticed you were still smoking.”

“I’m still scared to do it around you.”

“Don’t be,” she says. “Your father never was.”

I take my cigarettes from my purse. Flick my lighter in the wind. Mom offers to hold my coffee for me, which only makes me feel more exposed. As I finally catch a light, a soul-sucking screech bellows across the shore.

The girls on the lawn throw their heads upright, hair caught in their faces. I jump. Mom stays still. Calm and cool.

Nick and Greta are fighting on the other side of the lawn. He’s in a white T-shirt and army-green board shorts, while Greta’s in one of his oversized Mercury Games t-shirts that hits her knees. Near them, Silas and his coworkers pound stakes into the ground for the reception tent. All are dressed in blue and khaki and, okay, Mom’s right. My cardigan is the same shade of blue as their uniforms.

Greta screeches again. Nick reaches out to her but she pushes him away. He wobbles backwards. We’re too far away to hear what they’re saying. Nick stands dumbstruck as she flails her arms and screams. Instinctually, I start to head to my brother, but Mom pinches my wrist, pulling me back.

“It’s between them,” she says.

I hit my cigarette then drop it in the grass, grinding it out with my shoe. The girls kneel on the lawn, also watching the fight. Greta’s parents jog across the yard, both in weekend wedding attire, cream and khaki.

“What are you doing?” Greta shouts. “Help me!”

“Greta,” Nick says, “you’re overreacting.”

“What is it? What is it, baby?” her mother says, rushing to her.

“It’s gone,” Greta says, gripping her chest. “My necklace is gone and no one will help me find it.”

“With your milk teeth?” her mother asks.

“It’s gone,” she says, sobbing, “I had it here last night. Right there.”

“Gretchen,” her father says, “why would you take it off?”

“This,” her mother says, “is why I told you to stay in the cottage.”

“And you’re sure you didn’t take it in the lake?” Nick asks.

“Nick, you aren’t fucking helping!” Greta says. “None of you are fucking helping!”

Silas swerves past them with a bundle of tent rods. Greta and her mother try to lift the metal casing of the firepit while Nick lingers in the grass, looking like someone who showed up to a party too early but is too afraid to leave. It’s only then I realize he’s not someone who gets what he wants.

This has been his crisis all along. He’s just like Mom. Better at blending.

We lock eyes across the lawn and it’s like we’re kids again, wandering around Aunt Stephanie’s radish fields, trying to make sense of a world where our parents could lose an entire house.

Greta never finds the necklace, but the wedding goes on. Everything happens as planned: the group photos, the cocktail hour, the speeches, the themed dances, the smashed cake. About ten years later, she and Nick will get divorced—and no one will be surprised. A few years after that, Mom will die on an Alaskan cruise. Heart attack in her sleep. Her travel agent will call me with the news, and I’ll be the one who has to call Nick. After the funeral, we’ll sort through her storage unit in Oberlin together. We’ll find so many things: other people’s Mother’s Day cards, the entire Chronicles of Narnia series, a vintage Tiffany lamp, eight pairs of identical red high heels, folders filled with CD-ROMs, crates of record albums, a rolodex stuffed with addresses and landlines, shoeboxes packed with unopened decks of playing cards, another shoebox filled with keychains, then another with name tags, and—finally—a Ziplock bag containing a blue and white painted bell and a gold heart made out of tiny, bronzed baby teeth. Nick won’t recognize it for what it is, not at first. Then it’ll come back to him: the firepit, the girls in the grass, Greta yanking the tent rods from Silas and throwing them into the lake.

He’ll sit for a moment. “Jesus,” he’ll say, “who the hell was Mom anyway?”

But for now, Mom and I walk away from it all.

I admire her balance, how her shoulders remain so steady. When we return to our room, I ditch the cardigan. We sit together at the ceremony and the reception. I dance with her during an Oasis song. It’s so silly, and we laugh the whole time. All evening, Silas weaves through the crowd, carrying bags of ice to the bar or bundles of wood to the firepit. At one point, he looks straight at me and taps a bottle opener clipped to his belt. I smile at him and lift a beer, and this is enough to know where I’m going next. Life is long. You figure it out. At another point during the reception, one of Greta’s sorority sisters tells Mom and I about Greta losing her baby teeth.

“Oh, dear,” Mom says to her, so steady, so cool, “doesn’t everyone?”

 

 

Meghan Louise Wagner