<\/p>\n
Mom calls to say my older brother has divorced his wife of twelve years to marry a girl fifteen years younger than him. \u201cHer name\u2019s Greta,\u201d she says. \u201cShe still has her baby teeth.\u201d<\/p>\n
It\u2019s been a few weeks since I talked to anybody other than my landlord or the cashier at Stop n\u2019 Save. I assume Mom is making a joke. Maybe she\u2019s gotten mean since Dad died. Maybe it\u2019s her new thing. Or maybe it means I don\u2019t understand jokes anymore. All I can imagine is a grown woman with a mouth crammed full of tiny teeth.<\/p>\n
Dozens of them.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow does that work?\u201d I ask. \u201cDoes she eat real food?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, no,\u201d Mom says, \u201cthey\u2019re on a necklace. She wears them.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIs Nick having a breakdown?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMy travel agent says it\u2019s a trend.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFor middle aged men to marry teenagers?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe parents,\u201d she says, \u201cturning baby teeth into jewelry.\u201d<\/p>\n
The wedding\u2019s 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\u2019ve been unemployed since Dad died. I haven\u2019t paid rent since my boyfriend, Jeremy, moved out two months ago. Every time I carry wine home from Stop n\u2019 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\u2014but she has bills to pay, too. She hasn\u2019t had it easy: two dead husbands, three struggling kids, failed careers, a bad hip. \u201cLife is long,\u201d she says, \u201cyou figure it out.\u201d<\/p>\n
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\u2019t.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
I pretend I\u2019m packing for good. I take everything I absolutely need in case I never return. It\u2019s not much. Enough to fit into one of Jeremy\u2019s 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, \u201cThe thing is, Cass, I have to prioritize my own mental health,\u201d and since I didn\u2019t want to hear the whole thing about \u2018airplanes and oxygen masks\u2019 again, all I said was, \u201cI know, I know, but do you need both of them?\u201d<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy travel agent made the arrangements,\u201d she says, holding a print out of an email listing gates, connecting flights, food court recommendations, and rental car information.<\/p>\n
Mom treats this like a girls\u2019 getaway. She wears strappy four-inch heels and carries a flashy silver handbag stuffed with fashion magazines. She\u2019s lost weight since Dad died, but insists it\u2019s because of keto and spinning. She\u2019s dyed her hair a deep shade of romance-novel red. It makes her look both very young and very old at the same time.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
When it\u2019s Mom\u2019s turn to join me on the other side of the metal detector, the TSA officer has to give her a friendly nudge. \u201cJust follow your sister,\u201d he says, smiling.<\/p>\n
Mom flies this high all the way to our layover in Newark. Right when I think it\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n
She struts back to me with her Caesar salad combo. \u201cCassie,\u201d she says, as if she\u2019s about to whisper a secret, \u201cdo you think I look like the lady from Boogie Nights<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n We fly from Newark to Portland, Maine. Mom\u2019s 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\u2019t say where I\u2019m going. Everybody knows it\u2019s not a good look to smoke four months after your dad dies from lung cancer.<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n \u201cThey\u2019re Mickey Mouse ears,\u201d she says, drawing her fingers from her forehead to her temples in big loops.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry, Miss,\u201d the agent says. \u201cIf they turn up, we\u2019ll contact you.\u201d<\/p>\n Mom stands calmly, radiating patience. The form is filled out and signed.<\/p>\n \u201cHey,\u201d I say, squeezing past her, \u201ccan we just get our car now?\u201d<\/p>\n The girl tears up. \u201cBut I need my keys,\u201d she says. \u201cThey\u2019re for my house, my job. My library card.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMiss,\u201d the agent says, \u201cI\u2019ll write a report. But I have to help these customers\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, no, no,\u201d Mom says, waving the pen. \u201cHelp her first, dear. We have time.\u201d<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n Eventually, we get on the road. Mom drives at a slow clip, claiming we\u2019re 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\u2019s 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\u2014some sun-kissed California surfer boy\u2014but 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\u2019s family. The whole time I stood there\u2014sucking in my stomach, waiting to smile\u2014I wondered how Nick was able to do this so easily. How he could go from radish fields to oceanside resorts?<\/p>\n 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\u2019s quietly telling Dad a joke. It\u2019s 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\u2014they were both grown-ups to me. Now that he\u2019s gone, I think about this all the time\u2014all the years she has left without him.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n 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.<\/em> The tires of the rental car creak over gravel and dirt. Mom flips her sunglasses to the top of her head. \u201cHow charming,\u201d she says. \u201cIt\u2019s like something from a movie.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLike a horror movie?\u201d I say dryly.<\/p>\n \u201cCassie,\u201d she says, tsking. \u201cWhy do you always look for the dark?\u201d<\/p>\n 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\u2019m alone. As we head into a lobby decorated with handmade quilts and canoe paddles, I recognize some of Nick\u2019s college friends from his first wedding\u2014all 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\u2019t figure out if it\u2019s because they\u2019re 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.<\/p>\n 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! <\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em>Mom reaches for it and I smack her hand. It\u2019s the first time she\u2019s glared at me all day.<\/p>\n \u201cPeople hate that stuff,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n Mom ignores me and steps closer to the desk. A moment later, her brilliant smile returns.<\/p>\n \u201cHi,\u201d the clerk says to both of us, but only looking at Mom. \u201cWelcome to The Bluebell.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHello, dear,\u201d Mom says, because she calls everyone \u201cdear,\u201d even those the same age as her. \u201cWe\u2019re here for the wedding. I\u2019m Helen Comiskey and this is my daughter Cassie.\u201d<\/p>\n 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<\/em>. \u201cIt\u2019s overlooks the lake,\u201d she says. \u201cLots of morning light.\u201d<\/p>\n Mom takes hers but I leave mine. \u201cThere should be two rooms,\u201d I say. \u201cDifferent ones.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThere\u2019s only one reservation,\u201d the clerk says.<\/p>\n \u201cWe need two rooms,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll pay for the extra room myself,\u201d she says. \u201cHow much is it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m afraid we\u2019re booked all weekend.\u201d<\/p>\n I kick the bottom of the desk. \u201cFucking Nick,\u201d I say. \u201cHe is so cheap.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s just being practical,\u201d Mom says, maintaining her patient smile, the same one she had at the rental car stand. \u201cWe understand,\u201d she says to the clerk. \u201cThanks so much for your help, dear.\u201d<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n As we prepare for the rehearsal dinner, Mom sits on the edge of her bed\u2014already made up and dressed\u2014reading questions aloud from one of her magazines. I stand in the bathroom, applying my makeup. It\u2019s been months since I got any sun and my foundation is about one shade too warm. It looks as if I\u2019m smearing orange paint across my cheeks.<\/p>\n \u201cIf you were stuck on a deserted island,\u201d Mom reads, \u201cwould you bring: A) your CD collection, B) your crates of vinyl, C) an iPod, or D) would you make your own music?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMom, how old is that magazine?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI think I\u2019d bring records,\u201d she says, scratching her pen to the page.<\/p>\n \u201cBut it\u2019s a desert island.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo D,\u201d she says, scribbling with a smile. \u201cYou make your own music.\u201d<\/p>\n 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\u2019ll live. Another ten years? Twenty?<\/p>\n \u201cC,\u201d I say to Mom, no longer understanding my options.<\/p>\n She giggles. A genuine, actual giggle. \u201cI picked Oasis, too,\u201d she says, tapping her pen to the magazine.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n If Jeremy and I were still together, he\u2019d have an opinion about every detail at the rehearsal dinner. He\u2019d mock the cheap chafing dishes. He\u2019d call the appetizers \u201c1980\u2019s chic.\u201d<\/em> (Cucumber nubs filled with smoked salmon, puff pastry triangles with spinach dip, unripe cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto.) He\u2019d say he liked the shrimp scampi, but then he\u2019d lean close and whisper, \u201cWhy\u2019d they have to ruin it with that sauce?\u201d<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n \u201cOh god,\u201d I hiss, clutching Mom\u2019s wrist. \u201cIs that Greta?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah,\u201d she says. \u201cShe\u2019s small in person.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMom, you didn\u2019t say she was Sabrina\u2019s teenage clone.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCassie,\u201d she says, choking back a laugh. Earlier, she might have chided me but now it\u2019s okay. We can joke around. We have Oasis.<\/p>\n 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\u2014something Dad never let her do. (He\u2019d call it unsanitary.) At nine p.m., she\u2019d bake brownies and we\u2019d eat them straight out of the pan, still warm. (Another practice Dad would nix.) On weekends, we\u2019d drive to shopping plazas in town with pizza places and video stores. The guys who worked them always had crushes on her. They\u2019d flirt so much we\u2019d 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\u2019d envy her\u2014knowing, even then, that I\u2019d never grow up to be so beautiful and easy-going.<\/p>\n 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\u2019t legally drink yet.<\/p>\n \u201cHey, Mom,\u201d 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.<\/p>\n Greta\u2019s 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\u2019s 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\u2019t quite make out what\u2014and then I remember the baby teeth.<\/p>\n She smiles, showing completely normal adult-sized teeth. Straight, white, clean. \u201cHi, Mrs. Comiskey,\u201d she says, opening her arms to Mom, \u201cit\u2019s so nice to meet in real life.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCall me Helen, dear.\u201d Mom bends at her waist to hug her back. \u201cWelcome to the family.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd this is my sister,\u201d Nick says, \u201cCassie.\u201d<\/p>\n Greta releases Mom and turns to me. \u201cThe one who makes the bread?\u201d<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, I\u2019m a baker,\u201d I say, leaving out the unemployed part.<\/p>\n \u201cI brought your blueberry bread into the office,\u201d Nick says. \u201cThat\u2019s what won her over.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt was so good,\u201d Greta says, \u201cI did not believe he made it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCassie writes good recipes,\u201d Mom says. \u201cThey never fail.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWait,\u201d I say, \u201cyou work together?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot anymore,\u201d Nick says. \u201cWe did. She was a design intern.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI like video games,\u201d Greta says, \u201cbut my real passion is vector painting.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAn intern?\u201d I say, about to laugh until I feel Mom pinch my hip. Hard.<\/p>\n \u201cAre your parents here yet?\u201d Mom asks, slyly dropping her hand from my waist. \u201cI\u2019d love to meet them.\u201d<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n The evening stretches into night. I don\u2019t eat, I only drink. We sit with Greta\u2019s parents around the fire. They\u2019re around Mom\u2019s age, in their late fifties, early sixties. It occurs to me that Mom\u2019s the reason people might assume Nick\u2019s younger than he is. Greta\u2019s brothers are even younger than her, in their early teens. Their mother explains how she saved all their baby teeth\u2014which she calls \u201cmilk teeth.\u201d She had them bronzed and turned into charms made by a local jewelry artist.<\/p>\n 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, \u201cPeople never believe it when I tell them what it really is.\u201d<\/p>\n I run my tongue along my gums, unable to recall what happened to any of my baby teeth. I can\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n I sit through boozy speeches given by Greta\u2019s friends, cousins, and one sobbing aunt. Once it\u2019s 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\u2019d be like if Dad was here with his bald head and bushy nose hair and splintered cane.<\/p>\n 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\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n \u201cHey,\u201d he says, \u201cwhere\u2019ve you been? I wanted to talk.\u201d<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n Nick was one of them, calling from California.<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s going on with you and Jeremy?\u201d he asks. \u201cMom says you\u2019re taking a break.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe broke up,\u201d I say. \u201cHe moved out.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat happened?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe took both crepe pans.\u201d<\/p>\n Nick flicks a mosquito from his cheek. \u201cYou can afford to live alone?\u201d<\/p>\n I slug the White Claw. Nick and I have barely talked since the funeral. And this is what he cares about? \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019ll probably move back in with Mom.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou talk to her about that yet?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019d love it. It\u2019d be nonstop girls\u2019 night.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe told us she wants to sell the house. Move in somewhere smaller. Spend the extra money traveling.\u201d<\/p>\n I sip the warm White Claw. Foam dribbles down my fingers, onto my chest. The girls around the fire burst into shrill laughter\u2014sounding more like screams than giggles. Greta rises from her spot at the firepit and stumbles. Everybody laughs. I think of Aunt Stephanie\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n Nick kicks himself off the pillar and heads in Greta\u2019s direction. \u201cYou want my advice?\u201d he says, walking backwards. \u201cWork things out with Jeremy. Whatever it is, figure it out.\u201d<\/p>\n 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\u2019s.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n Mom\u2019s asleep when I return. The room smells like lemon Pledge and lavender lotion. Outside, it\u2019s quiet, but an anxious hum stretches along the walls. I wonder what it\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n I turn the cap of the Labatt\u2019s and feel a sharp edge on my palm. It\u2019s not a twist-off. If Jeremy was here, he\u2019d make fun of me\u2014and then take my Bic lighter to it. Pop it clean off.<\/p>\n I decide then that I won\u2019t call.<\/p>\n I slip out of the room, hoping there\u2019s 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\u2014even the displays.<\/p>\n Soft waves creak against the dock.<\/p>\n 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!<\/em><\/p>\n The office door swings opens and a dark haired man in his early-30\u2019s walks out, dressed in a blue polo, shuffling a stack of papers. In another life, I\u2019d think he was cute. In this one, I only want a warm beer.<\/p>\n \u201cHey,\u201d he says. \u201cWhat can I do for you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou guys have a bottle opener?\u201d I ask, glancing around.<\/p>\n He tosses the paperwork aside. \u201cI got a key chain,\u201d he says, removing a set clipped to his belt. \u201cYou here for the wedding?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cUnfortunately.\u201d<\/p>\n That gets a smile. His name tag reads, \u201cSilas.\u201d Dark eyed, five o\u2019clock shadow, dimples. He pushes the unopened bottle against the back of the counter. \u201cThis is embarrassing,\u201d he says, wincing. \u201cI\u2019m usually a pro at this.\u201d<\/p>\n While he makes another attempt, I flick the Ring for Friendly Service! <\/em>sign.\u00a0 \u201cYou hide the bell at night?\u201d I say. \u201cSmart.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cActually,\u201d he says, \u201csomeone nabbed it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSomeone stole your bell?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cProbably one of these dumb college kids,\u201d he says, shrugging. \u201cShit. I can\u2019t get this.\u201d He slides the bottle back to me and I feel the warmth from his hand around the label. \u201cHey,\u201d he says, \u201cmaybe I can bust into the kitchen. See if they got one?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, I\u2019m fine,\u201d I say quickly. It\u2019s past midnight and I am the last guest pestering the front desk about a beer I stole from a display. I am that <\/em>customer.<\/p>\n I take the bottle and flee up the stairs. In the room, Mom\u2019s a lump in bed, snoring. I squeeze into the bathroom and sit on the toilet with the unopened beer. Mom\u2019s handbag takes up half the counter.<\/p>\n One of the magazines pokes out. I reach for it. Cosmopolitan, <\/em>October 2002. Katie Holmes on the cover. The subscription sticker on the bottom corner lists the name and address of mine and Nick\u2019s old dentist in Elyria\u2014Dr. Syzmanski\u2014and I wonder how long Mom has been carting that around.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em>As I flip through faded pages, it occurs to me she might have a bottle opener in there, too.<\/p>\n I remove her other magazines, pocketbook, and protein bars. She\u2019s 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 <\/em>name tag that reads: \u201cAlicia,\u201d 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.<\/p>\n I hold the Mickey Mouse ears, imagining the girl from the rental car stand, fingers looping.<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n Then, as quietly as I can, I put it all back and get into bed.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n I take a shower, avoiding the handbag.<\/p>\n I brush my teeth, avoiding the handbag.<\/p>\n I rinse my face and dry my hands, avoiding the handbag.<\/p>\n 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\u2019s the same one I wore to Dad\u2019s funeral\u2014but with a different sweater.<\/p>\n Mom returns with two coffees in paper cups. \u201cThey got continental breakfast,\u201d she says. \u201cYou like it black, right?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, thanks.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCassie,\u201d she says, tsking at my cardigan, \u201cyou look like one of the caterers.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s all I have.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMaybe we can run to town\u2014get something to jazz this up.\u201d<\/p>\n I sip coffee and imagine Mom at the local Target, stuffing pink scarves and yellow frocks in her handbag. \u201cI\u2019m gonna walk down to the lake,\u201d I say. \u201cI need some exercise.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll come with,\u201d she says. \u201cI had way too many of those spinach-puff thingies last night.\u201d<\/p>\n She wears her oversized sunglasses and strappy, four-inch heels. I slip into my flats. We pass through the lobby. It\u2019s the older woman working the desk. She\u2019s taken the Ring for Friendly Service! <\/em>sign away, leaving nothing on the counter except brochures.<\/p>\n We walk across the back patio to the lake trail. Three of Greta\u2019s college friends are in pajama pants and shorts, crawling through the grass near the firepit. I wonder if they\u2019re engaged in a silly sorority tradition. Plucking dandelions or wild flowers, maybe.<\/p>\n The sunlight shifts and Mom\u2019s glasses reflect the blue sky. I want to ask about the bell and the Mickey Mouse keys and Dr. Syzmanski\u2019s early-2000\u2019s Cosmopolitans, <\/em>but my throat closes up. I want to believe this is something Mom started after Dad died, a reaction formation\u2014the 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\u2019s 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\u2014before he died\u2014beckoned me close and said, \u201cTake care of your Mom for me,\u201d and how mad I was at the time, like, Dad, who is going to take care of me<\/em>?<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s so pretty here,\u201d Mom says cheerfully, as if she\u2019s not carting around a handbag of secrets.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah,\u201d I say, sipping my coffee. \u201cI kind of want a cigarette.\u201d<\/p>\n She nods slowly. \u201cI noticed you were still smoking.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m still scared to do it around you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t be,\u201d she says. \u201cYour father never was.\u201d<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n The girls on the lawn throw their heads upright, hair caught in their faces. I jump. Mom stays still. Calm and cool.<\/p>\n Nick and Greta are fighting on the other side of the lawn. He\u2019s in a white T-shirt and army-green board shorts, while Greta\u2019s in one of his oversized Mercury Games<\/em> 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\u2019s right. My cardigan is the same shade of blue as their uniforms.<\/p>\n Greta screeches again. Nick reaches out to her but she pushes him away. He wobbles backwards. We\u2019re too far away to hear what they\u2019re 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.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s between them,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n 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\u2019s parents jog across the yard, both in weekend wedding attire, cream and khaki.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d Greta shouts. \u201cHelp me!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGreta,\u201d Nick says, \u201cyou\u2019re overreacting.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat is it? What is it, baby?\u201d her mother says, rushing to her.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s gone,\u201d Greta says, gripping her chest. \u201cMy necklace is gone and no one will help me find it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWith your milk teeth?\u201d her mother asks.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s gone,\u201d she says, sobbing, \u201cI had it here last night. Right there.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGretchen,\u201d her father says, \u201cwhy would you take it off?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThis,\u201d her mother says, \u201cis why I told you to stay in the cottage.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd you\u2019re sure you didn\u2019t take it in the lake?\u201d Nick asks.<\/p>\n \u201cNick, you aren\u2019t fucking helping!\u201d Greta says. \u201cNone of you are fucking helping!\u201d<\/p>\n 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\u2019s only then I realize he\u2019s not someone who gets what he wants.<\/p>\n This has been his crisis all along. He\u2019s just like Mom. Better at blending.<\/p>\n We lock eyes across the lawn and it\u2019s like we\u2019re kids again, wandering around Aunt Stephanie\u2019s radish fields, trying to make sense of a world where our parents could lose an entire house.<\/p>\n 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\u2014and 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\u2019ll be the one who has to call Nick. After the funeral, we\u2019ll sort through her storage unit in Oberlin together. We\u2019ll find so many things: other people\u2019s Mother\u2019s Day <\/em>cards, the entire Chronicles of Narnia <\/em>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\u2014finally\u2014a Ziplock bag containing a blue and white painted bell and a gold heart made out of tiny, bronzed baby teeth.<\/em> Nick won\u2019t recognize it for what it is, not at first. Then it\u2019ll come back to him: the firepit, the girls in the grass, Greta yanking the tent rods from Silas and throwing them into the lake.<\/p>\n He\u2019ll sit for a moment. \u201cJesus,\u201d he\u2019ll say, \u201cwho the hell was Mom anyway?\u201d<\/p>\n But for now, Mom and I walk away from it all.<\/p>\n 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\u2019s 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\u2019m going next. Life is long. You figure it out. At another point during the reception, one of Greta\u2019s sorority sisters tells Mom and I about Greta losing her baby teeth.<\/p>\n \u201cOh, dear,\u201d Mom says to her, so steady, so cool, \u201cdoesn\u2019t everyone?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Mom calls to say my older brother has divorced his wife of twelve years to marry a girl fifteen years younger than him. \u201cHer name\u2019s Greta,\u201d she says. \u201cShe still has her baby teeth.\u201d It\u2019s been a few weeks since I talked to anybody other than my landlord or the cashier at Stop n\u2019 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2272,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[76,1],"tags":[20],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6Jypy-4Ob","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18487"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2272"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18487"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18487\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18629,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18487\/revisions\/18629"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18487"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18487"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18487"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}Meghan Louise Wagner<\/a><\/h6>\n