NOVEMBER 26, 1981
Emily sat beside Gram at the kitchen table. They were both shelling pumpkin seeds for the annual Vaughn Thanksgiving get-together, though this year, instead of fifty people drinking cocktails in the formal living room and another twenty jammed into the tiny den where the TV was kept to watch football, only four people would be in attendance. And one of them didn’t quite know who the others were.
Gram told Emily, “My father taught me how to do this. He loved pumpkin seeds.”
“What was he like?” Emily asked, though she could recite the story herself.
“Well, he wasn’t very tall.” Gram started by describing her father’s hair, which was soft and thin, much to his disappointment because he had styled himself as a Clark Gable. When she moved on to his love of haberdashery, Emily let herself zone out. She watched her hands move as she shelled the pumpkin seeds. Esther had already roasted them in the oven. Most people shelled them one at a time as with peanuts, but Gram insisted it was better to put in the work now so that you could fully enjoy them later. They had nearly filled the bowl.
“Papa said to do it like this.” Gram showed her how to gently squeeze the shell until it cracked open. The meat was green inside. “But you mustn’t eat it yet. You must put them all in the bowl.”
“That’s a good idea,” Emily agreed. She reached for another handful of seeds, but a sharp spasm in her back brought out a loud yelp. She resisted the impulse to double over, leaning back instead to stretch the muscle.
“Oh,” Gram said. “Are you okay, dear?”
Emily was not okay. She hissed out air between her teeth. She wasn’t sure if the pulled muscle was a result of her pregnancy or from carrying her heavy book bag or from not being able to sleep at night because she was so anxious about the way things were going at school.
“You’re a little early for muscle cramps.” Esther had appeared from the pantry. She put the can of sauerkraut on the table and kneaded her fist into Emily’s back. “Push through it.”
Emily didn’t want to push through anything. She wanted this to be over.
“Better?” Esther asked.
Emily nodded, because the spasm had eased. She leaned into her mother’s hip, eyes closed. Esther held onto her, stroking back her hair. This was something new for both of them. Gram had always been the one to dry Emily’s tears or kiss a scrape on her knee. Esther was the one who drilled her on vocabulary and coached her on debate team prep. It was as if Emily’s pregnancy had brought out a maternal side of Esther that none of them knew existed. Or maybe Gram’s dementia had left an opening that Esther had never felt required to fill.
“Dear,” Gram said to Emily. “You’re a bit young to be with child.”
Emily laughed. “That’s the truth.”
Gram looked confused, but she laughed, too.
Esther’s lips pressed against the top of Emily’s head. “All right. I should make dinner. Your father will be back from the club soon.”
Emily watched her mother move around the kitchen. Technically, Esther wasn’t making dinner. She was heating up what had already been prepared by the cook, who favored Maryland dishes. Crab cakes. Corn on the cob. Clam and oyster stuffing. Cranberry relish. Green beans with tomatoes. Baked ham.
The ham was the clearest indication of their change in circumstances. Normally, Emily was put off by the sight of the plump, pink meat simmering in its own juices. The shape was too reminiscent of the actual pig. The ham that Esther had taken out of the refrigerator was small, more like a loaf of bread. And still, it was ample enough to feed more than four people.
No one would say the words, but the lack of celebration was Emily’s fault.
Her original sin had far-reaching implications well beyond the reduced number of guests at the party. Esther’s judicial appointment had turned iffy. She was constantly on the phone, taking meetings in DC, scrambling to show that she was still deserving of a lifetime appointment. The pressure was immense, though her mother never spoke about it openly. There were harried conversations with Franklin that quickly sputtered out when Emily entered the room. At night, she could hear their muffled voices through the bedroom wall as Franklin paced across the creaky floor and Esther strategized at her desk.
This past week had been particularly bad. Emily had read an op-ed in the Wilmington News Journal asking whether Esther Vaughn’s judicial ambitions had overshadowed her duties as a mother. Franklin had left the paper folded open on the breakfast table so that Emily would find it.
Emily stood from the table. She felt a sudden weepiness. There was no tissue in the kitchen, so she used a paper towel to blow her nose. Esther’s smile acknowledged that she knew that Emily was crying and there was nothing that could be done about it.
She asked her mother, “What can I do to help?”
“The hasty pudding is in the fridge outside. Do you mind—”
“Goodness.” Gram was looking at them both. “I think I’ll retire to my room for a nap.”
Emily could tell she had no idea who was standing across from her in the kitchen. Thankfully, Gram had lived in the house long enough that she found her surroundings familiar. She ambled up the back hallway absently humming “Yankee Doodle.” By the time she hit the stairs, she was marching to the beat.
Esther exchanged an amused look with Emily. Her mother had been in an incredibly good mood since this morning. Emily wondered if her pregnancy had actually managed to bring them closer together. It was very difficult to tell. At times, their mother–child relationship felt like it was entering a new phase. And then, at other times, Esther was lecturing Emily about turning the thermostat too high or leaving a wet towel on the floor.
“Pudding?” Esther prompted.
“Right.” Emily knew she couldn’t blame her memory loss on her pregnancy. She was easily distracted because focusing on the here and now was generally too depressing.