Mrs. Perfect

In the meantime, I cancel the reservations I made and tell the girls to clean up and change into something more appropriate for a holiday meal, then tell them never mind when I see them trying to rip open all of my carefully sealed boxes.

Nathan calls just before we walk out the door for Marta’s. I’m so glad he’s calling and so hoping he’s finally on his way home. “Tell me you have good news for me, honey,” I say, shooing the kids back into the house and motioning for them to close the door.

“Nothing today,” he answers. “I don’t know about tomorrow. Did your mom make it?”

My heart falls, and I glance at the front door where everyone’s gathered. Jemma’s showing Mom something on her hand, and Mom’s looking and listening. It’s so strange to see my mom with my girls. They’ve never met one another, just exchanged photos, Grandma always being a big mystery.

“Yes. She and Ray arrived this morning. They’ve been really helpful.”

“Good.” He draws a breath. “I wish I were there, Taylor. I really do. If I could drive there, I would.”

“I know.”

“You’re mad.”

“It’s just hard without you, Nathan.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, honey.”

We say good-bye, and I hand the phone to the girls.

We get to Marta’s a half hour later than I expected, but the girls end up crying after talking to Nathan and I need some time to calm them all down and help them cheer up.

At Marta’s, we find that Eva has made us all turkey napkin rings out of colored paper and written our names on little pumpkins in gold and silver felt markers. Candles the color of brown sugar line the table, and a big autumn arrangement fills the center.

Marta’s parents sit at the table with us, and as I look around the table, I see two generations of moms and daughters.

I haven’t had a mother in so long that I’m not sure what to feel as I look around the table.

Marta gives a small, brief prayer. I don’t know why I’m shocked that she’d say a Thanksgiving prayer. You’d think she was a she-devil instead of my boss and, just maybe, my friend.

The food is good, though. Marta has cooked a turkey with a cornbread-and-pecan stuffing that comes from her dad’s family since he was a good ol’ southern boy. Her dad absolutely dotes on his wife, waiting on her hand and foot, even when she gets up and wanders off and doesn’t want to return to the table and seems to think the living room is a good place to take off her clothes.

Tori tries not to laugh as Marta and her dad wrestle Mrs. Zinsser back into her dress. Jemma gives Tori a dirty look before turning to me, her expression devastated. My girls are so sheltered. We don’t see Nathan’s mom often because she doesn’t like me. We don’t see my parents because I don’t like them. Yet here’s Marta and her dad trying to keep Marta’s mom home as long as possible when everyone else thinks it’s time to institutionalize her.

It hits me how hard this thing called life is and how ridiculous it is to make it any harder than it has to be.

Abruptly I rise and begin clearing plates, as everyone is done and I can’t sit at the table and ignore Mrs. Zinsser’s tears in the living room.

Poor Mrs. Zinsser.

Jemma and Eva enter the kitchen with more plates. “Thank you,” I say, surprised to see Jemma clearing the table without my asking. She doesn’t do it at home without a fight.

She obviously wants to impress someone. Eva? Marta? My mom and . . . convict?

Soon all the girls are up and clearing plates and glasses. Without waiting for direction, I just begin hand washing. My good china can’t go into the dishwasher and I don’t know about Marta’s, but washing them the old-fashioned way works just as well.

Marta enters the kitchen just as I finish the last of the pots and pans.

“Sorry,” she says, glancing around and seeing that the mounds of dishes are now all done. “That wasn’t part of the plan.”

I laugh a little, rinse off my hands, and accept the dish towel Marta’s holding out to me. “What’s the old saying? The best-laid plans . . . ?”

Marta slides some of the dried pots and pans into the cupboard next to her stove. “Your mom is pretty cool.”

I lean against the counter, my elbows on the edge. “Of course you’d like her. Her husband was a founding member of the Hell’s Angels.”

Marta laughs and smashes down the garbage. “He was not.”

“He did ride with them.”

She shrugs. “He does have some great stories.”

I exhale hard, blowing wisps of hair from my eyes. “Which are fascinating if the stories aren’t told by your mother’s convict lover.”

Marta’s choking on her laughter. “She introduced him as her husband.”

“Oh, he is. They got married while he was still in prison. Would love to see those wedding pic—” I break off as I realize my mom is standing in the doorway with the water pitcher in her hands.

She just looks at me and extends her arms, holding out the pitcher.

Wordlessly, I cross the floor and take the pitcher from her. Mom returns to the formal dining room without uttering a word.

Marta looks at me as I carry the pitcher to the sink. Numbly I dump out the water before setting the empty pitcher on the counter.

“Taylor—”

“I was wrong,” I cut her off. “I was just trying to be funny, but it wasn’t funny.” Swiftly I head to the dining room, where everyone’s still sitting, waiting for pie. I gaze at Mom, hoping she’ll look at me, but she doesn’t, and when I return to the table a minute later carrying a pie, I can see my mom’s hand under the table. She’s holding Ray’s hand. Tightly.

We walked to Marta’s house for dinner, and we walk home a few hours later, all of us bundled back in our coats. Mom and Ray walk side by side, with Tori holding Mom’s hand.

I walk behind Mom and Ray and Tori. Seeing Mom holding Tori’s hand reminds me of Mom with my sister, Cissy. Cissy loved to hold Mom’s hand.

As we approach the house, Mom turns to tell me she and Ray will probably call it a night. They didn’t get much sleep last night, and if they’re going to be of any help in the morning, they better get some rest now.

“You can have my room,” I offer, as my bed isn’t yet dismantled.

“We sleep in the cab,” Ray answers, gesturing to his truck.

“I don’t mind,” I protest.

Mom stops before the front steps, leans down, and kisses the top of Tori’s head before letting her hand go. “This is how Ray and I always travel.” She looks straight at me as if anticipating an argument.

I don’t argue. “You know where the guest bath is. There should still be a couple clean towels out . . . unless I accidentally boxed everything up.”

“We have our own towels.” Mom smiles at the girls, then a smaller, more guarded smile at me. “Good night.”

The next day early in the afternoon, I drive to the rental house and Ray follows in his truck, the back filled with bedroom furniture. He’s going to set up the girls’ furniture in their rooms while Mom and I keep packing at the Yarrow Point house.

I take Ray on a quick tour of the house. “Jemma’s stuff will go in this room, and Brooke and Tori are going to share this room.”

Ray looks around the tiny bedrooms. “How is all of Tori and Brooke’s furniture going to fit in here?”

“It’s not.” I rub the back of my neck, my muscles aching. I’m aching, so tired that all I can think about is lying down somewhere and taking a nap. “I’m getting rid of Tori’s set, it’s toddler furniture anyway, and Tori will sleep in Brooke’s trundle bed.”

“Do they know that?” he asks. Having spent the last twenty-four hours with the girls, he’s gotten to know their personalities.

“Yeah, but I don’t think the reality of it has hit them yet. It will tonight when we spend the first night in o

ur new house.”

“You’ve got your hands full, don’t you?” He’s a big guy, a tough guy, and yet his voice is so sympathetic that I don’t know where to look or what to do.

“We’re getting by,” I say at last.

He nods. “Okay, then. I know what to do here. I’ll be back soon as I’m done.”

I’m just heading out the front door when Ray’s voice stops me. “Your mom’s a good woman, Taylor. She did try to make it work with your father.”

I slowly turn to face him, take in his black thermal shirt, his shaggy gray hair, his weathered complexion. He has a good face, a kind face, and he strikes me as pretty decent, but he and I aren’t going to see eye to eye on Mom. “No offense to you, Ray, but she had kids. You don’t leave your kids just because you don’t love their father.”

“She didn’t leave you. She left him.”

I give him another long look. “When you’re a kid, it’s the same thing.”

“But you’re not a kid anymore.”

I open my mouth to say something smart, something that will put him in his place, but no words come. Maybe because there’s nothing I can say.

He’s right. Ray, the trucker convict, is right.