Where We Belong (33 page)

25

kirby

I
have
another forty or so miles to go on I-55 and about ninety minutes left in my five-hour trip which, so far, has been a breeze. I’ve only stopped once to fill up my gas tank and use the restroom. I also remember to call my parents, reassuring them that I am completely fine, and that it’s a clear, sunny day with very little traffic. My father reminds me to stay in the right lane, no passing, avoid big trucks, and stay off my phone.

“Oh. And your mother says don’t forget the pecan pie. It’ll melt if you leave it in the car,” my dad adds, referring to the pie she made as my hostess gift, along with four linen cocktail napkins hand-embroidered with the letter
C
. She screwed up the first time on both projects, overbrowning the crust on the pie and choosing a mauve satin stitch for the napkins that just “didn’t thrill her.” So late last night, I found her in the kitchen, still baking, still sewing. She was deep in concentration, with the look she gets when she’s praying hard for something, and I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her as I poured myself a glass of chocolate milk.

“Do you need any help, Mom?” I asked, standing over her. She had switched to a peacock blue thread for the napkins, and according to the pattern book on the table, a Celtic knot.

She looked up at me over her reading glasses, shaking her head with a wistful smile, and said, “Kirby, honey. You know you can’t sew. Or bake.” She sighed. “One of my many failings as a mother.”

“You don’t have failings as a mother,” I said, mostly believing this to be true.

“Of course I do,” she said. “Every parent does. It is inevitable. You’ll see.”

I nodded—how can you argue with such a thing?—then asked if she wanted company.

She looked at me, surprised. “You should get some sleep.” But she didn’t protest when I sat down at the table.

“Are you excited?” she asked.

“A little,” I said, through a monstrous yawn.

“It’s okay to be excited,” she said.

“I know.”

“I’m excited for you.”

“Thank you.”

“I can’t wait to hear all about your … second family.”

I could tell it was a test, and an annoying one at that, but I still said what she wanted to hear. “They’re not my second family. I only have one family.”

“It’s okay to think of them that way.”

“But I don’t,” I said. “They’re strangers.”

“Marian’s not a stranger.”

“Okay, well, not her. But she’s more like a friend.”

“She doesn’t feel like a mother—”

“Mom, don’t. Okay?” I said, cutting her off.

She stifled a yawn of her own, as I told her I was going back to bed.

“Yes. Go to bed. Tomorrow is a big day.”

I finished my milk, put it in the sink, and walked back past her on my way to the stairs.

“Mom?” I said, awkwardly pausing beside her.

“Yes, honey?”

“Thanks.”

“For what?” she asked with her wide-eyed, martyrlike stare, as if it is perfectly normal to bake and sew at all hours of the night.

“For doing all of this,” I said. “I’m sure the Caldwells are going to love the napkins.”

“Yes. I think they will,” she said. “I’m so glad I changed to blue. Everyone loves blue, don’t you think?”

“Yes. And who doesn’t love a pecan pie?” I added, both humoring and appreciating her at once.

She nodded, then said, “God willing they don’t have any nut allergies. That thought just occurred to me.”

“Yes,” I said on my way to the stairs. “God willing.”

*   *   *

And here I am on I-55, catching myself praying. An actual, specific request to God to have the weekend go well. To have everyone like me and approve of me and be okay with the fact that I am their blood relative.

My phone rings in the passenger seat, interrupting my conversation with God. Although I can hear my father telling me not to pick it up while I’m driving, I see Philip’s name and grab it, pressing it to my ear. As much as I’m thinking about the weekend ahead, at least half the miles logged have been spent on Philip. Since Friday night, we’ve talked every day for at least an hour and kissed two more times. Last night, I even let him go up my shirt.

I also find myself thinking about Conrad and Marian, and wonder if their relationship felt anything like ours. I know that Philip and I won’t last forever, that he will go off to Alaska and then Colorado, and the best that I can really hope for is that we stay in touch. But I can’t imagine losing him as a friend, any more than I can imagine what it must be like for Marian to be finding Conrad, after all these years gone by.

A good hour of Ray LaMontagne tunes later, my MapQuest directions end at Maple Hill Road, a beautiful street with houses that are all quadruple the size of anything in my neighborhood. Marian’s parents’ house turns out to be the most elegant in a whole line of pretty ones with a perfect, crew-cut lawn and jewel-toned flower bed. As I pull up the driveway, I realize that it bears a striking resemblance to the house in
Father of the Bride
—and then wonder if it is
that
house. I park behind a Land Rover and a Mercedes convertible, both waxed to a high shine.

Stalling before I get out of the car, I check my reflection in the rearview mirror, send my parents a text that says,
Made it here safe,
then another, slightly wordier version of the same text to Philip. I then take a deep breath, reach back into the backseat for my purse, the pecan pie, adorned with a sticker that says “From the kitchen of Lynn Rose,” and the linen napkins, nestled in a gold gift bag. Then I open the door, climb out, and close it with a hard hip bump.

I am nervous, my breathing shallow, on the way to the door, but I also have a feeling of crazy curiosity to meet Marian’s parents, see where she grew up. I imagine Conrad standing on her front porch, waiting to pick up his girlfriend. Then I ring the doorbell, its chime a grand six-note melody.

I hear heels coming toward me before the door bursts open and there stands Marian’s mother, even more glamorous than Marian, in an orange dress, her arms open to greet me.

“Hello, Kirby!” she exclaims as I inhale amazing food smells.

“Hi, Mrs. Caldwell,” I say as Marian appears just behind her in the foyer.

“Call me ‘Pamela,’” she says as she starts to hug me, then decides against it.

I nod, then hand her the pie and the napkins and say, “My mother made you these.”

“Well, wasn’t that sweet of her,” she says, patting them before placing them on a table in the hall. She then takes the pie, proclaiming it a beauty, as Marian pushes past her mother to hug me hello. Our embrace feels both formal and comfortable at once, and I wonder if both are possible, and if not, which one is in my head.

“So good to see you,” Marian says.

“You too,” I say.

“Come in, dear, come in,” Pamela says, then leads me back down a wide hallway to a large kitchen filled with food. “What can I get you to drink? We have freshly squeezed grapefruit juice, orange juice, prune juice, water—both flat and sparkling.”

Prune juice?
I think, comforted by the realization that everyone is a little weird.

“Mom, give her a second,” Marian mumbles, but Pamela does no such thing, opening the refrigerator then glancing back at me expectantly.

“I’ll take some water, please,” I say.

She nods, removes a large bottle of Evian from the door and pours it into a tall, mottled blue glass that my mom’s napkins will match perfectly.

“Sit, sit,” she says, pointing to the counter as Kirby’s father enters the room, filling it with an immediate, strong presence. I like him instantly.

“Kirby,” he says, walking over to me and covering my hand with his. “At long last. Welcome.”

“Thank you,” I say, overcome with a warm feeling.

He returns his hand to his pocket, staring at me with a smile. He finally nods, as if satisfied with what he sees, and says, “I’m glad you’re here. It’s just … so
good
to meet you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Caldwell,” I say, knowing that he will correct me, too.

He does, of course, telling me to call him “Jim.” Although Marian’s mother is nice enough, I get a completely different vibe from her dad, and the only way I can describe it is that I feel related to him. Or perhaps, more significantly, he seems to feel related to
me.

Sure enough, he says, “Are you looking at my big ears? I understand an apology may be in order?”

I laugh a real genuine laugh and say, “Yeah. I don’t care for them.”

“You don’t care for them on me,” he says, turning to Marian. “Or her?”

“On any of us,” I say, loosening up.

“At least you girls have your hair to cover them up,” he says.

“Yeah. Thin hair,” Marian says.

He runs his hand through his own full head of thick gray hair, only slightly receding at the temple, and says, “Whoah. Whoah! You can’t blame me for that one.”

Marian turns to look at her mother, who doesn’t appreciate the accusation. “We don’t have thin hair. We have
fine
hair. There is a difference.”

“And what is that, exactly?” Marian asks.

“The hairs are fine, but we have a lot of them,” Pamela says, turning toward the gift bag.

I think of my mother and her thick, curly hair that my sister inherited, and realize how nice it is to finally know where I got mine. Then I think of how my mom has always told me she loves every hair on my head—and I feel an unexpected pang for her.

“Oh, these are
soo
lovely,” Pamela says, exclaiming over the napkins.

“My mother made them,” I say.

“Well, they are beautiful. Just
beautiful,
” Pamela says, going a little too overboard.

I tell her I’m glad she likes them, as she continues to gush. I watch her while tuning her out, recognizing her type. Then I realize that, ironically, she reminds me of a richer, more polished version of my dad. They are both chatty, friendly, and outgoing, yet there is something about her that makes me feel that I’d never really get to know her, that she’d always keep me at arm’s length in the same way my dad uses sports. No matter how close a friend he has, they never really seem to progress beyond the Cardinals and Rams. I can imagine that it is this way with Pamela, only with a different, narrow focus.

“So what would you like to do today?” she says. “Go to the city? Have you been to Chicago?”

“She was born here,” Marian says under her breath.

I glance at her then look back at Pamela. “Not for a long time,” I say.

“Well, there is so much to do. Museums, art galleries, shopping. Do you like to shop, Kirby?”

“Sure. Sometimes,” I say, thinking the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

“Honey. I don’t think this is a day to shop,” Jim says. “Wouldn’t you all just rather talk? Get to know one another?”

Pamela holds up her hand as if to say my bad, then says, “Well, are we allowed to eat? Because I’ve prepared a feast!”

“Yes,” Marian says. “We’re allowed to eat, Mom.”

“Good,” she says. “Then let’s eat!”

I smile, thinking that this is at least one thing my family has in common with this one, and maybe families everywhere. When in doubt, go ahead and eat.

26

marian

The next
morning, after Kirby and I successfully dodge my mother’s attempt to make us breakfast, we hop into my dad’s Land Rover, unshowered, and commence driving aimlessly around my hometown per her request to see where I grew up. She even has a list of all the places she wants to see, my high school, our church (although I told her we almost never went), Conrad’s childhood home, and Janie’s house.

“So how’s Philip?” I ask her as we back out of my driveway. I don’t tell her that I heard her across the hall, talking and laughing until nearly midnight.

“He’s good,” she says.

“So things are going well?”

“Yeah,” she says, smiling. “I think we’re kind of dating…”

I wait for more details, but I can tell she is finished talking about her personal life, so I decide not to press.

A few minutes later, we turn the corner, nearing my old stomping ground. “There’s New Trier High School,” I say, pointing to the familiar brick building. “Home of the proud and mighty Trevians.”

She nods, as I reach for my travel mug, take a sip of black coffee, and take a one-handed turn onto the mostly empty school grounds. I pull around the school, then into a parking spot, staring down at the track, deluged with memories.

“What are you thinking? About your cheerleading days?” she asks with a hint of sarcasm.

“Ha,” I say, although I pretty much was. “I heard they got rid of the squad here. Not enough interest. It’s a good thing. I think girls should come up with something better to do than cheer for their male classmates.”

She smirks. “You didn’t like being a cheerleader?”

“It was okay. But I wish I had stuck with soccer. I loved the game but quit to cheer. For Todd. Ugh,” I say, rolling my eyes. “He was our quarterback.”

“Of
course
he was,” Kirby says.

“Hey! I’m telling you I regretted it. Doesn’t that redeem me?” I ask, although secretly I don’t
altogether
regret being on the squad. Janie and I had a blast—and that short, pleated skirt and those pom-poms really did make me feel pretty cool during a time when feeling cool seemed to matter so much.

Kirby glances at me, then faces the track again, as we both watch a boy sprinting up and down the bleacher steps with Olympian determination. “Yeah, that redeems you … But Conrad redeems you more.”

I nod, his name a Pavlovian bolt of electricity that I try to hide now by singing the cheer I can still say in my sleep:
We say New Trier; you say Trevians! New Trier!
I look at her, cueing her with my right hand.

Kirby plays along and give me a less than rousing, “Trevians.”

I smile and continue with the next stanza:
We say green and you say blue. Green!

“Blue,” she says with a lackluster fist pump.