I bark out a laugh. “That’s never going to happen.”
“Oh, that’s right. Lindsey Haggerty doesn’t believe in love,” Lucy teases in a singsongy voice. “She doesn’t believe in the fairytale.”
“What do you think, Noodle?” I ask, cupping the pooch’s face in my hands. “Do you believe in love?”
In lieu of a reply, the beagle unleashes the loudest fart I’ve ever heard come from a dog, or any living being, for that matter. Truth from the mouths of babes. Or from the butts of mutts.
“My thoughts exactly,” I say with a laugh. “Anyway, it’s not that I don’tbelievein it. I just don’tneedit to be happy.”
I know that kind of love exists because I’ve witnessed it through my parents’ marriage and again through my siblings and their significant others. But for me, it’s not worth the risk because it can all be lost in the span of a single breath. At best, when the other person decides your darkest parts are simply too much to deal with. At worst, when the person you love more than life itself is taken from your world with no explanation or goodbyes—when they’re alive one minute and gone the next.
“Okay, Mr. Noodle,” I say, scratching the pup on top of the head. “You’re good to go.”
“Let’s get you back to Mr. Bush, you little tooth thief,” Kayla says, scooping the dog into her arms and placing him on the floor. “How much do you want me to charge him?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. He’s on a fixed income. It didn’t take that long anyway.”
Lucy and Kayla exchange a knowing glance.
“What?”
“It’s just no wonder everyone within a seventy-five-mile radius wants to come here,” Kayla answers. “You’re good at what you do,andyou have a kind heart.”
“And you’re almost as cute as me,” Lucy quips. “We’ll get you married off yet, Linds.”
I roll my eyes. “Gee, thanks.”
“But first we just need to get you another date with that smokin’ hot firefighter,” she adds, and Kayla emits a high-pitched squeak.
“Hold up,” Kayla says. “What? As in, that super cute guy from the other day? Oliver?”
I huff out a breath and shoot daggers at Lucy with my eyes. “Seriously, how does your head fit through the door with your big mouth attached to it?” I turn to Kayla. “I was going to tell you.”
“No you weren’t, you dirty little liar,” Kayla says with a grin, looping her arm through mine. “Now, spill.”
6
MJ
It’s early Sunday afternoon,and I’m eating the last piece of pecan pie right out of the dish, standing over the sink like a swamp rat. If this had been a normal Thanksgiving, I would have sent the leftovers with the kids, and Lindsey would have called dibs on the pecan pie because it's her favorite. The thought of my eldest daughter sends a sharp pain through my chest, and for a second, I wonder if I’m having some sort of cardiac episode. Wouldn’t it be fitting for me to die alone in this house from a broken heart?
I need to return to my lair. After chucking the unwashed dish into the sink, I float up the stairs like a ghost, stopping in front of the collage of photos on the landing. Henry used to tease me about taking so many pictures, but I don’t think any amount would have been enough to capture the life we had. My fingers trail along the wall, pausing at the photo we took on Thanksgiving five years ago, not knowing it would be our last one together as a family.
Henry set the tripod up in the living room, and we squeezed together on the couch to fit in the frame. My sister was on the end next to Ellie and Ben. Lucy huddled on the floor with Willow, who’d joined us for their first big holiday together. I wasin the middle with Henry, our hands closed tight around one another’s. On Henry’s other side was Lindsey, leaning her head on his shoulder. They shared the same narrow nose and hazel eyes. But no feature was more alike than their beaming smiles that could light up the darkest room.
My hand drops to my side, and I let that image of the last happy holiday carry me to my bedroom, where I crawl into my king-size bed. The ceiling fan whirls overhead, and I pull the plush comforter up to my chin. Sure, it’s almost December, but keeping the fan going year-round is something I’d started in my midforties, when life became one never-ending hot flash. I haven’t been cold since Clinton was in office.
A sour taste lingers in my mouth. Did the pie go bad, or did I forget to brush my teeth? Or maybe the mere thought of Thanksgiving is enough to make me miserable all over again.
I spent the entire weekend eating leftovers and wallowing around in my favorite “World’s Best Grandma” sleep shirt that my grandkids gave me for Mother’s Day a couple years ago. Shuffling through the house, I could still see the kids decorating the Christmas tree when they were little and Henry hanging the stockings on the mantel. I could hear the echoes of my mother’s voice from years before telling me that the dressing I’d made, the very same recipe that belonged to my great-grandmother, was the best thing she’d ever tasted.
But I could also see the rooms empty out, one by one, as Lindsey and Ben went to college and Lucy moved into her first apartment. And I could still see my husband being carried away from our home, my sanctuary, the one place that for so long had felt untouchable.
It still amazes me how a house that had once been so loud and full of life could fade to mere whispers.
I pluck my phone off the nightstand, straighten my navy-rimmed glasses, and pull up the photo Ben sent me thatmorning. I have to give him an A for effort. If anything could get me to crack, it’s the smiling faces of my beautiful, perfect grandchildren. I thought nothing could ever top being a mom until I became a grandmother. I wish Henry could see them. He passed only months before Ellie and Ben found out they were expecting.
I swallow the lump that forms in my throat. I’ve been avoiding everyone since our holiday dinner ended with me yelling at my grown children before throwing a hissy fit on the floor like a petulant child.
