On the wall is a framed picture of my book cover:Tippi’s Takes Presents: What Hitch Taught Me About Life.Now it makes sense why she insisted on eating brunch in the cinema.
“I guess you could consider this an early birthday present,” Marmee says, settling into one of the leather recliners, “although, selfishly, I’m the one who gets to enjoy it.”
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say.
“Yes, I did,” she counters. “My only dilemma was whether to showcase it here or in the library. I figured our happiest memories took place in the cinema, so it won out.”
“Thank you, Marmee,” I tell her, unfamiliar emotion tickling the back of my throat.
“I know life has been unexpected lately,” she says, squeezing my hand, “but you’re going to get through it. We always do.”
I try vanquishing the memories I don’t want to confront, but it’s difficult to do that when visiting my childhood home, surrounded by reminders of people who have entered and exited my life over the years. Or maybe it’s Marmee’s presence that penetrates me so deeply. All I want is to show everyone around me I’m okay, but I can’t do that with her.
She sees beneath my surface, and that frightens me.
5
A small table sitsin the center of the room, two chairs pulled to either end. Marmee doesn’t have much of an appetite anymore, but she sticks to tried-and-true menus for brunch. This week, we’re snacking on Mrs. Wilson’s cucumber and cheese sandwiches, mini quiche, and Earl Grey tea.
“Is everything packed?” Marmee asks, her coral lipstick staining the napkin as she dabs at her mouth. Even in her eighties, she never leaves her bedroom without a full face of makeup.
“Almost. The movers are bringing more tomorrow morning,” I say. “You don’t mind me staying here the rest of the week?”
“I’m thrilled about it,” she says, raising a floral teacup to her lips. “Just like old times.”
A bittersweet sensation fills my chest. Happiness over the good memories we’ve shared in this house mixed with sadness over the disruption my move will cause. I’ve always loved traveling, but that only takes me farther away from Marmee, the only real family I have left.
“Someone broke into my apartment last night.”
“Really?” Her thin eyebrows arch. “Did they take anything?”
“Only a few things,” I say, trying to sound unbothered. “I scared the person off with a baseball bat.”
She nods, impressed. “You don’t have to worry about intruders here.”
“You have to worry about intruders everywhere.”
More than once, I’ve considered Marmee’s house the perfect place to commit a crime. Her belongings would fetch millions of dollars on their own. Then you think of the isolation factor. No phones. No internet. Her estate is far enough away that it would take a long time for the police to arrive.
But I don’t tell her that. The last thing I want to do is scare her.
“Ava George visited me last week,” she says, segueing away from the break-in. The inclusion of Ava’s last name humors me, as if she’s some starlet worthy of a formal introduction—Marilyn Monroe, Audrey Hepburn.
“What about?” I’ve been dying to ask that question since I arrived.
“She said that she’s hosting a birthday party for you.”
“That’s the plan,” I say. “I’m not too keen on it myself.”
“It sounds like a nice send-off from your friends.”
“I appreciate the thought,” I say. “But my mind is elsewhere. The last thing I want to do is fool with one of Ava’s shindigs.”
Marmee stares at me, reading my expression. I always sense she can see right through to my real thoughts. I imagine her wielding that ability now.
“Ava suggested we have the party here,” Marmee says. “Turn it into a whole weekend affair.”
“What?”
