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“Can you show Tova how you can play?” he asked, handing me the guitar.
The familiar weight in my hand summoned memories. Of missing home while I was in college. Delight in the concentration of learning to play. Next came understanding. I would finally quiet the to-do list in my head when I played. Nothing seemed as urgent or as critical while I picked out a melody. Was that what my son needed? A temporary escape from all the expectations? The freedom to just be?
I glanced around the small, square bedroom. His twin bed was in one corner, his dresser in another. If I sat on the bed, they’d pile around, and Tova would either have to stand or sit on the bed with me.
Not happening.
“Let’s go to the living room.” I could take the upholstered window seat, and Tova and the kids could sit on the couch and chairs.
I was like the Pied Piper leading everyone out of the room. I dutifully plastered my gaze on the floor to walk through the hallway full of artfully arranged photographs. I didn’t usually avoid looking at the family photos Meg had hung around the house before, but with a woman I couldn’t quit thinking about fucking? It seemed wrong.
When Ivy announced, “That’s my mom,” I briefly squeezed my eyes shut.
“This picture is so cute,” Tova gushed. “Tell me about it.”
I didn’t have to turn to know which one she was talking about. Meg hired a friend to do a photo shoot one summer. The girls wore ivory-colored dresses, while Grayson and I wore polo tops in a similar shade. The day had been hot, and Meg had been extra uptight that day. Family pictures always did that for her.
“I don’t remember,” Ivy said.
Should I be grateful? The day hadn’t been miserable, but photo shoots hadn’t been a fun family activity.
Grayson peered at the photo. “Mom got mad at Dad for telling jokes.”
Tova sent a questioning glance my way like she couldn’t believe I’d tell jokes while working to look like a perfect family.
“I meant to lighten the mood,” I explained. “Meg was trying not to be frustrated with her friend and keep her cool with the kids, but we were all tired and hadn’t eaten supper yet.”
“Getting the right photo can be stressful.” Tova put a hand on Grayson’s shoulder. “And you have kids in almost white clothes on green grass? I bet your mom was worried.”
Tova had nailed the day, and Meg, in one take.
“That was the only picture that turned out.” What Tova said clarified my understanding of the day. Like the kids, I remembered the curt words hissed back and forth between us while we struggled to emulate a happy, carefree, and spontaneous family. None of the words described us. “The photographer, bless her innocent soul, brought bubbles, thinking she was in for a carefree summer shoot.”
“It wasn’t carefree,” Grayson said in his best Eeyore voice.
“Until the bubbles!” Ivy said jubilantly, her smile triumphant. “I remember now.”
“That picture was when the photographer turned on a bubble machine she’d kept hidden.” I finally looked at the photo. Meg’s mouth was open, surprised as hell, a direct contrast to her crisp dress and tightly wound hair. The kids were delighted, and my grin was full of stark relief, giddy at watching Grayson and Ivy try to race to the bubbles instead of bickering with each other. The image was full of movement, lightness, and charm. The photographer had captured a feeling we couldn’t otherwise achieve without the impromptu bubbles.
This picture was a perfect representation of what we’d been like. An uptight family, interspersed with moments of lightness.
Would they get more of the uptight or more of the light with my in-laws?
My hand tensed on the guitar, a dawning realization pushing at my brain.
“The bubbles were fun.” Grayson’s concession lifted the mood, and I shut off my mind.
“I’m glad they worked.” Tova propped her hands on her hips and studied the photo. “The bubbles helped the photographer capture the real you.” She gave me an almost shy glance. “All of you.”
Tova wasn’t afraid to talk about Meg. But then she likely wasn’t having naughty dreams about me and therefore wasn’t feeling like a lecher out of place in this house.
I gripped the guitar and sat on the bench. A cool blast of air rode up my back from the vent between the bench and the window. Sweet, cool air that helped me focus.
Tova took a seat on the couch, a kid on each side of her. She folded a long leg under her and wiggled to get cozy. Hugging the kids, she murmured to each one about how excited she was to hear me play.
A lump formed in my throat. Whenever I brought the guitar out before, I’d hearOh, that thing again?We couldn’t blame the brain tumor on Meg’s sensitivity to sound. She’d been selectively sensitive.
I hadn’t realized the kids had noticed so much. Tova must think we had been an awful, rigid family.
