Thirty-Two

thirty-two

Once the fire department hauls us out, my parents take me to the small hospital on the island, equipped with an X-ray and a very nervous resident who informs us that my wrist is broken and seems a little too pleased with himself when he successfully puts a cast on it. After that, one shower in the hotel room and the equivalent of four ibuprofen running through my veins later, I almost look like a human being.

When I come out of the bathroom, there’s a telling hush in the room. My parents glance over, not even bothering to pretend they weren’t talking about me. I wish they would—it’s the first time we’ve had quiet all day, and suddenly I have no idea how to fill it. No idea of what I want to say, or where I’d even begin if I did.

My dad rescues us all from ourselves by saying, “Should we get some dinner?”

I thought for sure we’d be catching the next ferry out. “Is Colin not begging for mercy yet?” I ask, trying to imagine my uncle surviving another full night with my brothers.

My mom grabs her phone and says, “There’s a Thai place down the street that’s still open.”

“Sounds good to me. Abby?”

They’re so calm. So weirdly patient. Usually when there’s a problem, or something that needs to be said, they’ll do it right then. Rip the Band-Aid off and move on. Between all six of our schedules we don’t exactly have the luxury of time to stew.

But I guess as far as things go, we’ve never had to deal with one as big as this.

“Yeah. Sounds good to me.”

The place is small and cozy, with dim, yellow lighting and warm colors on the walls, a far cry from the camp and its high ceilings and pine smell and somewhat orderly chaos. Even the seats are big and plush, and only once I put my butt in one do I realize I’m so tired I could fall asleep as fast as it would take to close my eyes.

But the way my parents position themselves, the two of them on one side and me on the other, makes me realize this dinner wasn’t a whim. It was a tactical move. They were deciding what to say while I was in the shower, and they’ve chosen a public place so nobody can raise their voice or walk away. After yesterday I can’t really blame them. The usual bets are off.

I try not to squirm, wishing I’d at least used some of my time in the shower to rehearse what I was going to say instead of holding my wrapped-up arm out of the water spray. But before my parents can open their mouths, the front door to the restaurant opens and their eyes snap away from me so fast that there’s no doubt in my mind who walked in.

Sure enough, I turn and meet Savvy’s eyes so fast it feels like we planned this.

“Three?” the hostess asks, before Savvy or her parents can get their wits about them. “It’s probably going to be a half-hour wait.”

“Oh,” says Pietra, doing a very bad job of pretending not to see us, “that’s—you know what? We’ll come back another time—”

“There’s plenty of room at our table,” I say, before I can lose my nerve.

Dale clears his throat. “We wouldn’t want to … interrupt, if you—”

“Please,” says my mom, unexpectedly pulling out the empty chair next to her. “We really wouldn’t mind.”

We’re the ones doing the inviting, but it feels like it’s the other way around. Everyone holds their breath, the poor hostess trying to make eye contact with literally anyone to gauge the temperature of what’s going on, until Pietra says quietly, “If you’re sure.”

Before we can awkwardly put too much thought into who’s sitting where, I get up and sit on my parents’ side of the table, so when Savvy sits down she’s facing me and we’re both sandwiched by our parents. I try not to smile so we don’t look like we’re scheming, but Savvy’s eyes glint at me, and I nudge her sneakered foot under the table.

The waitress comes to take our order, looking at my parents first. My dad orders a beer, and my mom surprises me by ordering a glass of white wine, something I’ve only ever seen her drink when all my brothers are in bed. She turns to Pietra and says shyly, “And I assume a glass of red for you?”

Pietra goes stiff, bristling slightly at the familiarity, but slowly she eases into her seat and nods at my mom. “That would be lovely.”

Everyone buries their heads in their menus after that, my parents scrutinizing the appetizer list like it’s a legal document from one of their cases, Savvy’s parents finishing nearly half their first glass of wine before the waitress makes it back to take our food order. Savvy and I are both dead silent, communicating only through the occasional glance, like we’re too afraid to remind them we’re here and distract from this rare moment of them not being at one another’s throats.

“The spring rolls, maybe?” my mom asks.

My dad shakes his head. “Dale’s allergic to cilantro.”

Pietra reaches over Savvy to nudge Dale. “He says he’s allergic.”

“It tastes like soap.”

“That’s not an allergy,” my mom and Pietra protest at the same time, with the exact same inflection.

Dale holds his hands up in surrender. “Wow, it’s been eighteen years since the two of them have ganged up on me, and somehow it’s still just as terrifying.”

“Well, they’re not the only girls ganging up on you anymore,” says my dad mildly, acknowledging me and Savvy.

I freeze like a bunny in an open field, but Savvy leans forward, addressing us all in turn with a meaningful look. “Okay. We’re all here. We’ve survived a public spat and a mud pit and cilantro. Can you tell us the rest of the story, maybe?”

Crickets from the parents, until Dale takes it upon himself to say, “There’s not much to tell.”

Savvy falters, and I pick up the slack. “Sure there is. You told us the end of it. What happened at the beginning? How did you all meet?”

I feel my parents’ eyes on me, but before I meet them I know it’s less from annoyance and more out of surprise. I’m not usually the one taking charge of conversations. And while I’m still getting used to this new Abby, they haven’t seen much of her at all.

I can see the adults starting to relent. My mom drops her shoulders. My dad stops staring at his empty plate. Dale stops cracking his knuckles, and Pietra stops intermittently taking large sips of her wine. It’s like they’re all finally willing to go the distance, but have no idea where the journey begins.

I pull the keychain out of my pocket and set my magpie charm on the table. Savvy pulls hers off and does the same.

“It’s your names, isn’t it?” Savvy asks. “Maggie and Pietra.”

The look on my mom’s face when we first pulled these out is so fresh in my mind that I almost keep my head down, but her posture softens, her lips giving way to a quiet smile. She and Pietra stare at the little charms, disappearing to some other time together, far from the rest of us.

My mom looks up, but it’s Pietra’s eyes she meets, not mine. Like she’s waiting for Pietra’s permission before she says anything. Or maybe the beginning is Pietra’s story to tell.

Pietra leans forward, grazing the charm with her fingertips. “We bought these at Pike Place Market. Some little artisan seller. They were the last two.”

“We were both near broke.”

“Worth the money, though,” Pietra murmurs. “They’ve held up through the years, haven’t they?”

“That they have.”

Pietra lets go of the charm, looking from me to Savvy. “I was twenty-two when I started at Bean Well. I’d moved out of my parents’ place—less than politely. Told them I wanted to make it on my own. Ended up crying in the first coffee shop where I could find parking, certain I was going to turn right back around and undo the whole thing.” She turns to look at my mom, her eyes misty, but her voice wry. “But some nosy teenager butted in with a free scone and wrangled out my whole life story instead.”

My mom ducks her head, and when she looks up I can imagine her as that nosy teen, smirking this exact same smirk. “Well. Dad helped.”

“He did.” Pietra’s smile widens. “And for some reason I could never begin to fathom, he offered the girl scaring all his customers away a job.”

“I had to train her.” There’s a pause where my mom bites her lip, and her eyes meet Pietra’s, and she says, “She was so bad.”

Pietra puts her hand up in surrender. “I’m a tea drinker, I’d never made coffee in my life—”

“Forget coffee—you couldn’t even figure out how to turn on the vacuum,” my mom says, trying to muffle her laughter.

Pietra’s mouth drops open in mock offense. “You mean that piece of junk your mom dragged out of the eighties? Honestly, I was half expecting it to turn into a Transformer.”

My mom does what appears to be an impression of Pietra trying to figure out where the “on” button of an invisible vacuum is, and Pietra lets out a sharp laugh, saying, “Mags, you jerk.”

I watch, riveted. My parents tease each other, but not like this—not this lawless, almost teenage banter, the kind of shit I would get away with saying to Connie or Leo in full awareness that I could never say it to anyone else.

Pietra leans over the table and sips some of my mom’s wine in what appears to be retaliation. My mom lets her, easing back with a smug look on her face. “At least you were a quick student.”

Pietra rolls her eyes, returning the wineglass. “I was managing the place within the year. I was your boss, if you recall.”

“Hmm,” says my mom, glancing up at the ceiling. “And yet your lattes were never so good that you had lines out the door to order them.”

“Puh-lease. The boys who were mooning over your lattes were just trying to get in your—”

“Is everyone ready to order?” asks the waitress, saving me from nearly choking on my Sprite.

The waitress takes down everyone’s dinner orders and flits off. I’m afraid there’s going to be a lull, but Pietra jumps right back in, her cheeks flushed from the wine and her voice giddy in that way adults are when they’re talking about something they almost forgot about from a long time ago.

“I worked there for years. Long after I made up with my parents. Your grandfather started letting me work with local artists. We featured some of their pieces in the shop.”

“You’re the one who started that?” I ask.

My mom nods. “It was more than that. There was Bean Well After Dark, for a little while. Open mic nights and mini art shows. We even had a few poetry slams.”

“It was all very late nineties,” says Pietra, sharing my mom’s smile. “And Maggie had this idea…” She nods over at my mom.

“It was around when I was studying for the LSATs, and interning downtown at the women’s shelter. I knew I was going to be working with families, and I—well, we came up with this idea for a hybrid art gallery café.” My mom’s voice is lower, self-conscious. It occurs to me this is probably the first time she’s talked about this in years. “We’d have classes there. For art and photography. And offer free classes to families in adjustment periods, just so they’d have something fun to focus on, a place they could be together.”

“We were going to call it Magpie.”

A quiet settles over the table. Savvy’s looking over at me, but I can’t quite bring myself to look back. Bean Well isn’t really a part of her history the way it’s part of mine. She didn’t grow up scarfing Marianne’s scones, or letting Mrs. Leary’s dog fall asleep in her lap by the window, or getting free life advice from the string of college-age baristas who came and went and still visited whenever they could. She doesn’t have scratches in the doorframe of the supply closet marking her height every year, or a favorite chair, or a sunny spot in the back she used to tease Poppy for taking naps in. She never called it home.

My mom leans across the table and picks up Savvy’s charm, dangling it so it spins and catches the light. “I didn’t realize you’d kept yours,” she says.

“I didn’t, actually,” says Pietra. She clears her throat. “It was still on my keys to Bean Well when I sent them back to Walt. After everything that happened, I … didn’t feel right having them anymore.”

The table is at once tense enough that it feels like there is something seismic underneath us, something that will either rumble or explode. I watch my mom nod quietly, watch Pietra’s eyes dim. There’s a second when I think this is all going to come unraveled again. But Pietra reaches across the table and takes my charm, holding it up next to Savvy’s.

“About two years after Savvy was born, Walt sent it back to me,” she says softly. “He said he respected that we wanted a clean break, but he wanted Savvy to have something in case we told her the truth. He told me to give it to her. To help explain everything when she was old enough.”

“My dad told me to give my charm to Abby, too.” My mom’s voice is shaking. “He said he thought she should have it, since it was a symbol of how we all brought each other together. But he didn’t say anything about telling her.”

I stare down at the napkin in my lap, fighting the smallest smile. I’m almost certain Poppy knew our parents weren’t going to tell us the truth. This was a seed he planted to bring me and Savvy together. The idea is comforting, and for a moment, it feels like he’s here, listening in, chuckling at handiwork sixteen years in the making.

“He also sent me a picture,” Pietra says quietly. “Of Abby’s birth announcement.”

My mom’s hand grazes her mouth, like she’s trying not to choke up again. “I didn’t know.”

“We were still so angry. But we—we were happy to hear about her. About you,” Pietra amends, shooting me a wry look.

My cheeks flush, embarrassed to have four pairs of adult eyes suddenly on me. I’m relieved when Pietra continues.

“If things had been different…”

Savvy and I might have grown up together. Might have had a lot of dinners like this, ones where we sat back in our chairs and laughed without looking over our shoulders. Might have shared much more than the unexpected things we do now.

“I know I’ve said it before,” says my mom, addressing Dale and Pietra both. “But I really am sorry.”

Pietra’s lips thin into her teeth, like she’ll never be quite ready to accept the words fully, even if she understands them. She sets the charm back down and rests her hand over it. “Love makes you do things you never thought you would.”

Pietra carefully reaches out and puts the magpie charm back in my hand. My fingers curl around it, feeling a new warmth at its edges. “What did you mean before … about you guys bringing each other together?” I ask.

“Oh, he probably meant us,” says Dale, with an exaggerated lean back in his chair.

My dad is also sporting a knowing look. “I wondered if our names were ever going to come up.”

“Really is just like the good ole days, huh? Your wife forgetting you exist, my wife forgetting I exist…”

“Excuse you,” says Pietra. “What Walt meant is that if it weren’t for us, neither of you would be married in the first place.”

I blink at the four of them. “Uh. I mean, isn’t that … how deciding to marry each other works?”

Dale’s eyebrows shoot up, excited to be a part of the conversation. “No, she means—your dad was taking an art class with Pietra—”

“To impress some other girl, it turns out,” my mom cuts in.

“I hadn’t met you yet!” my dad protests.

Pietra’s eyes are gleaming. “You and that other girl would have been a disaster, but the moment I saw Tom I knew he was Maggie’s. So I brought him over to the coffee shop—”

“She told me there was a student discount.”

“There wasn’t,” says my mom, leaning toward me and Savvy conspiratorially.

“And when I got there, she just—poof!—disappeared. Left me in that café all alone with Maggie, who took one look at my John Grisham paperback and started talking my ear off about how secretly reading her parents’ ‘murder books’ as a kid is what first got her interested in law.”

“Lucky you.”

My dad’s smile softens. “Lucky me.”

“And lucky us, because Maggie paid back the favor. I mean, it was a little less romantic and definitely not intentional—”

“Uh, Dale, it was completely intentional,” my mom cuts in. “I’d been talking to Pietra about you for weeks.”

“Wait, what? Then why did you wait until we were in the middle of a training run on the hottest day of the year to drag me into Bean Well for free water?” He leans over to me and Savvy for context, adding, “Maggie and I were in the same running club.”

“Because you seemed like the kind of guy who would, I don’t know, overthink the whole thing completely and come off way too strong.”

“Instead he came off as kind of smelly,” says Pietra, looking over Savvy to tease him with a smile.

“Anyway,” says my dad. “That’s how we met.”

There’s this lull where nobody says anything, until Savvy asks, “So you two kind of … picked each other’s husbands?”

“No,” says my dad, without missing a beat. “They picked each other.”

My mom and Pietra both get so immediately teary-eyed that there is no mistaking it for nostalgia, or that specific brand of weepy you get when you’re thinking about your best friend. It’s quiet and ancient. It’s years of regret and grief, and an entire lifetime buried under it—a lifetime where my mom and Pietra were two entirely different people, on some entirely different plane. A lifetime where they teased each other and dreamed each other’s dreams and willed each other’s happiness into existence.

And no matter how messy it turned out, it’s still there, I realize. That happiness. It’s in every part of my world—the old things, like walking hand-in-hand with my parents to get ice cream as a kid. The new things, like making massive Oreo towers with my little brothers. Even the newest, sitting across from me right now, blinking back with eyes like mirrors, the two of us coming to the same understanding.

Their friendship may have ended years ago, but it’s lived on in us all this time.

My mom reaches her hand across the table at the same time as Pietra, and they squeeze, and there is something so powerful in the pulse that it feels like some kind of spell is broken. It’s a thank you every bit as much as it’s an I’m sorry, the weight of it without the words. We hold our breath in the aftermath, like they were all bound to something for so long that they don’t know how to move themselves without it holding them back.

And then my mom looks at me and Savvy and says, “Seems like they did, too.”