Big sigh. Cabinet door slamming a little too enthusiastically.
“Luke, the kids need dinner.”
She hates me and has never tried to hide it.
“Is she calling AGAIN?”
It really bothers her that Luke spends so much time with me. Gabrielle loves being the center of attention and can’t stand it when she isn’t.
I always pretend I don’t hear.
My best friend Doreen says I’ve got a PhD in “Pretending I Don’t Hear.”
“Marlene,” she told me once over coffee, “one of these days you’re going to have to say something.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“That’s exactly your problem.”
It really bothers her.
My mother raised me never to be a bother. Bless her, she also raised me never to wear white after Labor Day, so her advice has expiration dates.
Anyway. A few weeks ago, Luke called with the sweetest news.
***
“Ma, come and stay for a week. The kids miss you. Poppy’s been drawing you pictures.”
I nearly cried into my oatmeal.
My mother raised me never to be a bother.
“Are you sure Gabrielle won’t mind?”
“Ma, come.”
So I packed my best cardigan, the blue one with the pearl buttons, and a tin of homemade chocolate chip cookies for my grandkids. I even bought a little stuffed dinosaur for Jonah because, according to Luke, he’d been going through a very committed dinosaur phase.
“Ma, come.”
I hadn’t hugged those babies in almost a year, and I really missed them. A year is a long time when you’re pushing 70, and your knees crack when you stand up.
But right before I was supposed to fly to their city, Luke suddenly called.
“Ma, I’m so sorry. Work is sending me out of town for two, maybe three days. Gabrielle’s picking you up. I’ll be back before you know it, I promise.”
I really missed them.
“Okay, honey,” I replied. “Don’t worry about me.”
Because that’s what I always say.
Don’t worry about me. Don’t fuss over me.
***
I got to the airport at 12 p.m., wearing sensible shoes and a hopeful expression.
The flight was smooth. I even got the window seat.
“Don’t worry about me.”
I stepped off that plane into a jetway that smelled of jet fuel and stale pretzels, and I felt something small and cold settle in my stomach.
Looking back now, sitting here in my kitchen typing this out, I want to reach through time and grab that woman by the cardigan.
I should’ve turned around right then and flown home.
Instead, I went to find Gabrielle.
I felt something small and cold settle in my stomach.
***
My DIL showed up at the arrivals curb wearing sunglasses the size of dinner plates, even though the sun had started setting.
“Marlene. Hi.”
She popped the trunk without getting out.
I wrestled my suitcase into the trunk myself, cardigan sleeves flapping, and slid into the passenger seat with what I hoped passed for a warm smile.
She popped the trunk without getting out.
“It’s so good to see you, honey. How are the kids?”
“They’re fine.”
I blinked.
We drove in a silence so thick I could’ve buttered toast with it. The only sound for the last 25 minutes was Gabrielle updating me, unprompted, on her yoga instructor’s divorce.
“He kept the dog. Can you believe that? The DOG!”
“They’re fine.”
“Terrible,” I said, because at that point I would’ve agreed the moon was made of provolone if it kept the peace.
***
By the time we pulled into the driveway, my back had that particular hum it gets when it’s plotting revenge. I just wanted a pillow. Any pillow. A folded towel, even, because it was already late.
“Could you show me my room, sweetheart? I’m about to fall over.”
“Sure. This way.”
I just wanted a pillow.
My DIL led me through the kitchen, past a bowl of very sad-looking bananas, and slid the back door open.
I followed her across the lawn in my traveling flats, thinking maybe she wanted to show me the garden or something. Then I saw it.
A small blue tent, glowing under the porch light.
I actually laughed. “Oh, that’s cute. Did the kids set that up? Are they hiding in there?”
Then I saw it.
My DIL pointed at the tent and said, “No, that’s your room.”
I waited for her to laugh too. She didn’t.
“The thing is, all the rooms were painted just this morning. There’s only one left that isn’t painted yet, and I’ll be sleeping there with the kids. There’s nowhere to sleep inside the house. But you like camping, if I remember correctly, right?”
“No, that’s your room.”
Well, I wouldn’t exactly say I like it. I haven’t liked camping for 10 years, since a raccoon stole my hot dog and my confidence. I’ve mentioned that several times during family get-togethers.
“It’s just paint fumes, Marlene. You’d be sick all night.”
I stood there, holding a tin of homemade cookies, staring at a tent. And I thought about Luke, the grandkids, and how one wrong word from me could turn a week into a war.
I wouldn’t exactly say I like it.
But what could I do? Obviously, I didn’t want to breathe in paint fumes.
So I said, “All right. Just for tonight.”
I crawled into that sleeping bag, and my hip cracked.
***
Someone outside decided to use a leaf blower at 11 at night, which, honestly, felt like a personal message from the universe.
I fumbled for my phone and texted Doreen.
But what could I do?
“I am sleeping in a tent. Send wine.”
Three dots appeared immediately. Doreen hardly ever sleeps.
“WHAT?! Marlene!”
“Long story. Paint fumes inside, allegedly.”
“Allegedly, my foot! Get up and go to a hotel!”
“I can’t. The grandkids are inside.”
Three dots appeared immediately.
“Marlene, honey. You are TOO old and TOO classy for a tent.”
I put the phone down and stared at the tent ceiling, which was decorated with what looked like dried apple juice from some long-ago backyard sleepover. An old camping tent, I realized. The kind that had clearly been shoved in the garage for years, waiting for exactly this indignity.
I struggled for a while before the travel exhaustion overtook me.
I put the phone down.
***
Morning came the way punishment does, slowly and certainly. I unzipped the flap, and the squirrel on the fence looked at me as if I’d wronged him in a past life.
I sat up. Every vertebra filed a formal complaint.
I waited on the lawn chair for what felt like an hour, robe pulled tight, hoping Gabrielle might appear with coffee, breakfast, and an apology, in that order.
I’d wronged him in a past life.
My DIL appeared with a granola bar and a bottle of water on a little tray.
“The paint still isn’t dry.”
“Ah.”
“I’ll bring you a real breakfast in a bit.”
“Take your time, sweetheart.”
She retreated. I chewed the granola bar, which had the moisture content of a bookmark, and watched a bird judge me.
I was calculating exactly how I’d describe this to Doreen when I heard tires on the driveway.
She retreated.
A familiar silver sedan rolled in, one full day too early, and Luke stepped out with his overnight bag slung over his shoulder.
My son’s car door slammed, and I watched his face do a whole slideshow. Confusion. Then concern. Then something I hadn’t seen since he was 12, when he caught his sister eating his Halloween candy.
He crossed the yard in about four strides.
We hugged, and he told me his business trip had ended early, so he’d driven straight home.
My son’s car door slammed.
Then he noticed the tent and asked what it was doing there.
“Mom? Why are you sitting in the yard? In a robe?”
I gave him my sweetest smile, the one I use at the DMV.
“Well, honey, Gabrielle told me you’re having the rooms renovated. She said the fumes were terrible and there was nowhere for me to sleep, so she set me up out here.”
Then he noticed the tent.
Luke turned red. Not embarrassed red. The kind of red that has its own weather system.
“Painted?” my son asked. “Mom, there is no renovation and no paint. Nothing has been painted. I personally made up the guest room myself before I left. Fresh sheets. I even put a lavender candle on the nightstand because I know you like the smell.”
I was shocked! Gabrielle had really gone too far!
“Nothing has been painted.”
Just then, my DIL appeared in the doorway with her arms crossed, hair perfect, expression not.
“Luke, it… it wasn’t like that. I can explain…”
“Gabrielle.” His voice was calm as he smiled. That was the scary part. “I’m going to run to the store. Twenty to 30 minutes. Mom, go inside. Please.”
He kissed my forehead as if I were made of glass and walked back to the car.
That was the scary part.
I don’t think I’ve ever moved so fast in my life. Bad back and all, I was on that couch with a coffee in about 60 seconds!
Gabrielle paced the living room, folding a towel that was already folded. Then unfolding it and folding it again.
“He’s overreacting,” she muttered. “You know how he gets.”
“Mmm,” I said, sipping.
She glanced toward the hallway.
“He’s overreacting.”
The guest room door had drifted open. I could see the crisp white sheets from where I sat. The lavender candle sat there like a little witness.
Not a whiff of paint anywhere. The whole house smelled of coffee and, faintly, whatever expensive candle Gabrielle burns.
Little feet came thumping down the stairs. Poppy, all messy braids and a nightgown covered in cartoon avocados. Jonah trailed behind her, clutching a stuffed dinosaur by its tail.
Little feet came thumping down the stairs.
“Grandma!”
They flew into me, and I don’t care what my back said about it; I hugged those babies until my arms hurt!
Poppy pulled back and gave me a very serious look. Seven-year-olds have a way of asking questions like tiny lawyers.
“Grandma, why did you sleep outside?”
I opened my mouth. Nothing useful came out.
They flew into me.
“Mommy said you wanted to,” Poppy went on. “She said you love camping. But you don’t love camping. You told me on the phone your back hurts when you sit on the floor.”
From across the room, my DIL made some sort of noise.
I patted Poppy’s cheek. “Grandma had a little misunderstanding, sweetheart. It’s all sorted now.”
Jonah tugged my sleeve. “Are you going to sleep in my room? I have a bunk bed.”
My DIL made some sort of noise.
“That’s very generous, buddy. Grandma might take the guest room, though.”
Gabrielle turned toward the kitchen quickly, and I saw her jaw tense.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Doreen.
“Are you alive? Do I need to fly out there? I have a suitcase and rage.”
I typed back: Luke’s home. I think there’s about to be a reckoning. Also, please send an ice pack.
I saw her jaw tense.
***
Half an hour passed the way it does when you’re waiting for a shoe to drop: slowly and loudly.
I didn’t really know what I was waiting for. I didn’t know about the box yet.
All I knew was that Luke had that face. The one my late husband used to call his slow burn. The one that meant somebody, somewhere, was about to have a very educational moment.
I didn’t know about the box yet.
***
Gabrielle returned with a plate of grapes; she wasn’t offering them to anyone. She just stood there holding them like a prop.
“Marlene,” she started, “you understand it was chaotic, with Luke gone, and…”
Tires crunched on the gravel outside.
She wasn’t offering them to anyone.
My DIL’s mouth closed. Her face went the color of skim milk.
Luke was back. And through the front window, I could see him lifting something out of the trunk. It was a plain brown cardboard box, big enough to hold a large dog.
***
My son handed the mysterious box to Gabrielle.
“Open it.”
“Luke, whatever this is, please don’t.”
Her face went the color of skim milk.
He opened it himself. Out came a bright pink four-person tent, a fancy sleeping bag, a little lantern, and a folding chair with a cup holder!
I nearly choked on my coffee.
“Since you think the backyard is a fine place for family to sleep,” Luke said, “you can try it for the next two nights while my mom helps the guest room air out from all that paint.”
Gabrielle screamed so loudly that the whole house seemed to shake!
I nearly choked on my coffee.
“You are humiliating me in front of your mother and children?!”
“Mom flew across the country with a bad back, and you stuck her in a tent. Do you want to be queen of this house? Start acting like guests are people.”
My DIL burst into tears, which honestly startled me more than the screaming.
“You can sleep out there tonight,” Luke went on, quieter now, “or you can sit down, apologize to my mother properly, and go with her to family counseling next month.”
“Do you want to be queen of this house?”
Gabrielle wiped her face with the back of her hand and sat down.
The grandkids were stuck in place, just staring.
“I’m sorry, Marlene. Truly. That was awful of me.”
It was a clumsy apology, but it felt real. And I saw something I hadn’t expected underneath. Fear.
“That was awful of me.”
***
Over the dinner Luke cooked, my DIL explained herself and her behavior toward me in pieces.
“I grew up in a house with six kids. Nobody noticed whether I had left the room. When Luke goes to you, I just… panic.”
I reached across the table and patted her hand, because that was the kind of person I was.
“Honey, there’s plenty of him to go around. Let’s share.”
“I grew up in a house with six kids.”
***
I spent the rest of the week in the actual guest room. Read stories to Poppy and Jonah. Taught Gabrielle my cookie recipe, badly, with flour on the ceiling somehow.
I flew home, still a bit sore but softer.
Sometimes meanness is just fear wearing lipstick.
And a good son with a pink tent can fix more than you’d think.
