We recover. Somehow. Everybody goes back to eating dinner, my mom gives some mundane details about her flight, Gloria feels that she has to explain her situation and says she’s taking the kids to visit her mother in Massachusetts tomorrow, and that by the way her husband’s crime was completely overblown and nonviolent and non-drug-related, and then Laramie socks Fritzie in the arm very playfully and she socks him back, and then he and Fritzie finish their dinner and do some dance moves that Laramie learned on Fortnite, which is evidently a video game, and Patrick pours more much-needed wine for the adults. Marco gums my cheek and then stares rapturously into my eyes.

The doorbell rings again. Patrick and I look at each other.

He throws up his hands. “Your father, perhaps?”

“Or maybe it’s your sister from Wyoming,” I say. “We’ll have all the families here.”

“Maybe it’s my mom from Italy!” says Fritzie. She makes a face. “I hope Richard isn’t with her.”

“It could be my dad, breaking out of jail,” says Laramie, and I see Gloria shake her head and take another big swig of wine.

“It’s probably all of them. They shared an Uber,” Patrick says gloomily.

But it turns out to be Ariana, who technically didn’t need to ring the doorbell since she has the front door key—but she tells me that she thought it would be more polite than just barging in. Especially since she’s standing out there on the stoop with Charmaine, Mookie, Justin, and Dahlia, and they are all laughing and leaning against each other, stamping their feet, looking like an advertisement for youth. Picturesque snow flurries, looking as though they were provided by the props department, are landing on their shoulders.

“OH MY GOD! It’s snowing! It’s snowing! It’s snowing!” Fritzie shrieks. “Marnie’s mom, come see this! It’s snowing!”

“Honey, you can call me Millie,” says my mother. “Or Grandma Millie, if you would like.” And she gets up from the table and comes to the door to admire the snow and immediately she gets swept up with the Amazings, who, once everything gets explained and sorted out, can’t get over the fact that I have a mom right here on the premises.

“This is your mom?” Dahlia says. “Omigod! Guys, isn’t it literally so surprising when you find out older people have actual moms?”

“I’m ancient,” says my mother. “I’ve been around since God was wearing diapers. I used to change his diapers, in fact.”

“No, no, I totally didn’t mean that,” says Dahlia.

Fritzie, who serves as our resident mandated reporter, is required by contract to explain that my mother showed up “by surprise” just a few minutes before, and for some reason, she has to jump up and down on one foot while she says it.

“Just like I did!” she says. “Millie and me are the Surprise Girls.”

Ariana points out that she’s also a surprise girl, since she didn’t call either.

“And Dahlia and Charmaine,” says Mookie.

“Yes. There are surprise women all over the place,” says Patrick. “What we have here is an epidemic of surprise women.”

I do all the introductions and go make the coffee and get out the pumpkin pies. Everybody’s talking at once, and I think how Thanksgiving might be one of those holidays that can’t help but turn into what it’s supposed to be about, especially in Blix’s house.

I love how it feels as though Blix herself might somehow be orchestrating this from the sidelines. It’s just the kind of mishmash of people that she would approve of, I think. Justin is swinging Fritzie around, which may lead to breakage of some sort, and which makes the twins also want that kind of treatment—never mind that they’ve never seen him before, they are in—and everybody is talking at once. Dahlia and Gloria are in an animated conversation about Massachusetts, and Mom is telling Charmaine and Ariana that she left her stodgy old hairdresser because she wouldn’t do the hair-painting thing, and how do you get that rich purple shade? And Ariana is laughing and saying her family was hideous and she couldn’t wait to get out of there, so much judgment about her life choices, like how do they expect her to want to hang around after dinner if all they’re going to do is find fault with everything, and my mother—my mother!—is agreeing that family members can be the most judgmental people of all, and that it’s simply terrible the way they assume they know everything about us, when they may actually know next to nothing. And then we sit down to eat the pies, and there’s a small flare-up when Ariana takes out her video camera and wants to film all of us with our mouths full, but Justin takes it away from her very deftly, and kisses her on the mouth, which makes the children all go, “Oooooh,” along with my mother.

The pie dishes and coffee cups seem to vanish off the table while I’m talking to Mookie, and when I look around for Patrick, so we can roll our eyes together in that companionly sort of way, he’s nowhere to be found. He’s gone to the kitchen and is doing the dishes, which is a nice thing, of course. Perfectly fine impulse: tidying up.

But just like that, he segues into being MIA for the rest of the evening. Absorbed back into his studio. Everyone moves into the living room, and the teenagers finally drift downstairs, and Gloria gets her brood ready to depart. Marco and I are in despair at the prospect of parting, but I tell him we’ll meet again, even if I have to drive to Massachusetts to find him.

When I’ve gotten Fritzie packed off to bed, and it’s finally just my mother and me left, she says, “Where did that sweet Patrick go?”

I find a note from him on our bed saying that my mom should sleep in our room with me. He’s got lots of work to do, and this will be better for him, he wrote. He can stay up all night painting if he wishes, without disturbing anyone. And there’s a perfectly good futon in the studio, too. He signed the note with a big giant P. No love, no hearts, no anything a person could cling to.

I stand there reading the note, and my hand shakes a little.

“Oh, this is terrible,” says my mother, behind me. “Maybe you should go in and talk to him.”

“No,” I tell her. “He’s probably sleeping by now, and anyway I’m sure it’s fine. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

“Oh dear,” says my mother. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. I’m getting a vibe.”

“You think?” I say.

“It’s all my fault,” she says. “Here I do the one and only spontaneous thing I’ve ever done in my whole life—come to Brooklyn without telling you first, and oh my gosh! What was I thinking? How was this ever going to work? How is it that you and Patrick aren’t going to hate me for this? It just seemed so lovely and . . . spontaneously out of character for me! I should go to a hotel tonight, and Patrick can come back to his room. Let me call an Uber right now.”

“No, no, that’s ridiculous,” I say. “To tell you the truth, I think he’s been wanting to sleep in there anyway. It’s quieter, and he can think and paint and mutter to himself. He’s actually been coming to bed later and later. So he’s fine, I’m sure.”

“He’s a moody man, I guess,” she says. “Just like your father.”