LIZ
AS LIZ HURRIED home, irritated and glistening in the growing heat of the day (Liz didn’t sweat, she perspired), she took careful stock of her children. Motherhood had come naturally to her, not necessarily as a state of the heart but as an occupation. It’s what women did, back in the day. Never mind careers or life dreams or independence. A woman of a certain age found a good match and started a family. Liz had been exquisite at it. Betty Crocker home-cooked meals every night and charming Christmas cards each December. Liz made sure everyone was looking at the camera and smiling. None of that journalistic-style photography that had gotten so popular as of late. Faces in profile, eyes closed, still-life chaos. Liz just didn’t understand.
And she didn’t understand why her children insisted on being so similarly disordered.
Quinn was clearly hiding something. Never mind her unsuitable husband (who, honestly, looked Middle Eastern—and what was Liz supposed to do with that?), her unemployment, and her obvious disregard for the woman who had raised her. The woman who had changed her diapers and cleaned up her vomit and driven her to cheerleading practice and play rehearsal and, really, all over creation. It hurt her feelings, Liz decided. She wished her youngest would let her in, would confide whatever secrets she was keeping. Liz had such good advice to give, and she longed to share it.
As for her other daughter, Nora felt like a lost cause—and that pain was chronic. Dull at times, debilitating at others. Impossible to predict. Nora had never gotten on well with her father, but that was such an understatement it was almost laughable. What was it about those two? They had been oil and water, as different from one another as Jack Sr. and Jack Jr. were alike. Jack Sr. had been straightlaced, enduringly pragmatic, unforgiving. Black and white. Nora lived in the space between. Why? Nora had asked. Why? Why? Why? It was her first word, or at least Liz thought it was. Who could remember? It certainly seemed to be so, for it was the mantra that Nora repeated from her high chair and beyond. She never stopped asking it.
Eat your peas. Why?
We go to church twice on Sunday. Why?
The Sanfords are Republicans. Why?
This is how it’s done. Why?
Jack didn’t feel compelled to answer other than: because I said so. And that simply wasn’t good enough for Nora. When she graduated from high school she was ready to run. University of Northwestern St. Paul was the plan, but instead of going there to study, she disappeared. Well, not really. Nora’s departure wasn’t dramatic. There were no tears or missing person’s reports or shouting. She simply left the house bound for college and never showed up. When she came home several months later, there was some yelling (on Jack Sr.’s part), but nothing would dissuade her. Nora was a grown-up and she had flown the coop. Liz let her go. What choice did she have?
Thankfully, Liz had JJ. And he was having a baby. Well, he wasn’t having the baby, his pretty little wife, Amelia, was. Liz wasn’t sure how she felt about Amelia, even after almost seven years of being her mother-in-law. But she was quite certain that a grandbaby was a wonderful idea, so it was hard not to love just a teeny bit the woman who was going to give her one.
Liz didn’t necessarily think of herself as grandmother material, at least not in the traditional sense. Gray-haired and big-bosomed and perpetually dusted with the ingredients for something fattening and baked. But stereotypes aside, there was a part of her that longed for the feel of a baby in her arms, the warm, wiggling weight of a person who she could press tight to her chest. It had been a long time since Liz had held someone. Macy gave her one-armed hugs and feathery European kisses, and JJ pecked her forehead every time they met. But to embrace. It was a different thing altogether. Liz realized she was getting soft in her old age. Maybe that was okay? The jury was still out on that one.
Anyway, Liz decided as she rounded the corner into her cul-de-sac, she would be the cool grandma. If it was a boy, she could take him golfing. She had a wicked swing and had often beat Jack Sr. when he was alive. In fact, he quit playing because she trounced him so thoroughly one unseasonably hot spring day nearly five years ago—though he insisted it was an issue with his rotator cuff. And if JJ and Amelia’s baby was a girl, then Liz and the tiny darling could get manicures together. Liz liked neat nails. Square-tipped and not too long, elegant and feminine with just enough of an edge to let people know that she meant business. There were so many things she could teach Ruby.
Ruby. Liz knew she shouldn’t get her hopes up. The baby’s name was ultimately JJ and Amelia’s decision, but she didn’t mind dropping not-so-subtle hints. Ruby was a family name; Liz’s grandmother and mother had both been named Ruby and it would mean so much to Liz if the tradition was carried on. Come to think of it, Ruby Elizabeth had a certain ring to it.
“Why didn’t you name one of your girls Ruby?” Amelia had asked when Liz first brought up the issue. The question was innocent enough, but Liz bristled.
“Jack Sr. preferred Nora, after his mother.”
“And Quinn?”
“She was born via Cesarean section. When I came out of surgery, her birth certificate had already been signed.”
Amelia looked troubled by this news, but Liz had long ago forgiven her husband. She just hoped her son would come through for her.
When Liz finally arrived home from her much-longer-than-usual daily walk, she scrambled herself a couple of eggs and ate them while she called Amelia. If Nora was going to run away and ignore her, and if Quinn refused to engage in even the most basic of relationships, what choice did Liz have?
“Let’s have lunch,” Liz said between bites. She was famished, but refused to talk and chew at the same time.
“I can’t, Elizabeth.” Amelia insisted on calling her by her given name. The possibility of “Mom” had never come up. “I’m working today.”
At the real estate office. With JJ. In a job that was nothing more than an excuse to get her out of the house. But Liz didn’t say any of that. “Sneak out a bit early. We can have a drink on the dock.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“A sip or two of champagne never hurt.”
Amelia laughed a little too brightly. “Maybe it wasn’t an issue when you were pregnant, Elizabeth, but I’m not drinking. Why don’t you give Quinn a call?”
Liz felt herself deflate.
“Though maybe nix the champagne.”
“Oh?” Liz perked up. “Why would I do that?”
Amelia skipped a beat. “No reason.”
“Don’t be coy,” Liz said, and speared a nibble of her scrambled egg. Wondering.
And just like that, it hit her. She didn’t need Amelia to explain, nor did she want her to. If the words were said out loud she would have to acknowledge them, and if she acknowledged them they would feel all too true. Irrevocable.
Liz didn’t realize she had dropped her fork until it clattered on the table. Making an excuse about the UPS man at the door, she hung up quickly. Then she sat very still, hands folded neatly in her lap, eggs forgotten. Could it be true?
Quinn was pregnant. Or, no, not yet. She was trying to become so. The syringe, her obvious agitation when Liz showed up on her doorstep. (Okay, in her living room, but the house was Liz’s, surely she was allowed to pop in.) Maybe Quinn and Walker were struggling? Liz had never had any trouble conceiving; in fact, Quinn had been a surprise. Not a mistake, mind you, but having the girls twelve months apart and only two years after JJ had made for several rowdy seasons at the Sanford home. Liz had her tubes tied after Quinn was delivered, and she never regretted it. But though she had been fertile and experienced relatively easy pregnancies, she knew that not all women had it so good.
“Oh, Quinn,” Liz murmured, absently picking up her plate and fork and carrying them to the kitchen. She scraped the cold eggs into the garbage disposal and ran it while she washed her dishes. One sad little cup from when she woke up, one plate, one fork. Life wasn’t meant to be lived alone, Liz thought as she toweled off the three pieces and put them away. Even her cutlery knew that one was a melancholy number.
A party. The thought came into her mind unbidden and certainly unexpected. How long had it been since she had thrown a party? Two years at least, for there hadn’t been a single get-together at the Sanford home since Jack Sr. had passed away. It felt wrong somehow, too festive, too bright. How long was one supposed to mourn? There was no handbook for this sort of thing.
But, oh, did Liz know how to throw a party.
Champagne and cocktails and hors d’oeuvres that Liz had whipped up in minutes but that looked as if she had spent hours preparing. Flaked white fish with chiles and sesame, sliced zucchini with goat cheese and mint, heirloom tomatoes from her garden with a drizzle of balsamic vinegar and fresh mozzarella. Her designer talents extended to food and festivities, and Sanford parties were extravagant affairs in Key Lake. Their house was built on a bluff overlooking the water, and from the long boat dock to the flat yard above there were forty-two steps that arched up in three zigzagging staircases. All along those weather-worn boards Liz had hung Christmas lights, tiny white globes that glittered merrily in invitation whenever she was entertaining. Lights meant a gathering, but it was only a public party when the flag was flying at the end of the dock.
It used to be a rainbow flag—before Liz realized that the gays had claimed that particular symbol. “Mother,” Nora groaned when she heard why the rainbow flag had ended up in the garbage. She turned Liz’s title into two syllables that sounded exactly like something that should not be uttered in the presence of a lady. But Liz didn’t care. She bought a new flag, one with the nautical symbol for S. It was neat and clean and simple: white with a blue square in the middle. And it meant Sanford. Because she liked to claim what was hers.
Yes, Liz decided, looking out over the lake and the handful of boats that dotted the dazzlingly blue water. She would put the flag out. Maybe the vacationers wouldn’t know what it meant, but the residents of Key Lake had long memories. Liz knew that they would come. For the food, for the chance to sit in the vividly painted Adirondack chairs that lined the patio where Jack Sr. had once sat and held court with stories only he could tell.
A party would cost her more than she should spend, but Liz still had several one hundred dollar bills rolled up in her underwear drawer from the secret interior design jobs that she had taken from time to time when her husband was alive. Jack didn’t like her working, but sometimes people came begging for her magic touch, the unique combination of color and contour and light that she could bring to a room. Liz had done it on the sly, hiding the money and insisting that her clients hold their tongues. After Jack passed she could have started her own little business, but it felt like an affront to his memory. She never consulted again.
Liz’s underwear drawer looked like the counter in an upscale lingerie store. Her panties were carefully fanned so that she could extract the pair she wanted, her bras were laid out in order by color and style. The only thing out of place was an old Republic of Tea tin that was slid into the farthest recess of the drawer. When Liz popped the top she was disappointed to find that what she thought would be several bills was only two. But it was August, and she could lean heavily on produce from her garden. Lemonade and vodka would make an easy drink she could mix in volume. A single case of champagne and flowers from her yard arranged in vases she already owned would add a touch of flair. It would work. She would make it work.
It was a flimsy plan, as thin and fragile as gauze. But it was all that Liz had. If she was going to save her daughter from ruining her own life, Liz had to start somewhere. Best case scenario, Quinn would see the error of her ways and remember the love that she had left behind. Reclaim the life she could have had. Leave Walker? Is that what Liz really wanted? Maybe. But she hardly dared to hope. And because she was a realist, she knew that the most she could reasonably wish for was a concession or two. Maybe Quinn could be convinced to settle herself, put down some roots, return to the sweet, simple girl she once had been. At the very least, their relationship could be resurrected.
The best way she knew to begin was by reminding Quinn of the life she had left behind. Surely it hadn’t all been bad.
Once, when Quinn was almost a woman herself, tall and thin and lovely in the way of all eighteen-year-olds, she had accused Liz of taking sides.
“You always put him before us!”
“Him?” Liz was only half paying attention. She was on her knees in the garden, a wire basket of green beans in the dirt beside her. The beans weren’t important, and Liz didn’t make a habit of disregarding her children, but Quinn had warmed recently to the role of victim and Liz wasn’t about to encourage it. Self-pity was a slippery slope, and Liz considered it her motherly duty to hold her daughter’s hand. Firmly.
“Dad.” Quinn threw up her arms in anger or defeat, Liz couldn’t tell. “He’s manipulative and controlling. He’s been reading my emails again, Mom. That’s not okay.”
“He’s your father, Quinn.”
“I’m eighteen years old!”
And under our roof, Liz thought. But she didn’t say that. Nor did she bring up the supper that would be on the table in an hour, the fresh green beans and burgers from the grill and lemonade that she had squeezed that afternoon. Quinn drove a hand-me-down car from her father and charged gas to his account at the local station. She was educated and well dressed and had wanted for nothing in all her eighteen years. Didn’t that in and of itself demand a little respect? It did.
“He loves you,” Liz said, but something about the words rang insincere. Jack Sr. was not a lover. A provider and caretaker, a breadwinner. He kept his family safe and warm, but his affection was spare. Even toward her. And if Liz was perfectly honest with herself, there were things about her husband that made her skin prickle, too.
Really. They had nothing to complain about. The Sanfords had the sort of life millions—billions—could only dream of. And Quinn had been slow to reject it. As much as Jack Jr. loved his place in the world, Nora hated hers. But Quinn had spent the better part of her life bridging the gap between the two, wishing for peace. Liz saw a lot of herself in her younger daughter. But this? No, it wouldn’t do to rock the boat now.
“Be grateful,” Liz had said. And she wasn’t just talking to Quinn. She was talking to herself.
Liz was no idiot. She knew that their lives were far from perfect, that things simmered just beneath the surface of their shiny facade. Shadowy things that hinted of discontent, of darkness that she could only begin to imagine. Weren’t they all just a knife blade away from madness? From obsession? From giving in to every lust and desire and impulse? Or even just one. One slip would be more than enough.
But life was hard and self-flagellation was for the weak. People pitied those who refused to help themselves. Who couldn’t make a mistake and then, proudly, stand back up in the middle of their own mess and smile. I meant to do that. I knew all along.
Liz chose dignity.
Of course, Quinn hadn’t listened. Instead of falling back into line, she had run the first chance she got. Just like Nora. She had nearly cut ties with her family altogether and forsaken the roots Liz had tried so hard to cultivate. Quinn had done things that were permanent. Final. Or, almost final.
The loss of her younger daughter was the reason Liz took one small blue sleeping pill every night and a slow-release capsule for heartburn every morning. Not that she would ever admit that to anyone.
And yet. Quinn had come home. Liz intended to remind her of just how good home was.