Noah
“What should I call her?” I ask Willow. We’re on our way to her mom’s, and we’re going through the story of why we got married, how I proposed, things like that. Things that Willow thinks her mom might ask. Willow is faking a relaxed confidence that this will go well, but the set in her jaw, the way she clenches the wheel tell a different story.
I’m trying—really trying—to stay open and nonjudgmental. To give her mom the benefit of the doubt. I remember when Willow used to bounce in and out of Emerald Creek. In a town like ours, that kind of thing stands out. I never knew the whole story, just enough to guess it had to do with her mom. If she’d been sick, we’d have known. And I don’t ever remember a father in the picture. That must have been hard, raising a kid on your own, outside the safety net of Emerald Creek. Still… there was always something about Willow going back and forth that didn’t sit right with me.
“Her friends call her Marcy. I mean, what else could you call her?”
“Marcy it is.”
I need to tamp down my protective streak when it comes to Willow and remember that she’s only my wife on paper.
But that counts for something, too, doesn’t it?
Willow pulls onto the piece of land where her mom’s mobile home sits. It’s been here for as long as I can remember, back when Willow’s grandfather lived in it. What used to be a cute house is now slightly sagging on one side like a sinking ship, probably from the ground underneath it being soaked. Paint is peeling off. Two planters on either side of the front door add a pop of color but aren’t enough to fend off the sense of hopelessness that permeates the whole place.
Willow parks the car to the side, where some gravel might have been spread a year or two ago.
“Come on, let’s get this over with.” She’s already almost at the door, while I’m barely out of the car.
I grab the flowers I set on the back seat and reach her right in time to place my hand on the small of her back as she enters her mother’s house.
“Mom! We’re here!” she calls out.
While Willow goes to find Marcy, I hang back a bit and look at the pictures on the wall.
Willow with a gap-toothed smile, skinny legs poking out of her shorts and a Patriots T-shirt hanging too big on her frame. She’s holding Ms. Angela’s hand, and they’re both at a little league football game here in Emerald Creek.
Willow eating a hot dog at the King’s Farm, mustard on the tip of her nose, a dog sitting at her feet, looking up at her with a lolling tongue.
Willow on a bicycle zipping down a grass-covered hill, long hair floating behind her, hands in the air, mouth wide open as if she’s screaming her joy.
“I wasn’t there, or she would have worn a helmet.” I turn to see the two women walking toward me.
Willow’s lips are pursed at her mother’s words, but she doesn’t respond.
Marcy extends her hand and gives me a small smile. “Welp, welcome to the family,” she says and snickers, a dried out, bitter version of Willow’s generous, wholehearted laughter. “Bet you didn’t see that one coming,” she adds.
I’m not sure what she’s referring to. Our marriage? The being welcomed into the family? I take her frail, cold hand in mine. “Thank you. These are for you,” I add, handing her the flowers, which she takes without looking at them.
“Take care of these, will ya,” Marcy tells Willow, handing her the bouquet as if it might bite her.
“Smells delicious in here,” I add, not knowing what else to say.
Marcy answers with a gesture toward the table set for three. A cupboard slaps shut as Willow pulls a vase and unwraps the flowers I brought.
“Anything I can do?” I ask while Marcy sinks onto her chair.
“Nope,” the two women answer at the same time. Willow places the bouquet on the coffee table in the living room, then pulls a carton of juice out of the fridge. The oven beeps and I stand, but Willow stares me back into my seat.
After some agonizingly long silent moments where a piping hot lasagna and a salad appear on the table, my wife sits down. But when she reaches for the serving spoon, I take it from her, needing to do something about the icy atmosphere before we all freeze over. “Marcy. Big or small appetite?”
“No appetite at all,” she sighs.
I scoop a small serving and set it on her plate. “If I’m not mistaken, this looks like Shannon’s lasagna,” I answer, referring to Colton’s mom’s signature dish. “Should do wonders to your appetite.”
“I could never cook to save my life. Raised Weeping here on Chef Boyardee.”
“Weeping?” I ask.
