When she and Natasha had arrived at the house on Swallowtail Lane a few minutes ago, they’d discovered that Mom—who’d never met a simple occasion she couldn’t turn into something fancy—had made a buttermilk chess pie in honor of their visit.
Dad had greeted them, then became absorbed with something on his phone that no doubt pertained to Mercer football. Genevieve was stacking the few dishes that had been in the sink into the dishwasher. Natasha was pouring them all cups of coffee, and Mom was placing wedges of pie onto china plates while gushing about the creativity award Millie had received at yesterday’s preschool autumn festival.
“I was telling your father just last week that Millie has exceptional artistic skill. I don’t have any doubt that she’s going to grow up to be every bit as impressive as you two. I just hope I live long enough to congratulate her at her first New York City gallery showing.”
“We might want to recalibrate our expectations of Millie,” Natasha noted. “Right now my highest goal for her is that she allow me to brush her hair without throwing a screaming fit and learn to like at least one vegetable.”
Mom waxed philosophic about the benefits of high expectations on a child’s formation.
“Huh” was the best Genevieve could muster.
She’d been adept at pretending even before she’d had to cover up her Oxy use. For ages, she’d been working to come across as the most loving, the most humble, the most bulletproof, the most down-to-earth version of herself. It seemed, though, that she was reaching the end of her ability to pretend.
Without Oxy to take the edge off, she was feeling physically sick with nerves. If she tried to eat pie, she’d throw up. If she declined it, Mom would take it personally.
When Genevieve had started to investigate her parents’ past, she’d been fueled by unease and curiosity. She’d had no way of knowing then just how convoluted and upsetting the past would prove to be.
In fact, no person could ever discern where a particular path might lead until they walked it.
She hadn’t known when she’d agreed to the mission trip in El Salvador that she’d end up stuck in a cave of destruction. She hadn’t known when she’d started dating Thad that he would obliterate her heart. She hadn’t known when she started taking Oxy that it would lead to a crippling dependence.
The only One who could know where a path might lead was God Himself. She’d prayed before she’d started investigating her parents. Yet she hadn’t had a dependable line of communication with God in what felt like a really long time. Consequently, she hadn’t heard a firm yes or a firm no. Which hadn’t stopped her from wading into her parents’ past. Perhaps doing so, like taking Oxy, had been a big mistake.
“It’s ready, everyone,” Mom announced.
They took their places around the circular kitchen table where they’d eaten countless meals back when she and Natasha lived at home.
Natasha had once refused to eat a bowl of oatmeal at this table. Dad had calmly said that it was nourishing and that it cost money, and if she wouldn’t eat it, she’d have to sit there for an hour thinking about how important it was to be grateful.
Natasha had sat there for an hour.
She and her sister had consumed the pink waffles their mom made for them on Valentine’s Day at this table. They’d embellished them with whipped cream, powdered sugar, and rainbow sprinkles.
On Sundays they’d eaten club sandwiches for lunch at this table. On those occasions, just like today, all four of them had still been dressed in their church clothes. Club sandwiches were Dad’s specialty, and he’d layer mayonnaise, lettuce, bacon, bread, tomato, turkey, and mustard—always in that order—between two outer slices of toasted bread that he cut into precise triangles.
So many nights they’d gathered around this table for dinner. Light had poured in through the windows to illuminate their summertime dinners. A tapestry of changing leaves had watched over their fall dinners. Darkness had turned the windows to flat black geometric shapes during their winter dinners. Green buds and colorful flowers had blanketed the yard during their spring dinners.
Her mother and father were interwoven into her lifetime of memories.
How were they going to take this?
She and Natasha had been rule-following girls. They’d never done anything to make their parents as angry as these revelations had the potential to make them.
“This is just like old times,” Mom said. “The original four.” She wore a gauzy pearl gray dress. Dad’s subtly patterned tie remained snugly fastened around the neck of his starched white dress shirt.
“I’ve been hoping and hoping for the chance to get together,” Mom continued. “The four of us like this. But you girls are always so busy, and I didn’t want to intrude.”
Natasha curled her hand around the base of her coffee cup as if it were an anchor. “Genevieve and I wanted to talk to you without the rest of the family present.” She had the good grace to look tense.
“Are you expecting a third baby?” Mom asked Natasha excitedly.
“No.”
“Are you engaged?” Dad asked Genevieve.
Mom let out a scandalized gasp. “No! Sam seems like a wonderful, God-fearing man, but it’s too early for an engagement. My goodness.” She fanned herself. “Genevieve and I haven’t even had a chance to have a long discussion about Sam yet.”
“The whole town’s talking about your romance,” Dad told Genevieve.
