“Yes. And my other siblings, too.”
“You have more than three?”
“I have six. My two brothers are the bookends, with five sisters in between. There’s Jack, me, Elizabeth, Margaret, Alice, and Mike.”
“That's five names. Who’s the sixth?”
Her muscles tightened defensively. “Her name’s Isobel.”
“Is that the sister who was married to Felix before you were?”
The question impacted her like a slap. To her sons, she’d always been Mom. Not the other woman. Not the sister-betrayer. Their mom, who loved them and who they loved in return. The mistakes she’d made had never been, to them, the most prominent thing about her.
But Jeremiah didn’t recall any of that. If one of the few things he’d learned about her was the same thing she was known for throughout America—the scandal with Felix and Isobel—then she suddenly had no assurance that he was still on her side. “Yes. Isobel is the sister who was married to Felix before me.”
“Will she be at lunch today?”
“No. She never comes to any family gathering I attend.”
His forehead lined. “No? How long has that been the case?”
“Since she found out about my relationship with your father.” She cleared her throat. “Isobel lives in New York and rarely comes home for visits. When she does come home, I stay away to give her a turn with the others.”
“Do you communicate with her at all?”
“I haven’t. But I’m working to rectify that.” She’d written four drafts of her letter to Isobel so far and thrown them all in the trash.
“Anything else I should know about your family before we get there?”
“My father’s life revolves around food. My mother is the happiest senile person in Maine. Jack tries to engage with his female siblings but then gets overwhelmed by us and gives up. Elizabeth is obsessed with interpreting dreams. Margaret loves gossip. Alice is eager to please. And Mike, the baby, can’t get his act together and expects the rest of us to swoop in and save him.”
As they neared their destination, she directed him through the final turns. They pulled up at her parents’ white saltbox-style house. Like a smiling old man, it looked both weathered and friendly. It would be immediately clear to Jeremiah’s sharp eyes that a lot of life had happened here, was continuing to happen here, and that the owners didn’t care much about keeping the place pristine.
Weather-beaten hedges gave way to flaky exterior paint. Several children’s toys dotted the front yard. The same tire swing had hung for decades from the enormous birch tree out front, whose leaves were currently bright gold.
As soon as they entered the foyer, they were met with the usual crush of people, conversations, and hugs.
Jeremiah stiffened so much that she laughed. “Jeremiah doesn’t remember any of you,” she said loudly. “Remember?”
“Of course he does,” her mother answered dotingly.
“Have you seen any of us in your dreams?” Elizabeth asked. “The dreams of an amnesiac can provide a fascinating glimpse into the subconscious.”
“Come eat!” Fiona’s white-haired, eighty-five-year-old father slapped Jeremiah repeatedly on the back. “I made a casserole and the rest of these brought a dish. Big spread!”
“Dad,” Mike said, “we don’t have to rush them from the door to the table.”
“Agreed,” Fiona said. “But if we do migrate to the kitchen, we’ll have more space.”
“Yes, certainly,” Alice exclaimed. “Into the kitchen, then. Let me get you both glasses of iced tea.” She was referring to the beverage their family drank by the barrel—iced tea made from blueberry black tea bags, with a little sugar, a pinch of baking soda, and garnished with sprigs of mint.
They moved as a herd. “Jeremiah, do you really not remember any of us?” Mike wanted to know.
“No, I don’t. I’m sorry.”
“Not to worry, sweetheart,” Fiona’s mom said. “We remember you, Jude.” The diminutive matriarch of the family cushioned him in one of her soft embraces.
“This is Jeremiah,” Fiona corrected.
