Now that I’d gotten that sentence out, I had to proceed, right?
“I’m sorry that I accepted that car from Daddy. Not only was it insensitive, but it also caused you trouble and time and money.”
“Is that what’s been bothering you all afternoon?” Mom asked.
“Yes. I guess this whole thing has really shown me all the ways I wasn’t a good daughter.”
“You’re not a bad daughter,” Mom said.
I waited for her to expound upon that simple sentence, but she didn’t. Hardly the comforting acceptance I had hoped for. Maybe I’d waited too late for my apologies to count.
The next day, Mom, Dylan, and I went to church. We had lunch together, then sent Dylan back to school with last weekend’s load of clothes that I’d forgotten to finish and then this weekend’s load of the clean clothes he’d laundered himself. I was sitting at the breakfast room table working through the Sunday paper crossword when my phone rang. It was Rachel.
“Um, Vivian, are you mad at me?”
“No, why would I be mad at you?”
“You know, Tabitha and—”
“Rachel, I could never blame you for something your sister and my husband did.”
“Well, it’s just that you skipped my birthday dinner.”
There went my stomach again, flipping and flopping and somersaulting. “Rach, I’m so, so sorry.”
I was busy making an ass of myself in an attempt to get rid of my husband.
“I know you’ve had a lot on your mind. But I wanted to thank you for helping Suja make those shoes for me and to ask if you wanted to get together in the cul-de-sac in a few for a celebratory glass of wine.”
“I’d love to!”
She hung up, and I ran to the back bedroom looking for something, anything that I could give Rachel as a birthday gift. Fortunately, I had a gorgeous turquoise scarf that was more her style than mine anyway—and it still had the tags on it.
I found a gift bag and tissue paper from the stash I kept under the bed.
Vivian, you have got to get your act together.
Besides, Suja had mentioned Maggiano’s, and that would’ve been so much tastier than kraut and wieners. Mom would call the whole situation a logical consequence. God, I hated logical consequences.
By the time I got outside, Abi was already there, sitting in her camp chair with her knitting in her lap. “You forgot something.”
“I know, I know.”
I told her about how my mother and I had gotten wrapped up in ways to get rid of Mitch.
Abi skewered me with a look. “That’s not going to make you feel better in the long run.”
“I know. I just want him out of my house.”
“Then he’s going to spend money on an apartment, and that’s more money you won’t be getting.”
“He can stay with ... her if they love each other so much.”
“That won’t make you happy, either.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” I said. “How would you like to join me onRise and Shine Atlantafor an interview with—”
“No.”
