“The girl ate her breakfast very fast, then ran to the shore with her flippers and mask. And together, the girl and the whale went on great adventures.
“They raced the flounders and sturgeons, and swam with the loggerhead and leatherback turtles. They searched for krill and plankton so the whale could grow strong. They explored the horse mussel reefs and the cold-water corals, marveling at the anemones and sea squirts. When the girl got tired, the whale would carry her on her back. When the girl was sad, the whale would call upon the seals, who would bark and chirp and show off for the girl and always made her laugh. When it was time for the girl to go home for dinner, the whale said goodbye with a wave of her tail. And every night, both the girl and the whale would go to sleep, happy and ready for whatever great adventure tomorrow held.”
I whisper the whole story into the dark, and then I say, “Good night, Francesca.”
Chapter Fifty
The only communication I have from George is the text he sends the day after I get home.
I’m going to give you some space. But I’m not running away. I’m coming home to you.
Days pass. I bang out slow-cooker recipes for Brie in the mornings, but I throw myself into cooking for myself all afternoon and evening. I pour all of my frustration, my hope, and my soul into making whatever the hell I feel like making. My mom’s vegetable garden is reaching its peak, and she lets me pillage what I like. She doesn’t even complain about how loudly I play my music or when sauce splatters her counters and walls. She doesn’t clean up after me, either. I take care of my own mess.
I don’t remember the last time I felt this kind of freedom in the kitchen. It’s not about proving myself, and it’s certainly notabout control. It’s about letting go. I batter and fry zucchini blossoms one day and fold them into a frittata with goat cheese the next. I grill Niagara peaches and olive oil–slicked baguette slices and serve them with burrata, pine nuts, mint, and a balsamic reduction.
Pages in an imaginary cookbook fill my mind in vivid color. Simple recipes that showcase ingredients from across the country. A culinary tour of Canada. An adventure through food. An edible passport.
I take long walks through the woods after it rains and spot oyster mushrooms and chanterelles. I invite Mimi for dinner and serve the mushrooms with orzo, which she declares is almost as good as fried rice. She must sense that I don’t want to talk about her grandson, because she doesn’t mention him until I’m walking her back to the Big House.
“None of us are perfect, Francesca,” she tells me. “Not even George.”
It gives me pause, because perfection is exactly what I’ve come to expect from him. At some point during the last decade, I stopped seeing George as a three-dimensional person.
Another day, I dig out my pasta maker. I make ravioli, filled with ricotta and Swiss chard from the garden, and serve them when Darwin, Anh, and Birdie come for dinner, along with grilled cheese and carrot sticks for my niece, which she declares “Yummy! Yummy! Yummy!”
Most evenings are passed with my mom on the porch while Dad watches baseball. There’s a softness between us that wasn’t there before. She’s taken up knitting and spends these nights cursing over the sweater she’s making Birdie while I stare out atthe field. George is never far from my mind. There are younger versions of us everywhere I turn. Laughing little ghosts running through to the hedge, lying in the grass, reciting vows beneath the apple tree.
Aurora gets me a last-minute virtual session with a client who’s a therapist, and when it’s time for my appointment, I take my laptop to the Big House, where there’s space and privacy. Mimi tells me she’ll be outside supervising Leo’s pool cleaning, and I climb upstairs to the bedroom I slept in on the occasional nights that I stayed over.
“That’s a spectacular space,” Lydia says, easing me into our conversation.
And it is. Velvet drapes the same blue as George’s eyes. A canopy bed fit for a princess and an antique armoire.
“Where are you?” she asks.
As succinctly as I can, I tell her about this house and the people it belongs to.
“Things between George and me are really complicated right now,” I add.
“Would you like to tell me more about your relationship?”
I begin to nod, but then I say, “Actually, I’d like to talk about my mom.”
By the end of the hour, I feel like canvas stretched over a frame. I’ve cried, but mostly I’ve gone on and on and on about my mother while Lydia says things like, “That must have been hard,” and, “How did that make you feel?” When my eyes show a hint of glassiness, it’s, “What’s coming up for you right now?” It’s draining, but it’s also cathartic. I haven’t lost all theheaviness I’ve carried with me for so long, but I think I’ve left a layer on the floor, like a snake shedding its skin.
“If you’re open to it, I’d love to talk to you again this week,” Lydia says.
“Twice in a week? I must be a pretty big mess.”
“Not at all. But it sounds like you could use some extra support right now.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And we haven’t even talked about George.” Or Nate, come to think of it.
She laughs. “Shall we book another appointment, then?”
So we do.
• • •
