“Your what?” Phoebe replies, cozying up to her aunt on the sofa.
“Our maître d’, the person who’s in charge of dinner and decides where everyone sits.”
Phoebe jumps up on her toes and claps her hands. “Yes, follow me!”
Andrea and Diana trail after Phoebe as she twirls across the house, through the kitchen, and into the dining room, where The General supervises as Duncan lights the candles in the center of the table.
Diana notices her best blue tablecloth and long-unused china. Yellow roses in a crystal vase and gleaming stemware complete the table setting. “Mom, this is really nice. Why so fancy, though?”
Vivian places a cast iron trivet next to the candles as Francis and Evan enter. “Family Dinner is an important occasion.”
Tom would have agreed. When it was their turn to host Family Dinner, he served as chef, the only meal he cooked outside of the occasional Saturday-morning pancakes. He made each dish more elaborate than the last. Coq au vin. Moussaka. Hand-rolled sushi. He was specific about how the table was to be set, which wine should be served, and when they could begin eating. Diana found his extravagant efforts endearing, believing he threw himself into the dinners because he missed his own family. Thoughts of how Family Dinner used to be—how much Tom had loved hosting—make his death feel fresh and new.
“It’s good you stepped in,” Diana says, hoping to prevent the enveloping snare of grief from taking hold. “If dinner had been left to me, I would have forgotten entirely to cook or we’d be scarfing down lukewarm take-out pizza on paper plates.”
A brief frown appears on Vivian’s face, but it’s gone so fast only Francis and Diana catch it. “Children, please help me bring in the food,” she says, returning to the kitchen.
“Your mother only wants to make tonight special, sweetheart,” Francis says gently, taking her hand in his. “You don’t need to make jokes or speak negatively about yourself. We know things are hard for you.”
Diana’s cheeks redden. Family Dinner stopped when Tom entered hospice. These gatherings are intended to be joyful, and there wasn’t much joy for any of them then. Now, her mother is only trying to help. She is grieving, too. Sometimes Diana forgets Tom’s death isn’t hers alone.
Her father squeezes her hand, and Diana looks down at their intertwined fingers. She examines the dark, wiry hair on his thumb, the callus on his pointer finger, the faded scar along his wrist from the time he tried to repair a broken drainpipe. Has she ever noticed the storyhe carries on his strong fingers and the cracked skin over his knuckles? Could she conjure Tom’s hands if she tried? She searches for his hands in her memory. They are out of reach, gone with the rest of him.
On the other side of the room, Andrea and Evan whisper to one another, their heads bent over Evan’s phone. Evan points to the screen, and Andrea giggles. He kisses her, his hand against her cheek. When they break apart, Andrea meets Diana’s eyes, and her smile disappears, guilt seeping into that moment of affection. Diana tilts her head to the side, as if to say, “Go ahead, love him in front of me—it hurts, but this is my life,” and after a beat, she turns away.
The General carries in the lasagna, and the tangy scent of her homemade sauce spreads throughout the room. The children trail behind her like brand-new chicks clucking after their mother hen, each holding an item for the meal.
“Thank you for this,” Diana says, hoping her gratitude makes up for her earlier comment. “I appreciate it all.”
“I’m happy to take care of it all, sweetheart.” Vivian puts the lasagna on the trivet and helps the children add their contributions to the table. “Shall we eat?”
“We’re waiting for our maître d’ to tell us where to sit.” Andrea gestures to Phoebe. “Mademoiselle? What would you like to do?”
Phoebe directs each family member to a chair, pausing at the seat next to her grandfather. “That’s Daddy’s seat, isn’t it, Mama?”
Diana, with one blink, sees dozens, hundreds of meals at this table with Tom in that chair. She read somewhere grief isn’t a straight line; there is no step one, two, three. Rather, it jumps around, remaining dormant for a time and then unexpectedly rearing up to cut at the heart, jagged and deep. Like now, at the start of Family Dinner.
Diana’s family listens for her response, though they’re pretending to be busy settling into their seats, pouring water, and filling wineglasses. She expects her mother and sister are readying follow-up comments in the event her words are insufficient.
“Phoebe,” Diana says softly, “thatwasDaddy’s chair for Family Dinner. He wouldn’t want it to be empty forever. He’d want it to be yours. How does that sound?”
Phoebe nods and sits down, her mouth already stuffed with garlic bread. Vivian and Andrea relax, mirroring each other in the swift shift of their attention away from Diana and Phoebe and toward the meal before them.
Diana slumps into her chair. She can’t follow the conversations that race around the table, so she focuses on her plate of food, relieved her family is too busy eating to ask how she is.
What Else Did Tom Lie About?That’s a list she’s resisted until now, too afraid to let the words join together.
All those nights he stayed late at the office. What if he wasn’t working?
Those law conferences he attended. Was that what they really were?
He didn’t ever want to talk about the past or share stories from his childhood. Why not?
He only brought me home to Hamilton once. Why?
Her father interrupts her list-making. “Are you with us, Diana?”
“What?” Everyone at the table stares at her, forks poised over their plates. Only Noah keeps munching, sauce streaked across his cheek.
