Andrea returns to the coffee table for her wine, finishing off her glass as Diana and Vivian watch. “It was all the small things: what we ate for Family Dinner, what we talked about at dinner, which game we played after. Always Monopoly. Do you know Evan hates Monopoly? With a passion. Me too, yet anytime we suggested a different activity, Tom shot us down.”
“You’re mad about Monopoly?” Diana asks. She looks at her mother for help, but Vivian is staring at Andrea.
“Since the night you met Tom,” Andrea says, taking a deep breath, “every decision you’ve made has been for him. Not for yourself, not for anyone else in this family. Your career was second to Tom’s. Your dreams didn’t matter.”
Andrea mops her face on the sleeve of her sweatshirt, a sign she is deeply upset. She only cries when she gets mad, as if her emotional temperature has bubbled over like a pot on the stove, unable to be contained.
“I didn’t want him to die, Diana. For you and the kids, I wanted a miracle. When he didn’t make it, I thought maybe you’d find your way again on your own. That things would be better. Then you discover a letter from him that sets you on a wild-goose chase. And you hide it from us! You’re consumed with finding out who he was and what he did. The truth is right in front of you: He was selfish and self-absorbed, and even after his death, he’s still dictating your life and your choices.”
Diana wants to scream at Andrea, to tell her to shut up, to slap her, to make her stop talking. Except ... is her sister right? Did she only ever make decisions that benefited Tom? Did she lose her way? Not all of what Andrea said is true, but enough of it is that Diana can’t move, her feet glued to the floor. She flattens her hand against the door, andthe glass is cool against her palm. “This attack of yours isn’t helpful, Andie. I shouldn’t have told you anything about this.”
“It’s time to put Tom behind you,” Andrea says. “To live your life for yourself.”
“Enough,” Vivian says. “Andrea, back to the sofa. Diana, come here. Please.”
Diana joins her mother in front of the fire, sitting at her feet.
“The letter is yours, Diana. The decisions related to it are also yours.” Vivian holds up a hand when Andrea attempts to interject. “Let it go, Andrea.”
Andrea folds her arms across her chest but remains silent.
“I have no idea what it’s like to lose a spouse,” Vivian continues, “though I do know what it’s like to disappoint the person you love the most, to forever change the way he perceives you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Maybe my experience will help you.” Vivian sighs, and as the air flows out of her body, she deflates, like a balloon days after a child’s birthday, the joy of the celebration gone forever. “I don’t drink alcohol because I’ve told you that I’m allergic—”
“You’re not allergic?” Diana interrupts, confused.
“That’s what I told you. But it’s not true.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Perhaps this is the change that’s up ahead. Perhaps whatever her mother has to say will offer the answers Diana seeks. Andrea seems to sense it, too. Her sister unfolds herself from the sofa and joins Diana on the floor, her bottom lip caught between her teeth and a puzzled expression on her face.
“Andrea, you talk about how wearying it is to parent. You complain, a bit more than I would like, about motherhood. It’s not, though, that I can’t empathize.
“When you two were small, your father worked all the time, trying to make his real estate business a success. I’d quit my teaching job to stay home with you. We’d recently moved to Alcott, and I didn’t have many friends. Today, you’d say I was depressed. Back then, though, depression wasn’t something people talked about.
“I started to drink. A glass of wine after dinner. Two glasses. It wasn’t long before it escalated, and I was drinking at lunch, at breakfast. I’d pull out the wine as soon as your father got in the car to leave for work. I didn’t even wait for him to drive away,” Vivian says dully.
“Mom, I don’t—”
“You were a toddler, Diana. Andrea was a baby. It would have remained my secret, had it not gotten worse.”
“Worse?” Andrea says, her voice cracking.
“One night, it was about an hour before dinner, after I had finished off an entire bottle of wine.” Vivian shudders. “I realized we were out of milk.My babies need milk,I thought. Your father was at a meeting, and I didn’t expect him until late. I bundled you both up in your coats—it was winter, a bitterly cold night—and put you in your car seats.”
Diana has never seen her mother so vulnerable before. She depends upon Vivian’s strength and competence. That her mother is a flawed human being isn’t a reality she wants to face.
“We were only going down to the grocery. A two-mile drive at best, but the roads were slick with ice, and I started out too fast ...” Vivian’s voice trails off. She clears her throat and finishes, “I backed out of the driveway and rammed into a tree.”
“Oh, Mom,” Andrea says.
“It was a terrible scene. The fender was mangled, and the crash made such a noise. The tree was in the front yard of the house across the street from us. The Thompsons lived there then; they came running out into the cold. The wife wanted to call the police, but the husband must have smelled the alcohol on me and convinced her not to. He somehow moved my car back into our driveway. He never said a word to me. I was so ashamed.
“After I got you both inside and into bed, I dumped all the alcohol down the drain. Your father came home while I was pouring out an expensive bottle of port, a gift from a client. He wasn’t happy about that. He was even less happy when I explained what happened. How I had been drinking too much. How I had tried to drive while drunk. How I could have hurt the two of you.”
