“Sweetheart, I wanted to touch base about Family Dinner.”
Diana is scheduled to host her parents, Evan, Andrea, and their son, Noah, later in the week for what Vivian calls Family Dinner. Even in texts and emails, she capitalizes both words, as if they’ve been trademarked or declared a national holiday. Diana has completely forgotten about the dinner.Finding a letter from my deceased husband will do that,she thinks as she takes her underwear, bra, and socks from the bureau under the window and begins to dress.
“I haven’t done any planning yet, Mom. I’ve been kind of slammed at work.”
Family Dinner began when Tom and Diana moved to Alcott. Fed up with noisy neighbors and rising rents, they decided it was time to buy, and there was no better place to live than Alcott, near her parents and sister. The two-story yellow house with the magnolia tree in the front yard was the last one they saw on a whirlwind tour of available homes, and Tom and Diana knew it was theirs as soon as they walked through the door. Diana wrote a letter to go along with their offer, and their story—hometown kid looking to raise her own family in the place where she grew up—made them the winners of an intense bidding war. The first Family Dinner was held the week they closed on their house.
Since Tom’s death, Vivian and Andrea have alternated hosting Family Dinner, while waging a low-level campaign for Diana to volunteer to do so as well, certain such a commitment would demonstrate she and the kids have overcome their grief. Aware one dinner couldn’t possibly make Tom’s death any easier, Diana resisted their appeals. That worked until two weeks ago, when her father called to ask if she might change her mind. Vivian and Andrea had checkmated her; Diana could never say no to Francis.
“Let me make it easier for you, Diana.”
As she pulls her sweater over her head, Diana considers asking her mother to host. However, such a last-minute request would concernher family, and the questions would inevitably start: “Are you okay? Do I need to come over? What’s really going on?” She can’t handle that level of invasiveness.
“Maybe you could bring dessert?”
“I’ll make lasagna.”
“That’s too much. The host is supposed to do all the cooking.”
“Everyone loves my lasagna.”
Everyonedoeslove her lasagna,Diana thinks as she zips up her pants. She doesn’t have time to continue this negotiation, and her mother will get what she wants anyway. “That would be great, Mom,” she says. “I really have to get going.”
Diana hangs up the call and selects earrings from the bedside table, next to the small blue dish where Tom dropped his loose change. It’s still filled with coins, now covered in dust.
A glance at the clock indicates it’s 7:48 a.m. As she clips in her earrings, Diana hustles to Phoebe’s room. “Honey, wake up. We overslept.” Diana turns on the overhead light as she steps over a pair of panda-shaped slippers. She finds Phoebe perfectly still under the covers, Bear Bear clutched in her arms, long hair covering her face.
“Pheebs? I can’t do this today. I have a meeting, and we’re late. I need your help.” Diana’s voice rises higher and higher. “Phoebe?Please.”
Phoebe squirms out from under her blanket. “Hi, Mama.” She opens her eyes and blinks. “You’re already dressed.”
“Did you hear me? We’re running late. I have to get you to Mira’s so I can make my meeting. I need you to get up and get dressed.Now.”
Diana adds the “now” for emphasis, but it’s lost on Phoebe, who, instead of getting out of bed, stretches her arms above her head. “I’m comfy, Mama.”
“Let’s go.” Diana opens Phoebe’s dresser to select her clothes: rainbow-striped leggings, a purple sweatshirt, underwear, and pink socks. She turns back to the bed to find that Phoebe hasn’t budged. “Phoebe!” Diana’s tone takes on a biting edge. “Get out of bed.”
Phoebe frowns but sits up, swinging her feet over the side of the mattress. “I want breakfast first.”
“Get dressed. I’ll make you a sandwich.” Diana gestures to the pile of clothes on the dresser. “I’m not kidding around, Phoebe.”
She runs down the stairs, stopping briefly to unearth both her boots and Phoebe’s from the pile in the front closet. 7:51 a.m. Nine minutes to get out the door.Nine minutes.She grabs the ingredients for Phoebe’s breakfast, slathering peanut butter and jam on two slices of bread and smooshing them together.
Hearing the water run upstairs, Diana wraps a paper towel around the sandwich, leaving the jam and peanut butter jars on the counter. No food or coffee for her; she’ll eat later, whenever she can find the time. She removes Phoebe’s lunch box from the refrigerator, stuffs it into her backpack, and glances at the microwave clock: 7:53 a.m.
“Phoebe?” Diana paces at the foot of the stairs, clutching the sandwich and Phoebe’s backpack. She shouldn’t yell at Phoebe; it isn’t her daughter’s fault they’re late, but can’t the kid move faster?
“Phoebe!” This time Diana shrieks, a sound that, as it comes out, rattles her. Her agitation is really about Tom’s letter, but she can’t calm herself. She can’t let go of the feeling that a grenade has been thrown into her life, sabotaging the order and control she’s carefully built.
Phoebe appears at the top of the stairs, still in her nightgown. “I’m coming.”
“Why aren’t you dressed?” Diana places the backpack and sandwich on the bottom step and runs up the stairs. She pushes Phoebe down the hall and into her bedroom, undressing her as they go. “I can’t believe you, Phoebe Francesca Morgan! We’re in a rush. Come on!”
Not even the deployment of her full name motivates Phoebe. She stands naked in front of Diana, listless and looking down.
Diana pulls Phoebe’s purple sweatshirt over her head, handling her daughter as if she’s a toddler again, stymied by armholes and buttons. She yanks Phoebe’s left arm through the shirt, then her right. She turnsback from picking up the rest of Phoebe’s clothes to find that her daughter is crying, tears silently falling.
“Oh, baby.” Diana drops to her knees.
