All Adults Here(19)
The menu was simple: pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs, toast, jam, fresh-squeezed juice, fruit. The twins were gluten-free, as was Wendy, so Astrid made a small batch of gluten-free pancake batter as well. She’d never heard of children with a gluten insensitivity before the twins were born, and it wasn’t that she didn’t believe it—she knew some celiac people, real ones—it was just that the twins weren’t it, and neither was Wendy. She was helicoptering eating disorders into existence, and Elliot wouldn’t say a thing about it. He was like the family dog that showed up at mealtimes, tongue out and panting. Both bowls of batter sat ready on the counter, each with its own ladle. The bacon sat cooling on a long oval plate. Astrid picked up a piece and ate it with her fingers.
The doorbell rang, and Astrid hurried to the foyer, even though no one coming would wait for her to open the door. When she got to the door and it was still closed, she looked through the glass panel on the side of the door and saw Birdie, with both arms wrapped around a bowl covered with plastic. The fruit salad.
Astrid pulled open the door. “You’re the first guest! Everyone is late.”
Birdie leaned in and kissed Astrid on the cheek. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Astrid said, already softening.
Birdie nudged Astrid back inside. “You sure you’re ready?”
“Ready or not, here I come. Who knows when the next school bus is coming ’round the bend.” They walked back into the kitchen, and Birdie set the fruit salad down on the table.
“There are lots of ways to do it. One at a time, all at once. I came out to my parents when I was twenty-five, even though I’m sure they’d known since I was twelve. I wrote a letter, and then they wrote a letter back all about how sorry they were that I was going to go to hell, and we never spoke of it again. Which was pretty good, I thought.” Birdie picked up a strawberry and examined it.
“Well, I think that’s horrible,” Astrid said. “I’m going to tell them all at once, and they can cry or rend their clothes if they want to, but then it’ll be done and we’ll have pancakes.” She shivered, not wanting to feel nervous but feeling it all the same. Feelings were the problem, really—if you asked her children, Astrid didn’t think they would report that she had any, outside of the basics. Certainly not fear. Control: that’s what Astrid had always had. Was control a feeling? The summer light filled the kitchen, with stripes of yellow banded across the hardwood floor. It would be a hot day, but it wasn’t yet.
Astrid and Birdie’s friendship had been fast, and unexpected. Birdie took over for Nancy at the salon five years ago, and Astrid could hardly believe it, that Birdie and Russell had lived in the same town, that they had both touched her body, the same body. Birdie had arrived so long after Russell died that the wounds weren’t even fresh, it wasn’t a topic of conversation for months. Had Russell ever touched her head? He had given foot massages. He had touched her body, he had touched her cheeks. But Astrid couldn’t remember her husband ever touching her hair. Maybe to push it out of the way on a windy day? She couldn’t remember. It had been so long that she didn’t feel sad anymore, about the things she’d forgotten. Astrid remembered what she remembered, and that was enough.
When Russell died, everyone reached out to Astrid, in the way that polite people do—they sent cards, they called and offered to do “anything,” which really meant nothing beyond the extraordinary gesture of putting said card in the mailbox. Nicky was a senior in high school then, the star of the spring play, and Porter was twenty, fat and happy from beer and independence in the dorm. Or at least she had been happy, until Russell died. Elliot was already out of college, applying to law school, trying on suits for size. Whatever else he did, Astrid didn’t know about it. The four of them went to see a grief counselor, at the suggestion of Nicky’s school counselor, a woman who, like so many people, took one look at Nicky’s cheekbones and wanted to nestle him into her bosom, metaphorically speaking. His movie, Jake George, was about to come out, and the potential for it was heavy in the air, like the biggest and heaviest ornament on a Christmas tree. Porter and Nicky had both cried, and Astrid and Elliot had remained steady and then it was over. It hadn’t done a thing.
* * *
—
But talking was nice, it was true, if the talking wasn’t always so focused on the one thing, like every widow was a robot of sadness, and so all those years later, when Nancy moved to Florida and Birdie took over the salon, Astrid asked if she’d like to have lunch. That was how it started. Every Monday, Astrid and Birdie went to Spiro’s for omelets, or the serviceable vegetarian place on Columbus Street for salads and iced tea, and talked and laughed, and it made a difference in her mood. Astrid didn’t need a therapist; she had Birdie.
Their first kiss didn’t happen for another two years. It was February, close to Valentine’s Day, though Astrid hadn’t thought of it at the time. Weeks later, when Astrid had pointed out the coincidence, Birdie had laughed and said, yes, Astrid, I know. Astrid had been seduced, and she didn’t even know it was coming. Chocolat was playing, for the holiday, at Upstate Films in Rhinebeck, and Birdie suggested they go, which sounded just lovely to Astrid, who was used to being home in the evenings, as if her children were going to wander in and need to be fed and tucked in. It was freezing cold and windy, and Astrid remembered holding her hat to her head so that it didn’t blow away as they walked from the car to the theater.