The Ex Talk(7)

Phil has three sons and a daughter. All the Adelekes are tall and fit and happily married, most with kids of their own. A couple months ago, my mother and I had our first Christmas with Phil’s large family, forgoing the Jewish tradition of Chinese food and a movie. I’d been hesitant at first, if only because I liked spending that time with my mother, but everyone had been warm and welcoming, and it was impossible to stay bitter.

“Thanks,” I say. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that.”

A water glass shatters, and my mother offers up a sheepish grin. “Sorry,” she says as a waiter rushes over to clean it up.

“Are you all right, Leanna?” Phil asks.

She presses her ruby lips together and nods. “All right. Yes. I’m great.” Her hand is at her throat again. “Phil, I—there’s something I want to say.”

Oh no. She wouldn’t be breaking up with him like this, would she? Not in front of a whole group, not in public. My mother is too classy to do something like that.

Ameena looks as puzzled as I do. All of us set down our forks, watching as my mother pushes out her chair and gets to her feet, visibly shaking. Oh god—is she sick? Maybe that’s why she wanted to have this dinner, so she could tell all of us at once.

My stomach clenches, and I suddenly feel like I might throw up. My mother is all I have. I can’t lose her, too.

But then she grins, and my shoulders sag with relief as she starts talking. “Phil,” she says in this tone I don’t think I’ve heard before. She places her hand on his arm. “I know it’s only been eleven months, but they’ve been the best months I’ve had in a long, long time.”

“For me, too,” he says. A smile settles into the fine lines in his dark skin. As though maybe he knows what’s coming, and now I think I might, too. She’ll ask him to move in, I’m sure of it. Odd to do it in public, but my mother has always had a certain way of doing things. That’s just Leanna, my dad would say with a shrug when she made soup in a blender before zapping it in the microwave or insisted on carving jack-o’-lanterns in early September.

“After Dan passed away, I didn’t think I’d get a second chance. I thought I’d found my person, and he was gone, and I was done. But you were always right there, weren’t you? Sitting next to me, playing the violin. I fell in love with your music, and then I fell in love with you. You know as well as I do that the grief never goes away, but you have made me realize love can live alongside grief. I don’t want to spend any more time not being married to you. So . . .” Here she trails off, takes a breath. “Philip Adeleke, will you marry me?”

The room goes dead silent, everyone’s eyes trained on our table, watching this proposal. My heart is pounding heavier than it does before a show, and in the corner of my vision, TJ clasps a hand over Ameena’s.

Phil leaps out of his chair so quickly he knocks over his own glass of water, and maybe they really are meant for each other. “Yes, Leanna, yes,” he says. “I love you so much. Yes, yes, yes.”

When they kiss, the restaurant bursts into applause. A waiter brings out glasses of champagne. Ameena dabs at her eyes, asking if I knew this was going to happen, if I knew my mother was planning this, and no. No, I did not.

I force myself out of my seat to congratulate them, my mother and my—stepfather? Too many emotions swirl through me, and I can only name a few of them. I’m happy for them, of course I am. I want my mother to be happy. She deserves it.

I’ve just spent so many years convinced no one could replace my father that I never imagined anyone would.

Ameena peppers them with questions about the wedding. Turns out, Phil had been planning to propose this weekend, but my mother managed to beat him to it. They want it to happen soon, they say. Naturally, a quartet from the symphony will play the reception.

Eventually, Phil whisks my mother out of the restaurant to “celebrate”—like we don’t all know exactly what that means—leaving Ameena and TJ and me to polish off the champagne.

“Leanna Goldstein is my hero,” Ameena says. “I can’t believe we got to be part of that.”

I want to be able to say that too, that Leanna Goldstein is my hero—and she is, for so many reasons. For how she let me process Dad’s death on my own time, with my own therapist, before the two of us went to family counseling together. For convincing me that we could still be a family even if it was just the two of us. Small but mighty, she’d say. She always knew I’d work in radio, though sometimes she jokes that I could have at least compromised and found a job at a classical music station.

“You okay?” TJ asks as we pack up. He tucks his blond hair into a knit beanie. “It’s weird, I know. My parents are both remarried, and it definitely takes some getting used to.”

“I guess I never thought I’d go to my mom’s wedding before my own.” In my head, it sounds like a joke. When I say it, it does not.

Ameena squeezes my hand. “This is a lot. Take the time you need to process it, okay?”

I nod. “Good luck on the interview,” I tell her, digging into my bag for my keys as we step into the chilly Seattle night. My house is going to be so quiet when I get home. It always is. “Are you sure you don’t want to come over and watch bad TV or something?”

“Shay. I love you, but you need to learn to be alone in your own house. Do I need to check for monsters under your bed again?