“I don’t like it when you call me that,” Mitzi says.
“Okay, George,” Kelley says, stepping in. “Why don’t you leave. I’ll take care of Mitzi tonight.”
“I just bet you want to take care of her!” George says. He shakes his head. “Are you just going to let yourself bounce back and forth between us like a Ping-Pong ball, Mitzi? I thought you wanted to be with me.”
“I don’t know what I want,” Mitzi says. She looks between Kelley and George. Ava, for one, feels her turmoil. It is possible to have feelings for two people at once, as she has unfortunately learned.
I can’t stop thinking about you.
Ava feels like the Ping-Pong ball.
It’s absolutely none of her business, but Ava speaks up anyway. She says, “George, I think Mitzi should come with us tonight. She could use a distraction and she’s going to look dynamite in that dress.”
“No,” George says. “No, no, NO!” This is an angry variation on his usual HO-HO-HO!, and his last “NO!” is so loud that, a few rooms away, the baby starts to cry.
Kelley leads Mitzi past George into his bedroom and closes the door, leaving George and Ava in the hallway.
Ava says, “I need to go check on the baby.”
George says, “What do you expect me to do?”
“I expect you to leave,” Ava says.
JENNIFER
She carries a glass of wine to her room, a dressing drink. She takes one Ativan, and then another.
Two Ativan and a glass of wine is like a three-hour vacation on a deserted white sand beach.
She hasn’t been out in so long, she’s forgotten the routine: long shower, special attention to her hair and makeup. She misses Patrick. He once confided that his favorite part of marriage was getting ready to go out together. They would primp in the master bathroom of their Beacon Hill townhouse, which Jennifer had turned into an Asian-inspired sanctuary with jade green marble, teak accents, and a collection of mismatched Buddhas—stone, brass, ceramic. They played Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett, music that made them feel like adults in love from another era.
Jennifer and Patrick shared a classic, refined taste. Jennifer had never met a man who was as masculine and sexy as Patrick, yet who appreciated things like the cut crystal vase of hothouse roses that Jennifer liked to keep on her dressing table. Patrick always put on both Jennifer’s perfume—applied by running his forefinger along her collarbone—and her heels. The higher the heels were and the more complicated the straps, the more he loved them.
Enough thinking like that. She still had six months until he would be out, and allowed to touch her.
Megan had joked that this was the perfect time for Jennifer to have an affair.
But Jennifer has zero interest in anyone but Patrick. It’s as though she punched buttons on a man-making machine, including all the qualities and quirks she wanted—and out he popped.
Jail.
Jennifer sips her wine. Her head starts to spin. She sits on the closed lid of the toilet and thinks to herself, I’m addicted to pills. What will she do when the oxy runs out? Fake a back injury? Find a dealer? She is disappointed in herself for succumbing to this predictable crutch. She realizes half the women on Beacon Hill are medicated, but she’d expected more from herself. She should have started yoga, or meditation. She pictures herself on a mat, wearing a cute outfit from lululemon, her body a clean, empty, flexible vessel.
After a few seconds of bemoaning how far she is from that goal, she slips on her new dress, purchased at Erica Wilson that very afternoon. It’s black. When she wore black out with Patrick, it felt sexy. Now, it feels funereal.
She spritzes on her own perfume. Sighs. But there is no time for wallowing; she heads downstairs to feed the boys.
When Barrett sees his mother all dressed up, his face darkens. “You’re going out?” he says. “Again?”
“I was out for less than two hours last night,” Jennifer says. “And that was a favor to your Auntie Ava. You didn’t even notice I was gone.”
“I did notice you were gone,” Barrett says. “Because Grandpa came up and gave us a lecture.”
“He told us to be nice to you,” Pierce says.
“He did?” Jennifer says. She’s touched that Kelley spoke up on her behalf, but then she wonders if it’s obvious to everyone in her husband’s family that the boys are running her off the rails. Do they suspect she’s on drugs?
Barrett snarls. “You’re all dressed up.”
“Yes. Thank you for noticing.”
“You look nice, Mom,” Jaime says, though his eyes are glued to the TV. He shoots; blood spatters all over the screen.
Jennifer says, “I can order you a pizza from Sophie T’s, or I can go downstairs and make you grilled cheese with tomato.”
“We had pizza last night,” Pierce reminds her. “And grilled cheese with tomato is just pizza in another form.”
“How about Thai food?” Jennifer asks.
“How about you’re neglecting us?” Barrett says. “Keeping us shut up in this room all weekend and making us eat crappy takeout…”
Jennifer stares Barrett down. “Neglecting you?” she says. “You want to see me neglect you? I’m half tempted to leave you here without anything for dinner!” She’s screaming now. Control over her emotions floats away like a balloon. “I tried to get you to come to town with me today and you refused! So don’t tell me I’m keeping you shut up in here! I couldn’t drag you out of here with a team of oxen!”
“Mommy,” Jaime says.
“You have no idea how difficult it is!” she says.
“What about us?” Barrett says. “We’re the ones who lost our father!”
Kevin pokes his head in. “Everything okay in here?” he asks. “You do know, guys, that we have an inn-ful of guests.”
“Yes, Uncle Kevin,” Jennifer snaps. “We do know that.”
Kevin says, “It’s getting a little loud. I heard you from all the way down the hall.”
Great, Jennifer thinks. Now her family squabbles have been overheard by everyone in the building. She should just pack up the kids and go back to Beacon Hill where they can make a scene in the privacy of their own home. But she can’t bail on the baptism. She says, “I’m sorry, Kevin. I have to feed these guys something for dinner.”
“Isabelle made fried chicken and a big Caesar salad,” he says. “It’s downstairs in the kitchen. Help yourselves.”
Thank you, Isabelle, Jennifer thinks. She doesn’t need drugs. All she needs is the support of this wonderful family she married into.
“How does fried chicken sound, guys?” Jennifer asks.
The boys don’t respond, but they do set down their controllers and follow Jennifer, their neglectful mother, down to the kitchen.
KELLEY
Since Shelby is holding Genevieve—who seems to be taking to her just fine as long as Isabelle isn’t in her direct line of vision—they ask Mr. Bernard to take the pictures. They hand him Ava’s phone, Kelley’s camera, Kevin’s phone, Jennifer’s phone, and Margaret’s phone.
Mitzi is at Kelley’s side, in the manner of a wife. Drake and Margaret are together, Kevin and Isabelle, Ava and Jennifer.
“I’m a seventh wheel,” Ava says.
“Eighth wheel,” Jennifer says, raising her hand.
The men are all in tuxes. Mitzi is in the purple, Margaret in gold, Jennifer in black, Isabelle in winter white, and Ava in dark green. They are all holding flutes of champagne.
“These are great photos,” Mr. Bernard says. “You have a beautiful family.”
“Thank you,” Kelley says.
“Thank you,” Mitzi says.
“Thank you,” Margaret says.
Kevin says, “It doesn’t feel complete without Patrick and Bart.”
“Next year,” Margaret says in her broadcasting voice, meant to convey calm and optimism in the face of any Armageddon. “They’ll be here with us next year.”
Kelley fears that Mitzi or Jennifer might get welled up with emotion. But when all of the photos are taken and the group relaxes, the only person wiping tears from her eyes is Isabelle.