Karen was listening to Pat, one hand around her glass.
“You need to tell her that.”
“I will.”
“How’s the dinner?”
“We have food.”
“Good.”
“It’s not what we planned.”
I nearly corrected him. They had planned very little of what mattered.
He got there himself.
“What Mel pictured,” he said. “I guess that’s different.”
“Yes.”
He was quiet for a few seconds.
“Is Mom having a nice time?”
“She is.”
“Good.”
“Go take care of your guests, Derek. We’ll talk when we’re home.”
After I sat down, Karen watched my face.
“He apologized,” I said.
She nodded.
“Eat your chicken before Harold asks for the rest,” Pat told her.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were looking at it.”
“I’m allowed to look.”
Karen laughed, then reached for her fork.
Derek told us later that people stayed until late afternoon.
Greg helped fold one of the extra tables before leaving. Sandra asked Melissa where she had bought the flowers.
There was no dramatic professional fallout. Derek’s next conversation with Greg concerned a project deadline.
I was glad of that.
He needed to understand how he had treated his mother. Losing standing at work would have given him something else to blame and something easier to discuss.
After the last guests left, Jenna and Paul packed leftovers while Derek washed dishes.
Melissa stood at the kitchen island looking at the unused place cards with our names on them.
“She could have helped a little,” she said.
Derek turned off the faucet.
“She offered. We told her it wasn’t enough.”
Melissa didn’t answer.
He went back to washing.
It was the first time, he told us, that he had cleaned up after hosting that many people.
He kept finding more work after he thought he was finished.
The roasting dishes. The floor under the folding tables. The trash bag leaking near the back door.
At our house, those things had usually been done before he put on his coat.
On Friday, Karen sent him a photograph of Murray occupying my chair.
Derek replied, Looks like he’s in charge.
Karen wrote, He asks less of us.
She showed me the exchange, worried for a moment that she had been unkind.
Then another message arrived.
Fair.
She put down her phone.
We spent Saturday at a botanical garden Pat liked. Karen bought a small packet of seeds and read the instructions twice, although she knew she would have to wait months to use them at home.
That evening, she signed up for the gardening class.
She didn’t announce it.
I noticed the confirmation on her laptop while I was looking for our return-flight information.
“Tuesday mornings,” she said.
“I’ll try to survive.”
“You can make your own lunch.”
“I’ve heard it can be done.”
We flew home Sunday afternoon.
Columbus was cold and drizzling. By the time our ride turned onto our street, I was glad I had put my heavier coat where I could reach it.
Derek’s car was at the curb.
He had texted while we were waiting for our bags.
Can I come by after you get home? Just me. I’d like to talk.
Karen had answered, Yes.
He was standing beneath the porch roof when we pulled up.
He came down the steps and took Karen’s suitcase.
“How was the flight?”
“Fine,” she said.
He looked as though he had rehearsed something and lost it at the sight of her.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetheart.”
Inside, I put the kettle on.