heading to the bathroom. “But first I’m going to chop up some trees.”
Down in the kitchen, I crack a dozen eggs with the phone tucked between my ear and my neck. First I call my mother.
“Ma,” I say. “Have you seen it outside? It’s like a bomb went off.”
“Dad’s already outside picking up sticks. We lost one big tree. The one on the side of the house.”
“Did it hit the house?” I ask while whisking the eggs, worried that it’ll cost them a bundle, money they don’t have to spare.
“No, thank the Lord.”
“Are you still coming over today?”
“Of course, honey. Early afternoon. Is that okay?”
“Great,” I say. “Have you talked to anyone else?” I go to the refrigerator for a splash of milk and a handful of shredded cheese for the eggs.
“Not yet, you want me to?”
“I’ll call them now.”
“Call me back,” she says.
I pour the eggs into the largest skillet and then dial Angela. Angie lives in Alexandria with her husband, Kevin, and two daughters, Shannon and Kelly, whom my girls worship. They’re ages thirteen and fifteen, all one hundred fifty pounds of them—
combined
—decked out in their skinny jeans and hooded sweatshirts, glow-in-the-dark braces, and too much product in their hair. You’d never know they wore St. Mary’s plaid jumpers and loafers most of the week.
“We’ll be there,” she says. “It’s just a matter of when. Kevin is helping some of the neighbor guys. A pretty big tree came down in the middle of the cul-de-sac. Right now they’re trying to wrap a chain around it so they can pull it out further. They’ll be chopping it up for a while.”
“Okay,” I say, trying not to sound insensitive, but I want to know what time everyone will be here so I know when to put the turkey in. “When’s your best guess?”
“Early afternoon?” Angie says. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” I say. “Let’s plan on eating at four.” I slide a double helping of scrambled eggs onto Sally’s plate, a reasonable helping for Emily and Dom, and barely a tablespoon for Danny, my child who barely eats. Set reasonable expectations; can’t expect him to clean his plate if there’s too much food.
By the time I’ve poured milk for the kids, Sally has finished her plate of eggs.
“Did you even
chew
?”
Sally shrugs. “They’re
eggs
. Can I go out with Dad?” she asks eagerly, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. She loves helping Tom in the yard, especially when power tools are involved.
The others are still waiting for their eggs to cool down.
“Don’t you dare go near that chain saw!”
“Like I would,” she says.
Next I call Teresa, who is four years older than me and has two boys, Matthew and Luke, who are a few years older than the twins. She lives in the country in Maryland, homeschools her children, and drags them to morning Mass seven days a week. Teresa is unwavering in her devotion to the church. Behind her back, Angie and I refer to her as “Salt of the earth” because she’s so
good.
Teresa has x-ray eyes, as if her chosen-one status has given her a greater ability to see inside each person’s truth. Once—when I was in law school and my vocabulary was plump with legal terms—I leveled her in a debate. She looked at me with her penetrating eyes and said, “You think you’re so smart, Mare. You think you’re clever, but really you’re just sneaky.”
“That’s
mean,
” I insisted. “I’m not sneaky. I’m no mystery. What you see is what you get.” I can still hear the defensiveness in my voice and see the smirk on my sister’s face as she said, “Yeah, right,” like it was so obvious to her that I had the potential to lie under oath, if the price were right.
When I talk to her this morning, she hems and haws. “I don’t know, Mare. It might be better to stay put.”
“Wimp! Get your ass over here.” I hardly ever swear, but for some reason, when I’m talking to Teresa, the words flow right out, like I’m
Down in the kitchen, I crack a dozen eggs with the phone tucked between my ear and my neck. First I call my mother.
“Ma,” I say. “Have you seen it outside? It’s like a bomb went off.”
“Dad’s already outside picking up sticks. We lost one big tree. The one on the side of the house.”
“Did it hit the house?” I ask while whisking the eggs, worried that it’ll cost them a bundle, money they don’t have to spare.
“No, thank the Lord.”
“Are you still coming over today?”
“Of course, honey. Early afternoon. Is that okay?”
“Great,” I say. “Have you talked to anyone else?” I go to the refrigerator for a splash of milk and a handful of shredded cheese for the eggs.
“Not yet, you want me to?”
“I’ll call them now.”
“Call me back,” she says.
I pour the eggs into the largest skillet and then dial Angela. Angie lives in Alexandria with her husband, Kevin, and two daughters, Shannon and Kelly, whom my girls worship. They’re ages thirteen and fifteen, all one hundred fifty pounds of them—
combined
—decked out in their skinny jeans and hooded sweatshirts, glow-in-the-dark braces, and too much product in their hair. You’d never know they wore St. Mary’s plaid jumpers and loafers most of the week.
“We’ll be there,” she says. “It’s just a matter of when. Kevin is helping some of the neighbor guys. A pretty big tree came down in the middle of the cul-de-sac. Right now they’re trying to wrap a chain around it so they can pull it out further. They’ll be chopping it up for a while.”
“Okay,” I say, trying not to sound insensitive, but I want to know what time everyone will be here so I know when to put the turkey in. “When’s your best guess?”
“Early afternoon?” Angie says. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” I say. “Let’s plan on eating at four.” I slide a double helping of scrambled eggs onto Sally’s plate, a reasonable helping for Emily and Dom, and barely a tablespoon for Danny, my child who barely eats. Set reasonable expectations; can’t expect him to clean his plate if there’s too much food.
By the time I’ve poured milk for the kids, Sally has finished her plate of eggs.
“Did you even
chew
?”
Sally shrugs. “They’re
eggs
. Can I go out with Dad?” she asks eagerly, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. She loves helping Tom in the yard, especially when power tools are involved.
The others are still waiting for their eggs to cool down.
“Don’t you dare go near that chain saw!”
“Like I would,” she says.
Next I call Teresa, who is four years older than me and has two boys, Matthew and Luke, who are a few years older than the twins. She lives in the country in Maryland, homeschools her children, and drags them to morning Mass seven days a week. Teresa is unwavering in her devotion to the church. Behind her back, Angie and I refer to her as “Salt of the earth” because she’s so
good.
Teresa has x-ray eyes, as if her chosen-one status has given her a greater ability to see inside each person’s truth. Once—when I was in law school and my vocabulary was plump with legal terms—I leveled her in a debate. She looked at me with her penetrating eyes and said, “You think you’re so smart, Mare. You think you’re clever, but really you’re just sneaky.”
“That’s
mean,
” I insisted. “I’m not sneaky. I’m no mystery. What you see is what you get.” I can still hear the defensiveness in my voice and see the smirk on my sister’s face as she said, “Yeah, right,” like it was so obvious to her that I had the potential to lie under oath, if the price were right.
When I talk to her this morning, she hems and haws. “I don’t know, Mare. It might be better to stay put.”
“Wimp! Get your ass over here.” I hardly ever swear, but for some reason, when I’m talking to Teresa, the words flow right out, like I’m
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