Chương 9
“Yes.”
“Bills you sometimes claimed you paid.”
Jenna looked down.
“Yes.”
Ruth breathed slowly.
“I’m still angry about that.”
“You should be.”
“Don’t tell me what I should feel.”
Jenna flinched.
“You’re right.”
The apology came too quickly.
Ruth almost became more irritated.
She looked out the window.
A man struggled to fold a stroller while a toddler kicked the coffee shop door.
Life remained disrespectfully ordinary.
Ruth looked back at Jenna.
“Why did you open my file box?”
Jenna was quiet.
“I wanted to know how much you had.”
The directness hurt more than any excuse would have.
Ruth’s mouth went dry.
“Did you find out?”
“No.”
“Did you try?”
“Yes.”
There was no good response to that.
Jenna continued.
“I found statements, but they were old. And then I felt sick.”
“Before or after you read them?”
“After.”
Ruth laughed once.
Jenna accepted it.
“I put everything back.”
“You broke the tape.”
“I know.”
“You could have asked.”
“I knew you’d say no.”
Ruth leaned back.
There it was again.
That old belief.
That another person’s boundary became unreasonable if it prevented you from getting what you wanted.
“Jenna.”
“I know.”
“No. Listen.”
Jenna became still.
“You were afraid.”
“Yes.”
“You were ashamed.”
“Yes.”
“You were trying to save your house.”
“Yes.”
“And you still did something wrong.”
Jenna’s eyes closed briefly.
“Yes.”
“All of those things can be true together.”
Jenna nodded.
Ruth felt some part of her unclench.
Not forgiveness.
Something before it.
Perhaps the relief of not being asked to deny reality in order to move forward.
They talked another half hour.
Ruth did not invite Jenna to the cottage.
Jenna did not ask.
When they stood to leave, Jenna said, “I’m glad you bought it.”
Ruth looked at her.
“The house.”
“I figured.”
“I hated it when I first found out.”
“I also figured.”
“I thought you’d been waiting to punish me.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I believe that now.”
Ruth put on her coat.
Jenna hesitated.
“Is it nice?”
“The cabinets are yellow.”
Jenna stared.
“What kind of yellow?”
“Mustard.”
“On purpose?”
“Apparently.”
Jenna looked genuinely distressed.
Ruth smiled all the way to the parking garage.
December brought ice.
Murphy’s arthritis worsened.
He began slipping on the kitchen floor, so Ruth bought ugly rubber runners and placed them from his bed to the back door.
Jenna would have hated them.
Ruth realized one morning that she had made three decorating decisions based on what Jenna would hate.
That annoyed her.
Freedom should have been larger than opposition.
She removed one runner.
Murphy slipped.
She put it back.
“Fine. Practical hatred.”
Christmas became its own problem.
Brian asked whether Ruth wanted to come to his apartment.
He had moved out of the house after the separation.
Jenna was spending Christmas Eve with her sister and Christmas morning with Brian.
The arrangement sounded exhausting.
Ruth said she would think about it.
Carol invited her to dinner with twelve people she barely knew.
Denise next door invited her for dessert.
Lily invited Murphy specifically.
Ruth bought him a red bandanna.
On December twenty-third, Brian called.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Jenna wants to ask you something.”
Ruth looked at her phone.
“She has my number.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you calling?”
“Because she’s standing here and won’t.”
Ruth closed her eyes.
“Put her on.”
A pause.
Then Jenna.
“Hi.”
“Hello.”
“I was wondering whether… this is awkward.”
“Yes.”
Jenna laughed nervously.
“Would you be willing to have Christmas morning here? At Brian’s place.”
Ruth sat down.
“Why?”
Silence.
“Because I thought maybe we could try.”
“Try what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Good answer.”
“I’m working on those.”
Ruth looked toward Murphy.
He was asleep beneath the tree Ruth had bought too late and decorated with only half her ornaments because the rest remained in storage.
“Will Carol be there?”
Brian’s voice shouted faintly in the background, “Why would Carol be there?”
Ruth smiled.
“No.”
Jenna said, “You can bring her if you want.”
“I was joking.”
“Oh.”
Another silence.
Ruth said, “I’ll come for breakfast.”
Jenna exhaled.
“Okay.”
“Not all day.”
“Okay.”
“And nobody discusses money.”
“Agreed.”
From the background Brian said, “Can we discuss the Orioles?”
Ruth said, “Only if you want Christmas ruined.”
Christmas breakfast was awkward.
That made it better.
Brian burned the bacon.
Jenna brought cinnamon rolls from a bakery and tried to claim she had intended to.
Ruth called her a liar.
Jenna laughed.
For ten minutes nobody knew where to sit because Brian only owned four chairs and one had a box of unopened mail on it.
Murphy stole half a cinnamon roll.
Brian blamed Jenna.
Jenna blamed Brian.
Ruth blamed Murphy.
Murphy expressed no remorse.
After breakfast, Jenna handed Ruth a small gift.
Ruth opened it carefully.
Inside was a brass keychain shaped like a tiny house.
Ruth stared.
Jenna’s confidence collapsed immediately.
“Oh God. Is that terrible?”
Brian covered his face.
“I told you it might be terrible.”
“You said it was funny.”
“I said maybe funny.”
Jenna reached for the box.
Ruth pulled it away.
“No.”
Jenna froze.
Ruth turned the little brass house in her fingers.
“It’s terrible.”
“I knew it.”
“I like it.”
Jenna stared.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s terrible.”
Brian began laughing.
Jenna did too.
Ruth surprised herself by joining them.
The moment did not erase anything.
That was why she trusted it.
In January, Brian and Jenna sold their house.
Not because Ruth demanded it.
Not because some dramatic financial disaster forced them into the street.
They sold because the mortgage was too much, the maintenance was expensive, and neither wanted to keep using the building as evidence in arguments about who had failed whom.
Jenna rented a smaller apartment.
Brian renewed his lease.
They continued counseling.
Some weeks they appeared to be reconciling.
Other weeks they seemed grateful to live separately.
Ruth stopped asking.
One Saturday Jenna called her directly.
“I need advice.”
Ruth almost said no on principle.
“About?”
May you like
“A client.”
“Then absolutely not. I know nothing about interior design except that gray is a color and apparently not a personality.”
