new dress, a new haircut, a craving for almond milk and caramel lattes, words like “pretentious” flowing from her lips; a hundred little tics and slips that no one but a mother would recognize and mourn because it had the scent and flavor of a mind, a touch, a heart that was foreign, unknown. In college, it had been colored underwear with lace and satin bows, and there was a certain brazenness about the hips and eyes. Now it was something different: Bible verses on note cards, online sermons droning away on her computer into the night. Marilyn wasn’t sure which was worse. Outside, Esther stood at the edge of the lawn and squinted towards the sky, and Marilyn had the suspicion that she was praying. Her daughter had changed the most when she started dating the seminarian. She wore hoodies and basketball shorts and no makeup, and she was no longer interested in shopping and manicures (superficial, everything is superficial, she said.) But she would not dwell on that now. No, it was Christmas and Marilyn would not allow herself to brood. She swiped soap across a plate. And when Esther’s boyfriend—what was his name? Abraham, Isaiah—something Biblical, why did he have to be so blatantly Biblical? Isaac, that was it—when he came, she would be kind, warm, generous. Marilyn smiled to herself. She was not a hard-hearted woman. When she looked up again, she noticed Esther trudging across the grass wearing—wearing what? She squinted, frowned: something red on her feet, red shoes—Marilyn’s red rubber garden clogs—“Esther!” She opened the window. “Are you wearing my shoes? I don’t want you wearing my shoes! And—remember! We need bread from the store! And meat! Don’t forget the meat!” She clutched at her dishtowel and closed the window. That girl is always using my things, Marilyn thought, shaking her head. What a strange girl, a silly girl, still such a child—a baby really—and to think that once they used to spend their afternoons playing with chalk, watching beetles pick out paths across the driveway, when now there was so much to do, still so much to do. Around noon, visitors. Cynthia, Mitch, and their daughter, Amy, arrived with a bottle of wine and a box of cupcakes. They had come south for the holidays, having driven down from San Francisco all through the morning, and the wine was from Mitch’s vineyard up north, a rosé with a hint of raspberry and vanilla, echoes of white chocolate. “Delightful!” said Marilyn, receiving the wine and their greetings with an inclination of her head, a smile. Delightful. The years—once
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pale, opaque—had parted and uncurled like petals, and revealed that her sister, Cynthia, had done quite well. Mitch, a successful designer (the family had doubted him at first) and her daughter, now stepping through the doorway with the grace of a dancer, wearing black boots, black leggings, a little black purse with a golden zipper and a golden clasp, were talented and intelligent. A beautiful family, thought Marilyn, hugging, patting, stroking arms, laughing, and Cynthia had gotten fatter, soft, sultry as an opera singer with that voice, low and clear, that poured into the room, with warmth, with spice, her lips curling upwards, purple and stained, as if by wine. “You’re thinner than a pencil!” said Cynthia to Marilyn. “You must be tired from the drive,” said Marilyn, wondering why her family had not yet appeared. Where was Mark? Where was Esther? Her husband and daughter were always so slow, so serious and quiet. Mark appeared at the head of the stairs, descended upon the clamor of enthusiastic greetings with a smile, a nod: serene. “And Esther? Where’s Esther?” said Cynthia, taking off her heels, letting her toes uncurl, feeling the cold of the tiles filter up through her black tights like a balm. Cynthia was tired of parties, of visiting people, of family, of Christmas; her feet were tired, her thighs were tired, her face felt as if it had melted and congealed several times since the morning as she listened to Amy complain and Mitch play the same John Legend CD on repeat for hours. And now she was here, at her sister Marilyn’s house, being shown the table, the lamp stand, the shelf with dovetail joints that Mark made in his workshop, in his spare time, between his duties at the hospital and the church. Everything was very nice, she said, the work of a craftsman. He should consider selling, making a website—like Mitch, who was into photography, had entered competitions, had his photo of a squirrel cracking a nut featured in National Geographic. Her voice rose, declared, swooped. From the garden outside, Esther could see her mother and aunt talking in the living room, and she knew that their smiles were pieces of their armor, their shields in combat. They were comparing each other, no doubt, their families and their houses, minds clicking, whirring with calculations faster and more precise than any gadget or app, and soon they would go into the kitchen and commence the one shared indulgence they looked forward to with equal relish all year: they would saunter; they would sit; they would look at Christmas cards and gossip. But not yet, not yet. Now they were engaged in combat. They leaned and swayed and moved their fingers, made their rings glint behind
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