The Welcome Home Diner: A Novel

by Peggy Lampman

  His eyes sparkle and he speaks quickly. “All around us, all of these homes, these abandoned buildings, are being sold for peanuts. I’ve been talking to Dad. We’ve got our eyes on an investment possibility.”

  My pulse quickens. I showed him the string of houses for sale by the canal a few weeks ago. I lean into him, smiling broadly.

  “There’s this one warehouse in the Renaissance Zone. Because of the location, it would be tax-free for any business to move into. Dad’s company could move there, and then we’d get other . . .”

  His words fall into a vacuum as my excitement deflates; there’s a hum in my ears, and I can’t hear his voice. Moistening my lips, I crank up a pleased expression, trying to return to the moment.

  “Oh, David,” I say when he becomes quiet, looking at me as if expecting a reaction. I take his hand. “That sounds like a great investment. And it gives you and your dad a forum for more personal interaction.”

  “It’s been great. The two of us driving around, looking at real estate. Your sharing the work you’ve been doing with your mom has been valuable to me. It helps me understand Dad. Where he’s coming from. Of course, we never dig deep. And he would never consider therapy.”

  I smile at the thought of David’s father spilling his guts to Dr. Lerner.

  He winks. “But for the first time ever, we’ve been talking about Mom and her control issues.” He raises his eyebrows. “We’re even joking about it. As you know, getting a laugh out of Dad’s a very big deal. We’ve decided to let her spin in her own orbit, and we’ll stay out of it.”

  I tilt my head, truly happy that he and his dad are making progress. “That’s wonderful, David.”

  He reaches across the table to stroke my hand. “It’s thanks to you, baby girl. But let’s get back to us.” His eyes burrow into mine, then dart to my cleavage before returning to catch my gaze. “Have I ever told you that you’ve the most beautiful eyes in the world?”

  Eyes? Yeah right. Here we go. Back to clichés. Every time he tries to express his love, it sounds like a line pulled from Sleepless in Seattle. But it’s Valentine’s Day. So I let him ramble on and on about his adoration of me in platitudes, trying not to roll my eyes. I’ll work on him later. Once we’re married. I cross my fingers under the table.

  After finishing the main course, he stands and kisses me again before taking our plates to the sink. I watch him, admiring the muscles that flex beneath his shirt as he rinses off the last traces of sauce. Then he walks to the entryway and reaches for his briefcase. My heart pounds. He brings it to the table. Opening the latch, he reaches in, pulling out—what? A deck of tickets? Wearing that rascal smile, he takes his seat and hands them to me: a set of black-and-red-checked cards in the shape of a billfold decorated with pink hearts.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day, you stunning wench. A dozen scratch tickets to shake up our sex life.”

  “Sex game scratch cards? Is this a joke?” I stare at them in horror, the wonder of the evening crashing down around my ankles.

  “Funny, huh? I saw them at the liquor store and couldn’t resist. All we have to do is scratch off the designs. The pose that’s revealed will demonstrate the sex position we’ll try.” He stares at my cleavage, raises his eyebrows, and then his eyes return to my face. “They won’t last long the way we go at it. Perfect, right?”

  He’s really stepped in it this time. I throw the cards on the floor, shaking my head, furious. “This is clearly for you.”

  He squirms. “What about the roses?” He points at the flowers on the counter, which I’d arranged in the Deco vase. “Those were for you. What about the wine—my buying your favorite champagne? Here. Lemme grab it.” In an instant, he pushes away from the table, stands, and turns toward the fridge. I jump from my chair and grab his forearm to stop him.

  His jaw tightens as he shakes away my arm. “I hate this holiday. It’s packed with so much pressure. I gave you roses. I bought wine and champagne. The money I spent for those alone would feed a family for a month.” His face slackens, and he looks at the floor. “I thought you’d think the cards were funny, Addie.” His voice now is that of a hurt little boy.

  My face contorts as I fight back the tears, summoning the strength of Diana. I won’t fall off my horse. I will play this out.

  I bite the bottom of my lip. My next question, and his answer, will direct the course of my life.

  “Will you marry me, David? Will you marry me?” The word marry, to my ears, sounds like the bleat of a sheep. Maah, maah. My face grows hot. This is not the way this was supposed to go down.

  “Addie.” He slides his palms down my hair and then clenches it into his fists. “Addie. Baby girl. I love you with a fierceness I’ve never felt for anyone, for anything, in my life. But aren’t we good the way we are? I’ve thought about marriage—don’t get me wrong. And if I ever got married, it would be to you. But I don’t know, Addie. I just don’t know. I feel like you’re pushing me into a corner.”

  My voice rises. “I’ve told you, David. I’ve been telling you for over a year. I can’t stay with you unless I know you’re in it for the long haul.” As I stare at him, he sighs and his shoulders sag, a now-familiar reaction to my words. “All I want, David, is to get married, to have children, and to be loved by you forever.”

  His face shifts with an array of emotions—passion, bewilderment, distress. His body is emitting an animal scent, an unfamiliar pheromone that goads me on.

  “I’m not getting what I need from this relationship. I love you, David. But our bond is broken, and I’m not sure if it can be fixed. We’re not on the same page. What I need is that my partner be on the exact sentence, the exact word as myself, when it comes to our future.”

  “Baby. I agree. We’re out of sync. You’re beginning to sound more controlling than my mother, and I’m crumbling under your expectations.”

  His face is clouded with grief, and I don’t recognize the man I love. I’m trembling from head to toe. In the storm of our relationship, I’ve been hauling out a lifeline to this man, playing out the spool bit by bit with each passing day. I just cut bait and smell the agony. Something in this room is dying.

  “We’re over, David. ‘David and Addie’ are through.” My words hit me like a punch in the gut, and I want to burst into tears. We’ve always been the envy of our friends, everyone pointing to our intimate, long-lasting relationship as an anomaly—an exhibit, say, in the Detroit Institute of Art that kept the museum afloat. But now, the Diego Riveras are leaving the building. Blinking my eyes, swallowing the lump in my throat, I pinch my lips together, as utter grief rages through my soul. I pull him into me so close I can feel his heart pounding. A hardening in his groin presses against my thighs. I want him to have me right now, on the floor. I want him to pound away the pain. I press my lips into his, deepening our passion in a kiss.

  He pushes me away, shaking his head. His confusion, his torment, his lust have dissolved into anger.

  “I’m not something to be checked off your to-do list, Addie. I’m flesh and blood. I’ll pack a suitcase. I’ve gotta get out of here. Leave. Right now.” He looks about the room, as an animal trapped in a cage.

  “I’ll stay with Kevin until I figure out my next step,” he continues, his words breathless, rushed. “I’ll get the rest of my stuff later. I understand what you need, what you want me to say to you. But I can’t say the words if I don’t feel them in my heart.” He pounds a clenched fist into his chest. “I love you so much. But I’ve been forgetting who I am, how to breathe on my own. I’m suffocating.”

  He pins me with his gaze for a moment before he turns to grab his cell phone. “It kills me to even look at you.”

  Staggering into the bedroom, he closes the door behind him. Muffled words behind the door. A suitcase being dragged out of the closet. Drawers opening and shutting. The sounds of good-bye. I collapse on the sofa and expect the tears to fall, but my eyes remain dry.

  He opens the door, coat on, suitcase in hand,
and approaches me as if in a trance. He touches my cheek. And then . . . he leaves.

  Prone on the sofa, I stare at the closed door. David’s left me. It’s simple, really. He couldn’t give me what I needed, so I asked him to leave. And then he left. Wait. No. I didn’t ask him to leave. I wanted him to make love with me. We’ve had these arguments before. They’ve never turned into this. I remind him of his mother? Oh my God. What have I done?

  Feet dragging, I weave into my bedroom. There, I peel off my dress, unhook my bra, then pull off my thong—pathetic armor of the seductress. I fall into bed and curl into a fetal position. Where are my tears? I glance at the clock––it’s just after ten. It’s too late to call Mom because Max would be pissed.

  Several minutes pass. I’m numb from the onslaught of grief and wine. Loneliness, like tiny spiders, crawls about my sheets. I slip into my robe, retreat to the office, and open my mythology textbook. Sitting down, I turn to the page about Diana.

  Diana was one of the three maiden goddesses who swore never to marry, and she was true to her word.

  I push away from my desk and stand; my stomach pitches. I wrap my arms around my waist and laugh out loud. I bend over, laughing so hard my sides begin cramping. My laughter turns into tears and then to crazed, wretched grief. Hero joins in the chorus of this tawdry Greek tragedy and wails from below. Hades has risen from the underworld.

  The acoustics are terrible in this house, every noise magnified threefold. It’s eleven forty-five, close to midnight. I’m ruining Valentine’s Day for Sam and Uriah. Embarrassed, I stuff Chester’s paw into my mouth to muffle my histrionics. I stumble to my bedroom and fall facedown onto my comforter—black mascara streaks stain the fabric. The creak of the floorboards. David? Opening my eyes, I look up from my sniveling misery. It’s Sam, looking at me, sadness on her face. She sits on my bed.

  “Oh, honey. You found the courage.”

  “Yes. It’s done. There was no Prince Charming down-on-one-knee proposal, no little box opening to forever. He gave me scratch cards.” I look up from my pillow. “Sexual scratch cards. Can you believe it? So I executed my plan. And you’re the first to know it’s official.”

  “Your breakup?”

  “No. Well, yes. The breakup’s official. But it’s also official that your cousin’s a disaster. A mess. I put this suffering on myself. I keep begging for it to happen.”

  “You’re not a mess. You’re upset because you spoke your truth and are processing the outcome. David didn’t give you what you needed. You had the courage to break up, and now you’ll find the strength to move forward. You’re not stuck now, Addie. Not anymore. You must go through chaos to get to a better place.”

  I lurch up, clutching Chester to my chest. “Chaos is the god of creation, the origin of everything that has ever existed. Chaos made Earth out of random disorder, and you’re telling me I should go through chaos?” I look at her, choking beneath tears. “I love him, Sam. I don’t have the strength.”

  She strokes my hair. Yet again, my cousin is stroking my hair. She’s never seen me such a hot mess. “Let it go, Addie. It’s time to let go. Time will do its thing. You’ll see. Don’t come into work tomorrow. Sleep it off. Everything will be fine. Just fine.”

  I look into her face, and her eyes—glittering and tight—tell a different story.

  I can’t fall asleep. At 3:00 a.m., I stumble to the wardrobe and dig through David’s drawer, grabbing a T-shirt. Resting my head on a pillow, I snuggle against the shirt, and sleep falls like a heavy curtain, David’s musky sweat perfuming my dreams. The morning light burns my eyelids, the T-shirt and Chester twisted between my arms. I take a moment to sift consciousness from my dream state. Memories from last night wash over me like a wave crashing down on a beach. Reality’s the nightmare.

  Sitting up in bed, I regard the shirt, a faded shade of cinnamon. I purchased it on eBay and gave it to David on our first anniversary, three years back. It’s original to the era, the words spelled out across his chest:

  BOB DYLAN LIVE IN CONCERT

  1966 WORLD TOUR WORCESTER, MASSACHUSETTS

  I drag my feet toward the coffeepot in a haze, then stumble through the morning rituals. How am I supposed to move forward without David? Shuffling one foot in front of the other, I find myself in front of the console. I select a Dylan album and remove the record from the sleeve. Placing it on top of the turntable, I position the needle on the second groove of the vinyl: “Simple Twist of Fate,” the most soulful ballad I’ve ever heard.

  Falling onto the sofa, sobbing into the shirt, I play it repeatedly, over and over and over again. I sniff, rubbing my nose into the animal scent of David. Looking up, I drop the shirt into my lap, hearing something new in the lyrics. Something suggesting that my efforts to control destiny were pointless; in the end, fate always has the upper hand. And even though I’ve met my soul mate—my twin, as referenced in the song—if the timing’s not right for him, our love was in vain.

  But is it really a sin, as Dylan’s words question, to feel this suffering so intensely, clawing at the grief of his absence? Is the price I’m paying—in this moment—too steep?

  At last, my tears subside. There’s something about this song—bleeding and beautiful at the same time—that’s comforting. I’m reminded that heartache’s universal, and all of our plots and little schemes, in the end, are futile with love hinged to the fickle whim of fate. A fate that can strip you raw, leave you empty-handed, busted, no cards left to play.

  As if it were antique lace, I fold the shirt into a perfect square and smooth it out before returning it to David’s drawer. I never want to see it again. With my composure somewhat regained, I call my mother, who answers on the first ring. I tell her what happened.

  “Sweetie. I hear your heartbreak, I feel your pain. David was your Prince Charming. I had no idea you two were in trouble.”

  “You were upset enough by my episode with Sam. I know how much you love David. I know how much you want grandchildren.”

  “Oh, Addie,” she replies, her voice breaking. “It’s your happiness I want more than anything. You can tell me everything that’s upsetting you. It’s my greatest joy to be here for you when you need me. You heard what Dr. Lerner told me: it’s never too late.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sam

  Quiche has the day off. I’m taking her place at the flattop, flipping trout fillets and grilling buttered bread, my thoughts to myself. Last night, while Uriah and I were shopping at Home Depot for new light-switch plates, he called me honey. Honey, I’m thinking aged bronze will look better than the polished brass.

  Seriously? Honey? We’ve expressed our love for each other, yada yada, so why would I be thrilled when he called me honey? Because the word is comfortable, domestic, a sweet endearment that takes our relationship to the next plateau. Besides, aside from my dad, no man has ever addressed me using a word that sounds so sweet.

  As we shopped for fixtures, I felt as if he were taking ownership in my home. But that’s not the case. Last week he gave notice to the Boggs School; he will be leaving after the school year, sometime in mid-June. Here’s what I dare not speak of to anyone, especially Addie: we’re fixing up my area of the home so she’ll have a better chance of renting it out. I won’t feel so guilty about leaving. I have no problem giving her my portion of the house. Although both our names are on the mortgage, Aunt Teresa’s money enabled us to buy it.

  Uriah and I are fantasizing a life together outside Cleveland, Tennessee. Unlike Addie, who always speaks in past or future tense, I’ve never appreciated conversations about the future. This is foreign turf for me.

  Uriah and I will purchase farmland and build a home. The land he’s been researching is fertile, rests in a valley, and is surrounded by mountains. He’ll be working on an educational model for Appalachian youth, which he’s developed at Boggs, and I’ll grow all of our food. Perhaps I’ll even raise sheep. I could sell the meat to upscale restaurants in Nashville. Uriah will ta
ke care of me, I’ll take care of him, and we’ll both be closer to his parents. He likes the idea of living off the land. I do, too. Farm life suits me. It’s familiar.

  But the diner. More important—Addie. She’s been working long hours scrutinizing the books, brainstorming menus, and making to-do lists well after Welcome Home closes. It hurts watching her greet our guests, cranking up a smile, with her chin held so high. Heck, in addition to the house, I’d even give her my share of this business. Scot-free. She could make Braydon a partner. She wouldn’t owe me a dime. But I can’t share our plans yet, and Uriah supports me on this. Her love wounds are too fresh. Only a week has passed since Valentine’s Day.

  But my heart feels heavy. With a spatula, I shimmy the fish onto a plate, and then the bread. With tongs, I place a side of lightly dressed microgreens beside the trout. I turn and hand it to Braydon, who places it in front of a hungry diner drumming the counter with her open fingers. I scan the room. Addie greets a regular who always dines alone. She seats him at his favorite spot at the counter, close to a stack of cookbooks he enjoys perusing.

  Nothing says I have to make up my mind this minute whether to join Uriah or not. I’ll just enjoy the sun streaming through the windows. Uriah’s been speaking to Realtors and says daffodils are nosing their way up under a blue Cleveland sky about now. It’s still too cold to go outside in Detroit without a coat, but no matter; when the frigid air stings my cheeks, I’m in the moment, glad to be alive.

  Danita enters, Quiche’s friend, clutching a bag of Hungry Boy Burgers in her hand. Last week she also brought fast food into the diner, but it was after hours. She sat in her usual roost at the counter, shooting the breeze. At a loss for words, we let it slide. But Addie and I traded glances as she devoured her burger and fries, slurping down her shake.