The Welcome Home Diner: A Novel

by Peggy Lampman

  I’m alone now, shivering and wet in the Polar Passage, watching the bears in their silent ballet. One of the slick, white beasts paddles over to greet me. Bubbles churn from a scarred nose on an immense, furry face—Talina. Does she recognize me? I haven’t been here since December. Our eyes lock as I fiddle with the rosary around my neck. Jessie’s healing beads were saving the space for the real deal.

  “So, Talina,” I say, mouthing the words through the pane. “David called. Yesterday. Says he misses me.” I clap my hands at her in glee and then glance around the passage, hoping no one is observing my communion with the beast.

  She tips her head and pulls back her lips, showing her teeth. I could swear she’s smiling at me. She pushes away from the wall and jettisons up, clamping her jaws around a floating fish. The last nick in my heart is healing. I’m so glad I suggested meeting David here, in our special place.

  My sweater clings damp against my torso. Thankfully, it’s warm in the passage, and my body begins to relax.

  I suppose one could have predicted he’d call. Stories can’t all be doom and gloom. Sandwiched between once upon a time and they lived happily ever after, battles are fought and corpses carried away from the field. But the knight always returns to the princess, rescuing the damsel from the mouth of the beast.

  And yet. Don’t we all hunger for stories with a moral code and happy ending? Don’t we yearn for the tales our parents read to us, the promises they made when we were young—that if we were virtuous and played by the rules, we’d have a happy life? Those tales drew, at least in part, from the mythology of my later studies. My parents broke the rules, and look at the fallout. Mom, the beautiful queen of Botox, held captive in a crumbling glass tower while Dad sweeps up the shards beneath.

  I shake my head and run fingers through my hair, tangled with rainwater. Talina startles me by pressing her immense stomach into the glass wall, parallel with my body. The water slaps and ripples against the pane, distracting me from my reverie. When she pushes away, I submerge, once again, returning to my reflections.

  While researching the Trojan War for my final research paper, I read several translations regarding the Judgment of Paris. All the gods and goddesses are invited to attend the marriage of Peleus and Thetis. Except for Eris, who has a reputation of being a killjoy. Bitter about the snub, she crashes the party by tossing the wedding guests a golden apple with the inscription THE APPLE FOR THE FAIR.

  Three goddesses—Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite—are hungry for the apple, so a beauty pageant is staged. Paris, a Trojan mortal, is chosen to judge the winner, who will then reign as the most beautiful goddess and receive the golden apple. Conniving Aphrodite has a trick up her sleeve (as I recall, picking apart a stubborn knot in my hair with my fingertips). She makes a promise to Paris: if he picks her to be the fairest, she will use her powers to make Helen, the most beautiful mortal in the world, fall in love with him.

  As in all good myths, the story’s complex. But, in the end, Paris—flesh-and-blood male that he is—couldn’t be impartial and succumbs to the bribe. He selects Aphrodite as winner, the fairest of them all.

  Aphrodite keeps her word, and her powers force Helen to fall madly in love with Paris. But Helen is already married, ergo the tragedy. The situation culminates in the slaughter of the Trojans and the desecration of their temples. Enter the Greek chorus, wailing in the rubble, blood streaked across their cheeks. Paris, using Aphrodite’s spell as conduit, forces a relationship through deception and trickery. This Grecian tale does not have a happy ending.

  And the moral of this story? Make sure that Eris is invited to the wedding? Don’t steal another man’s wife?

  The moral of the story, and the moral to my story, as it’s been unfolding, is to be brutal with the truth. Don’t accept the bribe, especially those laid out in fairy tales. I’ve concluded—and on some level, I’ve known this all along—that reality is my story. I own it. I can’t force David to change. I only have the potential to make changes in how I emotionally address and confront what he’s capable of giving. The truth is all I’ve got.

  And as I’m thinking this—watching Talina, and now Nuka, paddle around me—a hand rests on my shoulder. I see his reflection in the glass, his tall, thin frame, the slight tip of his head. My shadow twin.

  I turn. And he doesn’t say a word. Raindrops perch on his brows, dark shadows paint half-moons beneath his eyes. But happiness is written in code throughout his face: in the softness of his gaze, the gentle tilt at the corners of his mouth. We take each other’s hands, and my entire being is suffused in happiness. In love. And in gratitude. He lifts my hands to his lips and kisses them, and the feeling of those soft lips on my flesh touches me in places that words can’t reach. We lose ourselves for a minute or two in each other’s gaze before David breaks the silence.

  “What can I say, Addie? Kismet? Fate? Destiny? I’ve figured out a lot of things, and one of those things is—I love you. I was born to love you. Love conquers all.”

  I scrunch my nose. Enough of this prattle. I’m going to say what I think. “Love conquers all? I don’t like it when you frame your feelings in a cliché.”

  A woman with two young children walks into the corridor. I place my forefinger to my lips. They walk toward us, and the woman and I exchange smiles. The boy giggles, pointing at the bear’s antics, while the woman strokes her fingers through his curls.

  David stares at me, his mouth agape, surprised, as if I’d poured a bucket of water over his head. I place my fingertips into the small of his back, pushing him away from the kids. Edging away, we stop at the entrance of the corridor.

  He leans his mouth toward my ear, his voice lowered to a whisper. “What am I supposed to say?” His expression bewildered, his fists open and clench shut, as if he were literally grasping at straws.

  The woman glances our way and then takes the children’s hands into her own. As they exit the corridor, we catch each other’s eyes and, with a slight raise of our brow, nod; a woman-to-woman silent acknowledgment that I need space with this man.

  I wrap my fingers around David’s fists to quiet their flexing. “Lines you hear in songs or read on Hallmark cards—they’re someone else’s words. They mean nothing to me. When we discuss our feelings with one another, we should be sincere. Furthermore, your wisecracks, those cards you gave me for Valentine’s Day, make me feel as if our sex life—that thing I do—is the only reason you love me.”

  Man oh man. This honesty serum is potent, and it’s liberating to tell it, at last, as it is.

  He emits a long, low whistle. “Addie. You’ve got it all wrong. Of course I go nuts making love with you.” His eyes trail up and down my body. “What man wouldn’t? But you’ve oversimplified my feelings. Our relationship means so much more to me than sex. You’re my center.” He shakes his head, inhaling sharply.

  “When you tell me you love me, I parrot the words back, not even sure what they’re supposed to mean. And inside,” he beats his fist at his chest, “inside, I feel helpless. Filled with dread. So I resort to banality. I don’t know what else to say.”

  His face twists in anguish. “I guess I never knew how much I loved you, or what the words even meant, until you were gone.”

  He’s like a vulnerable little boy in front of me, and I’m sorry for him. Sorry that being honest and sharing feelings makes him so miserable. My eyes begin to burn, and his image blurs behind my tears. I blink several times, to stop their flow.

  He looks at me, folds his arms across his chest, and angles his head to the side, as if he were meeting me for the first time. “I thought you liked it when I’m funny, playful, when I slap your butt.”

  “I do, David. I like to joke around. But not at the sacrifice of honest dialogue. The conversation that we’re having now is what I relish. When we’re speaking from our hearts.” I move closer to him. “Thank you for opening the door, telling me what’s going on in there.”

  With shaky hands, he fumbles with the zipper on
his parka, zipping it up an inch, then down. Up and down, over and over. This conversation is so difficult for him.

  “Growing up, when guys were talking about sex, it was as if they were discussing a baseball game. Hey man, I hit a home run with Teresa last night,” he says, his voice thick with irony.

  I laugh. “Girls use baseball language, too. Our version of the Teresa story was that she only let him get to second base. And only with her bra on. And only after he invited her to prom.”

  “It’s a heap of crap, right? The man and woman on opposite teams, the man trying to make it to the next base, the woman thwarting his efforts.”

  “But in baseball, even if you’re on a team, you’re standing on that field alone. Vulnerable. And someone, David, someone always loses.” I brush away his hair, which has, again, fallen into his eyes. “Running from your emotions is more painful than feeling them. You should have gone to the source.” I point to my heart. “Me. Asked me what I liked and what I wanted to hear. And it was my fault for not telling you. I was lying to myself and lying to you. I reinvented who I was and played the vixen. It’s what I thought you wanted, when all I wanted was to be loved.”

  I take his hand away from the zipper and twine it with my own. We walk back to the bears, now lolling in the water, their bellies full of fish. Is reinvention what the human species does to attract a mate and ensure our survival? Do Talina and Nuka feel these sorts of emotions, these fragile complexities? Talina dives smoothly under Nuka. Who knows? Maybe.

  I turn to David, looking him dead in the eye. “I’m sick of games. It’s on my shoulders, too. Even if I didn’t understand my actions at the time, I tried to manipulate you so that I could control you. So I could forward my happy-ever-after agenda.”

  His shoulders drop, as if relieved I’m the one tapping the beehive. His chin trembles as he grasps my hands. “Thank you for that, baby girl.”

  Taking a sharp breath, he straightens, like a soldier in line awaiting his inspection. “So here I am. Standing in front of you. Trying not to lose you. I don’t know what the answer is.” His voice softens, breaking. “And right now I’m still not ready to say the words I know you want to hear.”

  Tears are rolling down his cheeks. “But I’m ready to try my damnedest.” His shoulders heave, his words sandwiched between sobs.

  I reach into my pack and remove Kleenex. I take one, brush away my tears, and then hand him the package. He mops his face with a tissue, then removes another and blows his nose.

  “Some evenings, after putting down a few,” he continues, shaking his head, trying to regain his composure, “I go to sleep thinking, I’m OK.” He gazes at me, pain drawing lines across his face. “But when I wake up in an empty bed, I realize I’m not.”

  “Same, David. Same with me.” My gaze searches his face. “I don’t want to coerce you into marrying me. Not anymore. And our personal issues are not for each other to solve. I’m learning hard lessons. I can’t control your feelings, and I can’t control what you do.”

  Relief floods through me. Is it because David and I, at last, are having a heartfelt discussion? Yes. But no. It goes deeper than a man. I remove the wad of Kleenex dangling from his fingertips, place it in my bag, and take his hands.

  “This time away from our relationship has been good for me, David. At first I thought I couldn’t live without you. And then, after some time, I realized that I could. I’m learning to take control of my life. Rewriting my narrative is the most honest thing that I can do for myself right now.”

  “But don’t snuff out the Addie I love. That everyone loves. Your whimsy, your thoughtfulness, your kindness, how you care so much about the underdog. What you may consider to be your flaws, most everyone else, me in particular, see as your strengths.” He drops my hand to touch my cheek. The familiar gesture’s almost painful.

  We’re quiet for a moment, facing each other. A young man with an infant strapped to his chest walks into the passage. He smiles at us, at our leaky eyes, red noses. He smiles at us wretched, ragged mortals, who are trying to figure it out, trying to muck through the wreckage.

  “The zoo’s my favorite place in The D,” he says, bouncing the baby a little.

  “We hear you, man,” David says, shaking his head as if switching channels. “How old’s your child?”

  “Eight months yesterday. The animals seem to calm him down. But maybe it’s just me who needs calming down,” he adds, with a chuckle. “I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since the little dude was born. Colic.” He bends his head to kiss the top of the infant’s head.

  “Maybe the pheromones in the animal smells calm you both down,” I say, and adjust a tiny knit bootie, half dangling from the baby’s foot.

  “Could be. Could be.” The baby begins to whimper.

  “Gotta keep moving,” he says over his shoulder, leaving the passage. “See you around.”

  David lifts the rosary away from my neck.

  “A rosary? What’s up with this?”

  I sigh, massaging my temples with my fingertips. The core of a healthy relationship is transparency.

  “The story of this rosary is attached to a past I’ve been reluctant to share with you. But now’s as good a time as any. Wanna grab a cup of coffee?”

  “Baby girl, I can match anything you have to dish, line by line, story by story. Let’s see whose backstories scare who the most.”

  “Deal.” I say, swatting him on the arm. “Knock, knock.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “It’s still me.”

  “I wouldn’t want it any other way.” He pulls me into him, stroking my hair. “By the way, you’re pretty when your hair’s damp, and when you’re not wearing makeup.”

  I look up into his face. “You like my rabbit eyes?”

  “I love your rabbit eyes.”

  And then, under the gaze of the great furry beasts, he leans forward, kissing me, whispering, “I love you,” against my lips.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sam

  My gut churns thinking of how my decision to leave Detroit will affect Addie. A pit sits in my stomach, and procrastination is making it grow larger by the day.

  We’ve just closed the diner, and I’m at the counter placing daffodils in vintage teal bottles filled with water. The bottles’ globular bases are in the shape of teardrops, and Addie is arranging them on each table and across the counter. Trumpets of yellow-gold cheer brighten my mood, announcing the coming of spring.

  Uriah’s mom is on her second round of chemo. Our plans are to move to Tennessee by the end of June, but he wants to leave sooner. It will be easier on him knowing he’s only a short distance away from his parents. Besides, he’s a Southern man at heart; his roots in the culture run deep.

  Thank God David’s returned to Addie’s life. I feel as if a ton of bricks has been removed from my chest. My news will now be an easier pill for her to swallow; she won’t feel so alone. She doesn’t, however, want him to move back in quite yet, and she tells me her alone time has been fruitful. She seems relaxed, and her face glows.

  She asks if things are OK between Uriah and me. I often catch her gazing at me, as if she’s wondering what’s up. We’ve always been able to finish each other’s sentences; she must know I’m harboring something. My actions in her presence—darting eyes and fluttering hands—surely betray my words. I’m a terrible bluffer, and my dimples, which puncture my cheeks even when frowning, defy my attempts at a poker face. Addie will need to make plans for my portion of the house. And she must replace me at work. I have to tell her soon.

  Lella walks across the floor, her countenance somber, unblinking. Standing in front of me, she clasps and unclasps her hands, as if unsure what to do with them. Now they dangle at her side, her fingers clenched into fists.

  “Sam. I need to talk to you.” She doesn’t meet my eye, and her chin falls to her chest. She glances toward my cousin. “Addie, if you don’t mind. I need to speak with you, too.” Her breath hitches, maki
ng a hiccup sound. “But someplace private.”

  Addie is doing what Addie does best: ensuring each condiment is wiped clean of fingerprints, the pepper mills are full, and the flowers are placed dead center on the tabletop, each stem aligned to perfection. Forefinger on chin, she pinches her lips together, frustrated. When she moves the vase a millimeter to the right, her expression relaxes. After hearing Lella’s words, she strides over to join us.

  “You OK, Lella?” she asks, catching the woman’s expression, which is dull, lifeless.

  In the past few weeks, something has changed about Lella. She’s quit her impromptu little dances, and her smile doesn’t come easy. She’s even stopped chewing gum. Her life has always been an open book, but these days she’s quiet. Nevertheless, she’s punctual, is organized at work, and is pleasant with the customers. She’s just not Lella, so we assume it’s another man problem. I, for one, am sick of hearing about them.

  “Let’s just get this over with,” she says with a sigh, looking for all the world like she’s lost her last friend. Problem after problem, issue after issue. I’ll be glad when Welcome Home is past history.

  “Give me a minute to check on things,” I say. “Paul’s been itching to call it a day. I’ll join you two in the office.”

  I walk into the kitchen as Sylvia removes strawberry pies from the oven. Their perfectly fluted crust is packed with the berries that we froze last spring. When thawed, they taste as sweet as jam. Juices ooze through slits in the pastry, and their fragrance casts a lingering perfume about the kitchen.

  “I’ve finished my prep list for tomorrow,” Paul says. “Mind if I clock out? I’ve got friends coming over this evening to watch the Michigan-Minnesota game. I gotta clean my place. It’s trashed.”

  “No worries,” I say. “You were so productive in such a short time—maybe you should invite your friends over more often.” I wink at him as he removes his apron, balls it up, and tosses it into the hamper as if it were a basketball hoop.