Page 102 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“No, that part was actually really great. Everyone left, and we were finally able to have a real conversation. It was…nice—healing, even. We’ve been seeing a family counselor over Zoom and working through it all together. I’m not sure we would’ve gotten there without all of this nonsense.”

A sad laugh tumbles from my throat. “I’m glad my mess accomplished something.”

“They know I asked you to do it. They don’t blame you.”

I press my forehead into my hand and feel my energy drain into the floor. “I’m not sure it was all so selfless. Sam dumped me because he realized I wasn’t the person I wanted him to think I was. Through all of this, a part of me got to pretend a little longer. Now I’m just me again. And that might not be so bad, but ‘me’ is…sad, I think.”

She lifts her mug, a small smile teasing the edges of her lips. “Welcome to the Sad and Lonely Club. Thrilled to have you.”

I take a restorative sip and—against all odds—feel a little happy to be just me. “Thrilled to be here.”

27

A Midwest-Tuscan Christmas Aesthetic

When I land in Michigan on Christmas Eve, my first meal is at Buddy’s Pizza. Usually, it’s Zingerman’s Deli—an Ann Arbor staple—but today, I want crispy corners and stringy cheese. It’s a quintessential winter day in southeast Michigan, meaning the skies are a dreary gray and the snow surrounding the strip mall parking lot is more of a dirty beige slush than a winter wonderland.

“They must have pizza in Minnesota.” My mom turns out of the parking lot, the smell from the pizza boxes on my lap filling the aging Chevy Malibu.

“Nah. They’re still figuring it out over there.”

“Well, that settles it. You’re moving back. Or at least moving to Florida.” She punctuates her flat delivery with a flick of her turn signal, oncoming headlights lighting up her curly brown bob.

“Yes, Florida—the state known for its pizza,” I respond dryly.

“Your father and I went to Clearwater last spring, and they had great food.”

“Were you meeting with L. Ron Hubbard for a slice?”

“Elron who? I never have any idea what you and your sister are talking about.”

“Nothing. A Scientology joke. They’re headquartered in Clearwater, Florida.”

“Oh, them? I left Scientology ages ago, back when they were mostly a bunch of boats.” She shrugs as she turns into our neighborhood, as if escaping Scientology is tragically mundane and not fodder for a ten-episode HBO series. Bored, she changes the subject. “Emma’s pregnant, by the way.”

I know my sister Emma has always wanted kids, but I had no idea she was trying to get pregnant. “She must be so excited. Can we stop at the bookstore for a baby gift?”

“She won’t be telling you. She’s not telling anyone yet, but she’s visibly pregnant, so I thought you should know not to bring it up. And don’t offer her wine or anything.”

“Why would I offer a pregnant woman wine?”

“Because you don’t know she’s pregnant.”

I point between the two of us. “I’m not participating in this, so I’ll just follow her lead. Anything else I should know?”

She shakes her head. “I printed some articles for you to look at on increased risk of skin cancer with BRCA,” she says. “We can look at them after dinner.”

Slumping deeper into my pizzas, I lean my forehead against the window with such helpless melancholy, I put my inner high schooler—the one who wrote sad, strange poetry in pastel gel pen—to shame. Every time I get on a plane to Michigan, I tell myself this will be the visit when I don’t regress back to my seventeen-year-old self. This year, I couldn’t make it past the ride from the airport.

•••

My dad doesn’t leave the den for dinner until my mom and I have finished eating and are settled on the couch searching for a Christmas movie. “Working or studying?” I ask him when he emerges.

He startles mid-yawn, as if the sight of me on the couch doesn’t compute, and adjusts his black Coke-bottle glasses. “Well, hi there, Alison. Studying. Classes start next week.”

I point to the kitchen. “Pizza’s in the oven.” For as long as I can remember, my parents have stored pizza, in its cardboard box, in the oven, at two hundred degrees. I never considered it a hazard until I got my own apartment and made the conscious decision never to do this, lest I burn the place to the ground. Still, whenever I visit, I instinctually stick the pizza box in the oven without a thought, as if basic fire safety doesn’t apply to childhood homes.

He makes himself a plate and shuts himself back in the den. When my mom got her cancer diagnosis, he went down to part-time at his job as a machinist. Worried her cancer might return, he stayed part-time. After years of clean scans and too many free hours, he decided to fill them with a master’s degree in medieval literature. For fun. It’s a decision I still find baffling, but I suspect he finds the women in his household a bit baffling himself.

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