Holding Hands by Judith Arnold Page B

empty-nesthood easier, and she’d
gone to a shelter and adopted the most forlorn, funny-looking
creature there. She appreciated having at least one other family
member who wasn’t traffic-stopping gorgeous.
    She wasn’t bad looking. But the only way
she’d stop traffic would be if she stood in a crosswalk and the
drivers chose to obey the law and yield. To this day, she remained
astonished that of all the girls at that frat house party
twenty-eight years ago, Scott Fischer had chosen to approach her.
Even as a nineteen-year-old, she’d been pleasantly plain, with hair
the color of mud and eyes the color of weak tea—although Scott had
always said they were the color of strong whisky.
    She’d asked him once why he’d picked her out
of the crowd that night, in the dimly lit, beer-reeking basement of
the frat house. “You looked smart,” he’d said.
    Fair enough. She was smart. She and Scott had
spent their college days, months, years lost in wonderful
conversations, analyzing politics, religion, their dreams and
fears. They’d laughed a lot, taken long hikes together in mild
weather, skied together in the winter. The sex had been phenomenal.
That had been enough.
    Three years after their wedding, she’d become
pregnant with the boys, and she’d gained a lot of weight. Carrying
twins meant eating for three, not two, and after they were born,
ten pounds remained behind as a souvenir. Another three years and
Emily was born, leaving behind ten more pounds. As the children
grew, Meredith’s fat cells sent out invitations to all the other
fat cells in the vicinity to come and join them. A couple of years
ago, Meredith had finally acknowledged that she’d crossed the line
from chubby to fat. She’d gone on a slow, sensible diet. Nothing
dramatic. Just smaller portions, less bread, yogurt instead of
ice-cream. And long, brisk walks.
    At long last, she’d reclaimed her
pre-pregnancy figure. But Scott never said anything about how much
better she looked. Maybe he just didn’t see her anymore.
    The autumn evening was cool, the air as tart
and crisp as the Cortland apples ripening at the orchard west of
town. Meredith headed south, Skippy prancing beside her.
    Just before her mother had phoned that
evening, Emily had called from school. Despite all of last year’s
senior-year-of-high-school craziness, Emily’s zigzagging moods, her
theatrics and histrionics and her ability to dissolve into tears
over everything from a spat with a friend to a suggestion from her
English teacher that she proofread her homework assignments more
carefully, from a scuff mark on her favorite shoes to a missed shot
on goal in field hockey, from a college rejection letter to a
college acceptance letter, Meredith missed her daughter now that
she was settled into her college dorm, launched on the next phase
of her life. Unlike the twins—lanky, hunky, easygoing boys who even
as college first-years had gotten in touch with Meredith only when
they’d needed money or CARE packages of food—Emily phoned nearly
every day. Sometimes she texted Meredith, but usually she called,
aware that Meredith hated the coded jargon of texting, the dropped
letters and cryptic abbreviations.
    Today’s phone call had been
typical. Emily was happy, she was busy, she was as frisky as
Skippy, and sometimes Meredith wished she could put her daughter on
a leash and rein her in a little. “I got my first paper back in
American Society and Culture and I got a check-plus on it, which is
like an A. I’m such an effin’ genius, Mom! I signed up for
intramural basketball, I don’t know why, I’m not that tall, but
everyone said go ahead and sign up so I did. And Mom, I met this
really hot guy, he’s a friend of Jane’s, they went to high school
together and he is so hot, and he told me his dorm is hosting a party this weekend
and I should come. I think I need a new sweater.”
    Meredith had asked if the boy was nice, and
Emily had insisted that he was hot.