“Whole30?” she asked. “Really?”
“Fantastic! So, you’re on board? And Bridget, I was wondering: You said the study, the loft or whatever, it has a bed in it, right?”
Will’s bed. “Of course. And a desk and—”
“How’s the mattress?”
“In the loft? It’s fine, why?”
“Is it firm?”
“Posturepedic,” said Mallory in the background.
“Is it Posturepedic?” repeated Sterling.
“You mean mine? Not really. It’s a little squishy.”
“No, the mattress in the loft.”
Bridget had no idea. “But I don’t want you to sleep in the loft,” she said, hating the whininess of her voice. “I want you to sleep with me.”
“Just in case I have a flare-up.”
“Did she bring the cats?” she heard Mallory ask.
“You brought the cats, right?”
“Yes,” Bridget said.
“She brought the cats.”
Bridget heard the mumblings of a conversation.
“I’ll need a hypoallergenic pillow,” he said.
“Is Madison excited about camp?” Bridget asked, trying to shift the focus away from allergies and back pain.
“She sure is. Aren’t you, Madison? Madison? My friend Bridget wants to— Madison?— She wants to know if you’re looking forward to camp.” More mumbling. “…if you’re excited about camp?” Sterling said.
“I loved camp,” said Bridget, not sure if he was even listening. “And the twins loved it as well.” This was not exactly true, but Bridget was certain several weeks in a cabin on a lake would be good for Madison, not that she knew her or her personality, but Bridget’s instinct told her it was the right thing.
“She’s nervous,” Sterling whispered.
“Totally normal,” said Bridget confidently. “She’ll get over that as soon as she arrives and makes new friends.”
“She’s homesick.”
“She hasn’t left yet.”
“I mean,” he said, “she’s anticipating being homesick.”
“Just stay positive about it,” Bridget said, “and she’ll follow your lead.”
“You think?”
“Can we cheat on the Whole30?” The thought of eliminating rosé in the summer sounded horrendous. “Can we at least do the Dirty30?”
“Oh, hell, now Madison’s crying, I gotta run, Bridget. I’ll call you later,” he said and hung up.
Bridget thought Sterling hovered too much over Madison, paying way too much attention to her every feeling, complaint, and anxiety, but she would never say so. She had conscientiously tried to get the balance right with her own kids, giving them time and attention while allowing them room to feel sad sometimes, to work out their own problems.
Her own father had been so hands-off that Bridget figured she wasn’t the best at knowing what good fatherhood looked like. After Sophia died, Edward threw himself into work, leaving it up to Marge to keep the girls from feeling adrift.
Young Bridget did not accept being ignored by her dad, no matter how focused he was on work; she would follow him around the apartment from room to room when he was around, call him at his hotels when he wasn’t, practice the cello right next to wherever he was sitting, and show up at his concerts in the city.
“You’re a nudge,” he said to her one night before heading out to conduct the New York Philharmonic. He was tying his bow tie at the marble sink, while Bridget was sitting cross-legged on his bathroom counter, asking him question after question about his life and childhood; she had learned to stick to his favorite subjects.
“Thank you,” she said. “A nudge is good, right?”
He admired his face in the mirror, the left profile and then the right. He ran his hands through his thick hair. “You’ll probably nudge your way right into Juilliard.”
Bridget was only in middle school at the time, but she made up her mind right then and there that that was exactly what she would do. Edward had gone to Juilliard; she would nudge her way into Juilliard.
She followed him into a career in music.
Later she followed him to Connecticut.
* * *
She imagined Sterling sitting on the porch beside her. What would he think of the house? From her spot in a wicker chair, she could see that, yes, the screens were rotting out of their frames, leaving gaps that let in moths and mosquitoes. She glanced up at the fan over her head, the warped blades drooping down like dead flower petals. And she looked out at the grass and weeds in the field that were so overgrown that no normal mower could forge through now. She checked the red mark on her skin, now a faint line running up her forearm like an old scar. Much like the scar Isabelle got on her elbow when she fell off her scooter, flying down the long driveway that sloped to the main road. Her house was fine; it was just scarred in the same way, bumps and bruises that represented a full, well-lived life.
Bridget went inside and made an appointment with the electrician her ER doctor and Marge had recommended. She couldn’t have Sterling’s computer getting zapped mid-novel. Next, she called Kevin, who promised to stop by to help with a few odds and ends, although he was irritatingly vague about when that might happen.
Finally, she Googled “Whole30” on her phone and made a shopping list. She wanted to have a good attitude about the program—they would get healthy and in shape!—but all she kept thinking was: What a drag. Knowing Sterling as she did, she was pretty sure that he, too, would find it a drag, and one night, maybe a week after he arrived, they would quit the Whole30, break out the wine, and let the fun begin.
Her phone rang. “Isabelle!” Bridget said. “How’s your tooth?”
“My tooth?”
“You had a toothache.”
“Oh, that,” she said. “No, I’ve got much bigger issues than a toothache.”
An inkling of something bad filled the silence. “Everything okay?”
“Yes, great actually, I haven’t felt this good in a long time.”
Bridget was relieved. She got up and found her purse and car keys, deciding she would go buy the portable fan Sterling had requested and some sheets with a high thread count. “Wonderful,” she said. “Glad to hear it.”
“I’m at Heathrow.”
“Heathrow?” Bridget said, stopping at the kitchen counter. “In London? Why?”
“I couldn’t take it anymore, Mom. It’s like, I’ve been racing around my whole life, blindly going along, never stopping to reflect or assess my well-being, and for what? I’m not happy, and I need a break, you know?”
Bridget did not know. “You’re vacationing in London?”
“I left my job! I walked in my boss’s office, I quit, and I got the next flight out.”
“But, Isabelle!” Bridget didn’t know where to start. “You didn’t give notice? You can’t just quit—”
“I had this sliding-door moment, an epiphany actually: I’m going to die someday! And I haven’t even really lived. I had to escape the drudgery before my life passes me by. I’m so glad I found the courage to do the right thing. I feel really proud of myself right now.”