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Authors: Judith Arnold
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its color. A blend of dark and light browns with glimmers of gold, it reminded Jill of the variegated hues in the golden oak sideboard standing against the wall behind her mother. Her mother’s hair was variegated, too, but its drab brown and gray reminded Jill more of a rotting log than varnished oak.
Her mother’s face sagged a bit and her figure had reached the elasticized-waistband stage. For the most part, though, she wasn’t aging badly. Her mood seemed more angry than sorrowful.
The room had grown silent. Everyone was seated and gazing expectantly at Jill—except Doug, who slouched in a chair next to his father and swirled a teaspoon through his coffee in a lazy circle.
“All right. As we all know, Mom told me she and Dad were getting a divorce.”
Melissa, who’d taken her place at the opposite end of the table, emitted a tiny sob-like sound. “I can’t believe this. I just can’t believe you’d do something like this.”
“What don’t you believe?” Jill’s mother asked. “Half of all marriages end in divorce, isn’t that the statistic?”
“Half of all marriages, maybe. Not my parents’ marriage,” Melissa argued.
“We’re not getting a divorce,” Jill’s father said, surprising her—and, if their stunned expressions were anything to go by, Melissa and Doug. They all gaped at their father, who helped himself to a slice of the honey-coated rugelach and took a bite.
Since he was chewing, Jill’s mother took over. “What he means is, for now all we’re doing is separating. I’ll be moving into my own place. Nobody’s talking to any lawyers at this point.”
“Your own place? What place? Where are you moving? Why is Dad getting the house?” The questions shot across the table in all directions, like bullets at Normandy.
Swallowing, her father held his hand up to silence everyone. A few crumbs stuck to his fingertips. “I’m getting the house,” he said, “because she’s the one who wants to do this. It’s her idea. She wants us to separate? Fine, she can move out. That rugelach is wonderful, Jill. Not as good as my mother’s, but . . . ”
“Nothing is as good as your mother’s,” Jill’s mother muttered, which made Jill wonder whether her father had been unfavorably comparing her mother’s cooking to his mother’s for the past forty-two years. Could that be her reason for walking out on him?
“Where are you moving?” she asked her mother.
“I found a nice little apartment,” her mother said.
Her father rolled his eyes, as snide as Abbie on a hormonal day. “Nice,” he snorted. “What can you find for less than a million dollars that’s nice?”
“I don’t need a mansion,” Jill’s mother retorted. “I don’t need lots of space. It’s just going to be me.”
“Overlooking a highway.”
“It’s not a highway.”
“Not to be crass or anything,” Doug said as he tore a sprig of grapes from the platter, “but how are you going to afford this nice little apartment? You’re a one-income couple, and Dad’s probably thinking about retiring in the next few years or so—”
“I’m not ready to hang up the stethoscope yet,” Jill’s father said.
“Still, this isn’t the time to be squandering your money. You should be preparing for the future. You know how much Grandma Schwartz’s nursing home costs. What if one of you became incapacitated?”
Jill’s mother glanced at her husband. “He’s already diagnosing us with Alzheimer’s.” She turned back to Doug. “I’ll pay for the apartment out of my earnings. I have a job.”
“A job.” Jill’s father snorted, punctuating his words with more sarcastic eye-rolling. “You call that a job?”
“What job?” Melissa asked, her voice still tremulous with unshed tears.
“Did I mention I like your hair?” Jill’s mother said. “Very breezy. Very pretty.”
“Tell her about your job,” Jill’s father said.
Jill’s mother sat straighter. “I’ll be a clerk at a
Her mother’s face sagged a bit and her figure had reached the elasticized-waistband stage. For the most part, though, she wasn’t aging badly. Her mood seemed more angry than sorrowful.
The room had grown silent. Everyone was seated and gazing expectantly at Jill—except Doug, who slouched in a chair next to his father and swirled a teaspoon through his coffee in a lazy circle.
“All right. As we all know, Mom told me she and Dad were getting a divorce.”
Melissa, who’d taken her place at the opposite end of the table, emitted a tiny sob-like sound. “I can’t believe this. I just can’t believe you’d do something like this.”
“What don’t you believe?” Jill’s mother asked. “Half of all marriages end in divorce, isn’t that the statistic?”
“Half of all marriages, maybe. Not my parents’ marriage,” Melissa argued.
“We’re not getting a divorce,” Jill’s father said, surprising her—and, if their stunned expressions were anything to go by, Melissa and Doug. They all gaped at their father, who helped himself to a slice of the honey-coated rugelach and took a bite.
Since he was chewing, Jill’s mother took over. “What he means is, for now all we’re doing is separating. I’ll be moving into my own place. Nobody’s talking to any lawyers at this point.”
“Your own place? What place? Where are you moving? Why is Dad getting the house?” The questions shot across the table in all directions, like bullets at Normandy.
Swallowing, her father held his hand up to silence everyone. A few crumbs stuck to his fingertips. “I’m getting the house,” he said, “because she’s the one who wants to do this. It’s her idea. She wants us to separate? Fine, she can move out. That rugelach is wonderful, Jill. Not as good as my mother’s, but . . . ”
“Nothing is as good as your mother’s,” Jill’s mother muttered, which made Jill wonder whether her father had been unfavorably comparing her mother’s cooking to his mother’s for the past forty-two years. Could that be her reason for walking out on him?
“Where are you moving?” she asked her mother.
“I found a nice little apartment,” her mother said.
Her father rolled his eyes, as snide as Abbie on a hormonal day. “Nice,” he snorted. “What can you find for less than a million dollars that’s nice?”
“I don’t need a mansion,” Jill’s mother retorted. “I don’t need lots of space. It’s just going to be me.”
“Overlooking a highway.”
“It’s not a highway.”
“Not to be crass or anything,” Doug said as he tore a sprig of grapes from the platter, “but how are you going to afford this nice little apartment? You’re a one-income couple, and Dad’s probably thinking about retiring in the next few years or so—”
“I’m not ready to hang up the stethoscope yet,” Jill’s father said.
“Still, this isn’t the time to be squandering your money. You should be preparing for the future. You know how much Grandma Schwartz’s nursing home costs. What if one of you became incapacitated?”
Jill’s mother glanced at her husband. “He’s already diagnosing us with Alzheimer’s.” She turned back to Doug. “I’ll pay for the apartment out of my earnings. I have a job.”
“A job.” Jill’s father snorted, punctuating his words with more sarcastic eye-rolling. “You call that a job?”
“What job?” Melissa asked, her voice still tremulous with unshed tears.
“Did I mention I like your hair?” Jill’s mother said. “Very breezy. Very pretty.”
“Tell her about your job,” Jill’s father said.
Jill’s mother sat straighter. “I’ll be a clerk at a
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