Hanging Up. Delia Ephron

that picture was taken, we were looking for aeries.”

      “What’s that?”

      “Eagles’ nests. I knew the word only from the crossword. It’s always used, I guess because it has so many vowels. Who thought I’d ever see one?” She laughed, almost embarrassed.

      “Are you still drinking?” I startled myself with this question, but my mother didn’t blink.

      “Tom said he wouldn’t be with me if I drank.”

      Tom set conditions? He actually told her something like, “I won’t be with you unless you …” That made their relationship so ordinary it was finally real. My mother was going to spend her life in this log cabin with these dogs, these twig chairs, this man.

      “What about me? What about me and Maddy and Georgia?”

      “Darling, look at you. You’re fine.” She sat back and crossed her legs. She didn’t seem disconcerted. Or guilty. She took a sip of Sanka. “Let me think how to put this.”

      “Yes?” Now I was in no danger of ever crying again.

      “Motherhood doesn’t turn out to be a reason.” That idea sat in the air for a while.

      “For what?” I asked.

      “What I mean is”—she considered again—“I’m not one of those women who needed to be a mother. When I was growing up, all girls wanted to be, so I did too, only—” She leaned forward as if she was about to blurt out a whole paragraph, set a record for revealing herself. Then she changed her mind. All she added was, “I’m being honest.”

      “Thank you.”

      “I do not believe you thanked her,” Georgia told me later. “You do need analysis.”

      “You have your father’s brown eyes,” my mother said. “Have I ever told you that?”

      “Lots of times. Should I pluck them out?”

      “Eve, don’t get smart.” She was mad, drawing the line, brooking no backtalk. For a second, she was my mother.

      Then she said, “Tom makes me happy.”

      I stood up. “Well, good, great. Look, I was just stopping by because I was on my way home from Palm Springs and Maddy gave me your address. I’d better get back.”

      “Are you sure you can’t stay? Tom will be home soon. I’d like you to get to know him.”

      “I really can’t.”

      “Would you like to come by for Christmas?”

      “I’m spending Christmas with Dad. We’re going to do it the way we always have.” I took my purse. “I’ll see you,” I said, moving toward the door. As soon as I was out, I saw the squirrels. I picked up the piece of wood that Mom had beaten her boots with, and tossed it into the yard. The squirrels scattered and I ran to the car.

      When I got home, I practically fell on the telephone. “She doesn’t need to be my mother, fine. I don’t need to be her daughter.” That was the first thing I told Georgia; then I ran her through the entire encounter. “It’s like she’s turned into an earth mother, minus the mother part.”

      “Thank God she waited until we grew up,” said Georgia. “Suppose we had to live there?”

      “Look, I’m not going to tell Maddy. Oh, maybe I will, I don’t know.”

      As soon as I hung up with Georgia, Maddy called. “But didn’t you think it was beautiful there?” she asked.

      “What are you talking about, it’s nowhere. And the squirrel situation is completely out of control. They probably have a million cases of rabies a year.”

      “But did you notice the sky? If you’re there at night, it sparkles.”

      “It sparkles,” I said sarcastically. “I’m sure you didn’t make that up yourself. Did Mom say that, or Tom?”

      “You’re impossible.” Maddy hung up on me.

      I went downstairs and into Dad’s study. He was in his tennis outfit, which he now wore during the day even when he wasn’t playing, and he’d swiveled his chair around to stare out the window. A yellow legal pad lay in his lap. “Are you still working?”

      He showed me the pad was blank.

      “Let’s buy a Christmas tree.”

      He bounced up, as if he’d been ejected. “Great idea, Evie.”

      He drove, which was a switch. “There’s a big lot on Third and Fairfax,” he said. “I noticed it last week.”

      It felt luxurious to sit in the passenger seat, to have him know where he was going, to be able to fiddle with the radio dial. I hunted for some Christmas music.

      “Let’s get a big tree.” My father slammed his hand against the steering wheel defiantly. “Like always.”

      He was humming along to “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” when we pulled into the lot. “I see it,” he announced. “I’ve got my eye on one already.”

      “But who will make the turkey?” I asked.

      “Esther,” said my father. “We’ll invite Esther.”

      So Dad, Esther, and I had Christmas dinner together. My dad looked snappy in suit, tie, the works. Esther had a wide red ribbon wrapped around her hair and tied into a bow. “I’m your gift,” she told my dad. She presented me with a roasted turkey.

      While Esther prepared the rest of dinner, Dad and I loaded the tree with ornaments. The history of our family was on the tree; at least the public history. The angel Maddy and I used to fight over. The garlands Mom was partial to. The clay elf Georgia had made in Girl Scouts. The clear glass ornaments with wreaths inside, our pride and joy. “Put those where they show,” my dad said happily, knowing it was something he’d said all the years before.

      We ate turkey, sweet potatoes, creamed onions, and string beans. Esther was a better cook than my mother—not much of a stretch—but she informed us that she had broken a nail while opening the can of cranberry sauce, and had left the nail on the windowsill. “Remind me to take it home,” she said.

      By dropping by her place to apologize for my behavior, I had managed to talk Maddy into paying a visit. She gave us all, even Dad, homemade bead necklaces, and he reciprocated by giving her money to install a telephone.

      Later my father turned up the Christmas music really loud. You could hear “Joy to the World” in every corner of the house. “I forgot about celebrating,” he said. “I forgot all about it.” He closed his eyes for a moment and let the music wash over him. “Evie?”

      “What?”

      “When you don’t celebrate, you might as well be dead.”

      “Hardly, Dad.”

      “Hey, wait a second.” My father chucked me on the chin. The gesture was so cliché-paternal it might have come from a sitcom, maybe even the one he wrote. “I don’t say too many smart things anymore, sweetie pie, so when I do, listen up.”

      On the basis of his behavior on Christmas Day and the fact that, between Christmas and New Year’s, I had to drive him around only twice in the middle of the night, I informed my sisters that he was simply brokenhearted, our old dad was somewhere inside the droopy outer shell and would be back eventually. But this didn’t mean I wasn’t ecstatic to return to school. “Just drop me at the airport,” I told him.

      “You sure?”

      “Yeah, absolutely.”

      When we arrived at the terminal, my father pulled my suitcase out of the trunk and stood there, his handkerchief out, ready to catch his tears. I kissed him lightly on the cheek.

      “We