Chapter 12 - The Empty Chair
The invitation had been an argument before it became an invitation. Lillian wanted to ask Richard because she was afraid excluding him would repeat the family's habit of turning pain into exile. Maeve worried his presence would drag every conversation back to who'd been right. Noah proposed making the dinner two hours long, serving something simple, and inviting everyone with permission to decline.
They settled on six-thirty. Lillian called her father rather than emailing a formal instruction. He asked if he should bring flowers. She said no, because flowers had covered every surface in the weeks after Eleanor died and she couldn't bear another arrangement of white roses. He said he understood, then sent a text asking about lemons. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She answered that lemons were fine.
Maeve baked the ziti after a day when a shipment form had been returned three times for a missing code. She burned the garlic, had to start the sauce over, and arrived later than planned. She apologized from the doorway instead of offering the usual explanation about work. Lillian took the pan before Maeve could feel obliged to defend herself.
On the evening of Eleanor Hart's birthday, Maeve arrived at Lillian and Noah's apartment carrying a pan of baked ziti that had shifted during the drive. A ridge of sauce had leaked onto the foil. She held it out apologetically.
“It used to look better,” she said.
Lillian took it. “It still smells good.”
Noah leaned over the counter. “We're not grading presentation. My lasagna established the standard.”
Maeve laughed and put her bag down. There was no dress uniform, no band, no microphone. In the living room, a lamp flickered because Noah had never replaced the bulb he complained about. A child in the building upstairs ran across the floor with the heavy-footed confidence of someone late for nothing.
Richard came at six-thirty. He had texted first. He brought a small bag of lemons again, then looked sheepish when he saw the bowl still full from his previous visit.
“I didn't know what else to bring.”
“Bring yourself,” Lillian said. “That's enough. You can put the lemons in the refrigerator if there's room.”
He did as she asked. Maeve watched him standing in Lillian's small kitchen, carefully shifting containers to make space without announcing how a refrigerator ought to be organized. It seemed a strange, tender spectacle for a family that once had arguments about everything from deployment orders to the proper height of a thermostat.
Reed and Celia had been invited, but neither could attend. Reed sent a short note about Eleanor teaching him how to make decent coffee. Celia called from an airport and spoke to both sisters at once, telling them she was proud they'd chosen a room where nobody had to be dressed for inspection. Maeve promised to tell her when the coffee maker finally broke.
At dinner Lillian placed an extra chair near the end of the table. Nobody sat in it. The blue scarf hung over the back, the little burned hole visible in the lamplight.
Richard noticed. His eyes filled, but he didn't ask them to move it.
“Mom hated empty chairs,” he said.
“She hated people using a chair to pile mail on,” Maeve corrected gently. “Different problem.”
“She would've made somebody sit in it,” Lillian said.
Noah lifted his hand. “I volunteer, if it helps.”
Lillian shook her head. “Leave it. I want to remember she's not here without pretending she didn't exist.”
They ate. Richard asked Noah about the leaking roof at their building, then stopped himself before offering to call a contractor. He asked whether Noah wanted the name instead. Noah said yes. Lillian glanced toward Maeve; neither commented.
After the dishes were cleared, Lillian brought out a lemon cake. Eleanor had liked hers with too much icing. This one was lopsided, with a split across the middle where the layers had shifted.
“I tried,” Lillian said.
“It looks like one she would've made,” Maeve answered.
“Mom could bake.”
“She could make a good pie. This cake? She always tipped one side higher than the other.”
Richard picked up his fork. “She said the crooked ones tasted better.”
“That was how she defended them,” Lillian said.
For the first time that evening, all four laughed together. The sound faded naturally, without anyone trying to preserve it.
Later, while Noah took out the trash, Richard approached Maeve at the sink.
“I've been thinking about your mother asking you not to come home,” he said.
Maeve shut off the water. “Okay.”
“I still wish you'd been there.”
“So do I.”
“But I shouldn't have made Lillian punish you for it. And I shouldn't have asked you to defend yourself for nine years.”
“No,” she said.
He waited, hoping perhaps for absolution. Maeve took a dish towel from the rack.
“I can't promise we'll be close again,” she told him. “But I'd like us to be able to call each other without preparing a speech first.”
Richard nodded. “I can try that.”
He stood awkwardly by the counter until Lillian returned. She caught the silence and asked whether anyone wanted more cake. Nobody did. She put the rest in a container and told her father he could take it home.
“No thanks,” he said. “You and Noah should keep it.”
Lillian blinked. “You always take leftovers.”
“I know. You made it. I don't have to take everything you make.”
She looked down, fighting a smile. “You can have one piece.”
He accepted one piece and no more. A small decision, perhaps. Enough for tonight.
When Richard left, he hugged both daughters, briefly and without insisting. Maeve noticed he didn't ask Lillian to call him when she got home. She already was home.
Noah went to bed early. Lillian and Maeve stayed at the kitchen table, picking at the last crumbs. Their phones lay faceup beside them. Maeve's duty schedule for the next month was open on the screen.
“I can't come next Sunday,” she said before Lillian could ask. “I'm on call. But I can do the weekend after.”
Lillian nodded. “I'll put it down.”
“Or we could just decide closer to the day.”
“I like having it down.”
“Then write it.”
Lillian reached for the pen and circled the date. Maeve watched her sister tuck a strand of hair behind one ear, exactly as their mother used to do when she was thinking hard.
“Want to see the picture of Mom with the tire again?” Maeve asked.
May you like
Lillian held out her hand. This time Maeve didn't send it across the room by text. She moved her chair next to her sister and showed her the photograph on the phone.
Outside, an ambulance passed on the street below, siren rising and fading into the city. Maeve felt the old reflex to count what needed doing. Then Lillian leaned against her shoulder, and Maeve put the phone down to stay where she was.
