Twenty.
Ava was uncompromising, which was typical. Her younger siblings had been sympathetic, immediately worried their own parents were divorcing, and generally over it in two minutes. Ava on the other hand was sitting at the dinner table holding forth on the perfidy of adults.
“Honestly, grown-ups are forever talking about how important it is to be honest, and not to lie, and to think about others, and all that crap, but they’re always lying and cheating.” She was spinning her knife, the little noise apparently pleasing her.
Frances was emptying the dishwasher in order to fill it again with the dinner dishes, and she looked over at Michael. He and Ava were still at the table, the younger kids having bolted as soon as possible, and he was on his third glass of wine. He was looking at Ava sadly.
“We try not to, just the same as you try not to. But grown-ups are just as fallible as kids, Ava.”
She looked scornfully at him. “Then why do you make such distinctions between kids and adults? ‘You’re too young to do this, too young to do that, you’ll understand when you’re older, you can do this when you’re older’ . . . Meanwhile, you’re behaving worse than children.”
“I’m sure Anne didn’t intend to wreck her marriage. She just made a bad decision.”
Frances was torn between continuing to clatter dishes, or going over and joining the conversation. There would always be a dishwasher to empty, so she joined Michael and Ava at the table.
Ava was glowingly self-righteous. It was always about her; her smooth prefrontal cortex wouldn’t allow her to think otherwise. “Well, when I make a bad decision you remind me that I should have thought it through, right? Consider the consequences of failure, you always say, think about both outcomes, make a plan for both. You’re apparently expecting more of me than you do of grown-ups.”
Frances shook her head, helping herself to a glass of wine. “No, we expected that of Anne, too, but it’s not our place to tell her that we’re disappointed in her, right? We’re not raising her.”
“Why not? Why is it OK to tell a kid you’re unhappy with their behavior, but you guys give each other a pass all the time.” She looked genuinely annoyed. As she stood up to get herself another glass of water, Frances looked over at Michael and made the face that meant Should we change the subject, talk about something more neutral, but she could see he was interested in what his daughter had to say. She sighed inside. She felt danger, Will Robinson, land mines ahead.
Michael tried another tack. “Maybe Anne and Charlie were unhappy. You never know what someone else’s marriage or family is really like. We don’t always get on, right? Your mom and I argue and you and I argue. Maybe they just argued more.”
Ava shook her head. “No. Charlie is nice. I think Anne was just selfish and narcissistic and a bitch.” She watched her dad’s face to see if he was going to protest the use of the B word, but he didn’t flicker. “I never liked her.” She turned to Frances. “Didn’t I just say that? The other day?” She sat back down with her water, and started unlacing her sneakers. It was getting dark outside, time to relax into the evening.
Frances took a sip of wine and nodded. “You did. But I think what your dad is trying to say is that it’s not a good idea to judge people when you don’t know all the facts and maybe not even then. You know the whole glass houses thing, right? None of us is perfect. You lied to me the other day for example.”
There was a pause. Crap. Frances hadn’t meant to bring that up, it just came out.
Ava looked at her, and shot from the hip. “And did you tell Dad you were talking to Anne’s boyfriend in the street only yesterday?”
Michael looked at Frances, and saw this strange accusation was true. Being who he was, he covered for her and came to her rescue. “Of course she did. However, she has consistently lied to me about the location of her chocolate stash since we were first living together. Humans keep things from each other, and most of the time they’re little things that really don’t matter.”
“And other times,” Ava said scornfully, “they’re things that really do matter and everything gets ruined.” She dropped her second high-top on the floor and Frances knew she’d be hunting for them the next morning.
Michael coughed. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience . . . Did someone tell you something that ruined things? What’s going on, Ava?” His voice was gentle, his eyes as he looked at his daughter so full of affection and so devoid of judgment, that Frances marveled again at the love they shared. She’d carried Ava, used the calcium from her own bones to build the child’s, ached and screamed to give birth to her, but it was her father who knew her best.
Ava gazed back at him and both her parents saw her eyes fill with tears, and saw her struggle to keep them there. She shook her head and stood up. “No, Dad, it’s not all about me, you know. Or so you keep telling me, anyway.”
She pushed her chair roughly back under the table and strode to put her plate in the sink, leaving the room swiftly enough to cause the dogs to stand up and follow her, concerned. Or maybe thinking she was leaving the house and might be up for taking them, too, who knows? Michael turned to Frances and frowned.
“What was she
