Val handled her better than Julie did these days. It was a funny turn from their early years, when they both would have admitted Julie was by far the more instinctual mother, Val afraid she might break them. Of course, Val had one major advantage in the Sophie-parenting department these days: she had no Pilot.
As far as Sophie was concerned, a Pilot was a deal-breaker. No trust for anyone Piloted except for David. David was allowed; he hadn’t known better. Julie, from Sophie’s perspective, had been in possession of all the information she needed to say no, but she went through with it nonetheless. Julie knew they would see eye to eye again at some point in the future. Sophie’s opinions would shift as she grew up. She would miss her mothers, maybe come to understand them. Julie would bathe, and wait, and hope never to get the phone call she dreaded.
When the water had cooled and the fizz had fizzled and her fingers and toes had pruned, Julie climbed out and dried herself. She put on a thick sweatshirt and leggings, wrapped her hair in her towel, and decided that making dinner could be her next distraction.
She opened the fridge in search of inspiration. A few assorted vegetables languished in the drawer, all on the far side of crisp and waiting to be diced or discarded. Soup. They’d be good enough for soup.
A key turned in the front door and her heart leapt in joy. Down, she quashed it. Sophie would never come back that quickly after a fight, even if she realized she had overreacted. She would never give her parents the satisfaction.
Val walked into the kitchen, her shirt and hair drenched with sweat and sticking to her. She filled a water glass and drank deeply. Repeated the action, then put the glass in the dishwasher. Only then did she notice Julie, still standing beside the open fridge. The hazards of the unPiloted: perpetual surprise.
“What are you doing in here?” Her tone was amused.
“Is it that much of a surprise? I’m going to cook dinner.”
“Really?”
“It’s been known to happen.” It hadn’t been. Not for a while, at least. They mostly ate dinner salads when Sophie wasn’t around, but Val put those together, too. Julie found herself trying to justify the whim. “I felt like soup.”
“Fair enough. Do you need help?”
“Not while you’re sweating like that. How is it possible to sweat that much on a day this cool?”
Val stepped forward, mock-wringing her shirt in her wife’s direction. Julie raised her hands in defense. “Go! Take a shower. You can help me when you come back if I’m not done already.”
Val blew her a kiss. Minutes later, water rushed through the pipes. All these things had happened before, except for the soup.
• • •
The soup wasn’t bad. Cauliflower and cheddar and lentil. Not great, either, but not awful. Julie watched Val take a hesitant sip, then relax.
“Nice job, Jules,” she said.
She ate three more spoonfuls before reaching for the salt. Julie loved her for the three extra spoonfuls, which said, I would eat this exactly as it is, if you needed me to do so. Twenty-five years ago, she probably would have eaten the whole bowl bland rather than risk hurting Julie’s feelings. That was their level of comfort now, measured in spoonfuls.
If it were the other way around, if Julie were eating a soup Val had made, she wouldn’t add more than one courtesy spoonful. Val’s ego didn’t need the stroking. She cooked swiftly and efficiently, for the delivery of maximum nutrition, if not maximum taste, and she liked her time in the kitchen. Like running, cooking was for Val a solitary pursuit. A conversation with herself, a personal contemplation.
For Julie, food preparation brought adventure. Knives bit, stoves burnt, everything cooked at different rates. A pinch of thyme: Whose pinch? Season to taste: Whose taste? The Pilot had improved her results—not as many distracted cuts or forgotten burnt offerings these days—but still she preferred tasks she could control and measure.
They ate in silence. Every meal without the kids at the table felt wrong. Once when both David and Sophie were out, they’d tried eating in front of the television. “The table is for the family,” Julie had suggested. They had watched and balanced their plates on their knees, until Val said, “This feels way too much like the way I ate dinner with my parents.” They finished that first and only meal back at the table. The table was for family, absent or present.
For Julie, the absences altered everything. She couldn’t help but hear David begging for seconds before everyone else had finished serving themselves a first portion. She saw every Sophie sitting at the table, from picky infant to quiet child to impossibly volatile teen. She only ever saw one David, sixteen and serious. David had somehow been sixteen and serious his entire life, even when it didn’t suit him yet. She ate her mediocre soup with her wife and her absent son, and her thousand tortured absent daughters.
Julie knew that Val also felt the wrongness of their two-person table. Any night without Sophie was a fraught night, but these were the worst: the ones where she stormed out without her phone and without telling them when she would be back.
“Have you heard from her?” Val asked.
Julie shook her head. “No. You know if she’d call either of us tonight, it would be you.”
She didn’t say it resentfully. At this point in Sophie’s life, any connection with either parent was something to cherish and protect: a fire reduced to ember could still be coaxed to life again. If Sophie thought Val was more sympathetic to her cause, Julie wouldn’t step between them. One was better than none.
Val took the dishes to the kitchen. She joined Julie in front of the television a few minutes later, handing her a mug of Earl Grey with milk and sugar, the scent of which clashed
