needed four desserts. Especially not Weezy or Maureen, who were starting to both look just a little barrel-shaped in the past five years, no matter how much they exercised.
“So this is the trade-off?” Maureen had asked, when she’d started to go through menopause, just a year and a half after Weezy. “No more cramps, but now I’ll just be hot as hell and fat?”
Weezy couldn’t even find it in herself to tell her it would get better. Her hot flashes had persisted, well past the time when she thought they should have stopped. “How long will this go on? How many years is normal?”
“I don’t like the term normal,” her doctor had said. Weezy told him that was too bad, because she did like the term normal, loved it even, and so she would be getting a new doctor.
Will and the kids had learned not to say anything when in the middle of winter she’d open the back door and stand there, while the rest of them shivered and moved to the front of the house. She was glad when Maureen started, just so she could have someone to complain with. Weezy’s new doctor had told her that there was a slight chance that she’d have hot flashes for the rest of her life. Maureen never had hot flashes like Weezy. She did, however, have raging mood swings that once caused her to tell Bets to go fuck herself on Christmas Eve.
WEEZY FILLED IN HER CALENDAR. She entered in when Max and Cleo would arrive, when Bets would get in, who needed to be picked up at the airport when. She woke up every morning and went for a walk, then came back and a few times a week went to that weight-lifting place with Maureen, the one that was made just for menopausal women and had popped up in every suburb across the country.
She was trying to keep herself busy, to keep away from the computer and the wedding blogs and websites. Thanksgiving was a good excuse, she figured. During the day, she did pretty well. But it was at night, when she couldn’t sleep, that she crumbled.
Her favorite wedding blog was called WeddingBellesandWhistles.com and featured a different DIY project every day. It was also filled with tips, and once a week a guest bride wrote an article about an aspect of her wedding. That night, Weezy read about a bride who’d been left behind at the venue, after all of the buses that they hired to take the guests back to the hotel (forty-five minutes away!) had driven off. “Oh no,” Weezy whispered out loud. “What a nightmare.”
Weezy told herself that staying away from weddings during the day was a good start. It was like the patch for smoking, and she felt virtuous when, at the end of the day, she hadn’t checked in even once.
She went to the store and stocked up on all of Max’s favorite foods. She got his room ready for Cleo, washing sheets, vacuuming and dusting, airing everything out. She set Max up in the basement, which was a shame really, that he wouldn’t be able to stay in his own room when he came home, but they couldn’t very well put Cleo down there. She got everything that was on Bets’s list: creamer for her coffee, bran cereal, pistachios, and hard caramel candies. Bets had called several times to go over the list, and Weezy assured her that it was all taken care of.
Maureen had offered to have everyone over for dinner on Wednesday night, which was a nice thought, but just made extra work for Weezy since she’d have to make everything at her house, then pack it all up to take over. Maureen didn’t cook, and she’d suggested ordering pizzas—“Why make it complicated?” she’d asked—but Weezy had shot her down and told her she’d whip up some meatballs.
By the time Max and Cleo arrived on Wednesday morning, everything was ready. Claire was at work for just a half day, and Martha was working all day, so Weezy was the only one there to greet them. She was so happy to see her son, her Max, who walked right in and gave her a huge hug.
Cleo, if it was possible, looked even more gorgeous than she had before. “Hi, Mrs. Coffey,” she said. They gave each other a tentative hug.
“I brought these for you,” Cleo said, and held out a box of chocolates, which was a nice gesture, but Weezy’s first