Back then, she’d still believed that someday she’d bring her own children here.…
With a sigh, she carried her luggage into the house. The downstairs was one big room—a kitchen off to the left, with butter yellow cabinets and white tile counter-tops; a small dining area tucked into the corner (somehow all five of them had eaten at that tiny table); and a living room that took up the rest of the space. A giant river rock fireplace dominated the north-facing wall. Around it were clustered a pair of overstuffed blue sofas, a battered pine coffee table, and Papa’s worn leather chair. There was no television at the cottage. Never had been.
We talk, Papa had always said when his daughters complained.
“Hey, Papa,” she whispered.
The only answer was wind on the windowpanes.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It was the sound a rocking chair made, on a hardwood floor, in an unused room.…
She tried to outrun the memories, but they were too fast. She felt her control slipping away. With every breath she took, it seemed that time marched on, moved away from her. Her youth was leaving her, as impossible to grasp as the air she breathed in her lonely bed at night.
She let out a heavy breath. She’d been a fool to think things would be different here. Why would they? Memories didn’t live on streets or in cities. They flowed in the blood, pulsed with your heartbeat. She’d brought it all with her, every loss and heartache. The weight of it bowed her back, exhausted her.
She climbed the stairs and went into her parents’ old bedroom. The sheets and blankets were off the bed, of course, no doubt stored in a box in the closet, and the mattress was dusty, but Angie didn’t care. She crawled up onto the bed and curled into a ball.
This hadn’t been a good idea, after all, coming home. She closed her eyes, listening to the bees buzzing outside her window, and tried to fall asleep.
The next morning, Angie woke with the sun. She stared up at the ceiling, watching a fat black wolf spider spinning its web.
Her eyes felt gritty and swollen.
Once again she’d watered her mattress with memories.
Enough was enough.
It was a decision she’d made hundreds of times in the last year. This time she was determined to mean it.
She opened the suitcase, found a change of clothes, and headed for the bathroom. After a hot shower, she felt human again. She brushed her hair into a ponytail, dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a red turtleneck sweater, and grabbed her purse off the kitchen table. She was just about to leave for town when she happened to glance out the window.
Outside, Mama sat on a fallen log at the edge of the property. She was talking to someone, moving her hands in those wild gestures that had so embarrassed Angie in her youth.
No doubt the whole family was arguing about whether Angie could be of any use at the restaurant. After last night, she questioned it herself.
She knew that when she stepped out onto the porch, all those voices raised in disagreement would sound like a lawn mower. They would spend an hour arguing over the pros and cons of Angie’s return.
Her opinion would hardly matter.
She paused at the back door, gathering courage. Forcing a smile, she opened the door and went outside, looking for the crowd.
There was no one here except Mama.
Angie crossed the yard and sat down on the log.
“We knew you’d come out sooner or later,” Mama said.
“We?”
“Your papa and me.”
Angie sighed. So her mother was still talking to Papa. Grief was something Angie knew well. She could hardly blame her mother for refusing to let go. Still, she couldn’t help wondering if this was something to worry about. She touched her mother’s hand. The skin was loose and soft. “So what does he have to say about my being home?”
Mama sighed in obvious relief. “Your sisters ask me to see a doctor. You ask me what Papa has to say. Oh, Angela, I’m glad you’re home.” She pulled Angie into a hug.
For the first time, Mama wasn’t dressed to the nines and layered in clothes. She wore only a cable-knit sweater and an old pair of Jordache jeans. Angie could feel how thin she’d gotten and it worried her. “You’ve lost more weight,” she said, drawing back.
“Of course. For forty-seven years I eat dinner with my husband. Alone is hard.”
“Then you and I will eat together. I’m alone, too.”
“Are you staying?”
“What do you mean?”
“Mira thinks you need someone to take care of you and a place to hide out for a few days. Running a restaurant in trouble is not easy. She thinks you’ll be gone in a day or two.”