Sweet Forty-Two

“Georgia, your father and I—”

“Had alcoholism and schizophrenia as supporting characters in your love story. How romantic. Regan doesn’t seem to have any discernible mental illness, so I won’t be robbed of a happy ending like Gram, but given my genetic inheritance—”

“You’re not still hung up on that, are you?” My mother rolled her head back in exasperation.

“Caught up on my chances of getting schizophrenia? Yeah, I’m hung up on statistics.”

“Georgia, you were more likely to get killed on the drive over here. Especially knowing how fast you drive.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled.

“So, let me get this straight. Regan is helping you open the bakery, and has been supporting you every step of the way for the last few weeks, and you’re pushing him away because you’re afraid you might, at some point, get a mental illness that’s treatable?”

“Don’t patronize me. He doesn’t deserve a love that has to be medicated.”

“He doesn’t deserve to be cheated out of it, and it doesn’t sound like he wants to be cheated out of it the way you talk about him.”

I sat forward, my face growing hot. “Whose side are you on?”

“Yours, Georgia. Always.”

I sat back in a huff, crossing my arms. “You weren’t on my side when you took off and left me to be raised by an alcoholic father and his pack of misfits at Dunes.”

My mother turned her face from me, gripping the edge of her chair as my words cut through her.

“Mom,” I started, “I’m sorry...”

“No,” she sniffed, “you have a right to be upset with me. I was doing what I thought was best for you at the time. Treatment wasn’t like it is now, and I didn’t know how long I’d be functional, or where the disease would go. Your father had never once been violent, but, if we can remember back two months, you’ve had bruises from me. Sure, your dad pissed away most of his money, but not before keeping food on the table and buying the building you live in now. There were no good answers there, honey. No right answers. I just tried to make you as strong as possible before I left.”

“Because you knew I’d end up taking care of myself.”

She didn’t answer. She just sighed and looked down. I hadn’t intended on showing up and blaming my mother for my life, so I stood and made my way for the door.

“Why are you leaving?” My mom followed me, staying a measured three steps behind me.

I turned as my hand touched the knob. “You know, Alice didn’t even get one. A happy ending. She just ... woke up, and everything was the boring old goddamned way it had been before.”

I pulled the door open and stepped onto the top stair. The rain had stopped, finally, leaving everything gasping for breath after the onslaught.

“There was no ending,” my mom called after me as I walked into the rain-soaked air.

“What?” I turned around.

“There was no real ending to Alice in Wonderland, Georgia. Go ahead. Read the books, watch the movie again if you don’t believe me.” She gave a challenging smile.

“What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Write one.”

“How?” I grinned, feeling a riddle coming on. I’d learned from the best.

She smiled back the same knowing smile. “By writing it and living it, by living it and writing it. You have to do both, and in both orders at once. Make it. Mix it together. There’s no timer, though, so you’re out of luck there. Just use your nose.”

“Things can get burned that way,” I mused.

She shook her head and as she closed the door, she said, “Not if you breathe deeply.”

Just like that the Hookah-Smoking Caterpillar swirled away into a cloud of smoke and butterflies and I was left with the most challenging and simplest riddle of my life.

Love.

Him.

Love him.





Regan

With any other girl, it would have been maddening, the way Georgia went back to work with me Monday in the bakery like nothing had happened the day before. We hadn’t texted or really seen much of each other, which was normal, but how we’d left things on Sunday was far from normal.

Well, far from normal with anyone else. With Georgia, the out of place, slightly off-kilter way of things was normal. True North on her compass seemed to be somewhere between “N” and a little left of there.

In truth, I’d been so focused on my project for Rae that I didn’t let myself wallow in the “whys” and “what ifs” with Georgia. She was a straight shooter, and I trusted that she’d shoot when she was ready.

“Guess what?” she asked as she lined wicker baskets with cloth napkins.

I pulled two tins of muffins from the oven and put another two in. “What?”

“I set up a website for the bakery and posted information about the baking class, called all of the contacts I’ve made from the local businesses and the farmers’ markets, and today alone I got ten people signed up.” Her smile was contagious as she took the warm muffins and put them in the baskets, closing the cloth napkins around them to keep them warm.