NOTHING IN THIS HOUSE HAS CHANGED but me.
The pencil dashes Mama made charting my height from childhood and through adolescence still mark the kitchen wall. The same white and green hand-made eyelet curtains hang at the window over the sink. Many a night after dinner, I’d stand here washing dishes, watching Mama cross the yard to her work shed out back where she canned vegetables from our garden, made her soaps, and jarred preserves. She could have done that here in the house, but I think she had Mr. McClausky build that little shed as an escape. As one of the few places she truly had to herself. With Glory Bee below, me sleeping across the hall, and Aunt Ruthie within snoring distance, there wasn’t much room. I know because near the end, I felt these walls closing in on me. With death hovering over our little house and the demands of Mama’s illness heavy on my back, there was barely room to dream. And when Mama could no longer leave her bed, I’d slip off to that little shed to see if there was any peace out there. To my dismay, all I found were shelves of Ball jars stuffed with fruits and vegetables, captured at their peak of freshness. I hope that little shed offered Mama more than that, but I’ve never been sure.
“You up here, babe?” Rhyson asks from the living room.
I heard him clomping up the steps that lead to our little place above the diner, but I was too caught up in memory to offer my help. Not that I’m much help. For all my blustering that I felt better and was ready to go home, my body is worn down. What the infection didn’t ravage, exhaustion did. All bold and sure when I was stretched out in a hospital bed and freshly un-sedated, but I was embarrassingly weak the first time I tried to even get out of that bed. Aunt Ruthie had to help me to the bathroom. Rhyson left the room, faking a phone call, but I know seeing me like that made him furious.
I don’t know how much time I have before he brings up Malcolm’s contract, but I know it’s not long. I seem to have quite a growing list of things I’m too embarrassed to share with him. First the sex tape from a one-night stand with a guy he detests, and now a bad deal I foolishly signed when we were apart, which I see no way out of.
Yay, me.
“Pep!” he calls again.
“Sorry.” I go back into the living room, my legs still trembling a little from the climb up the stairs. “Let’s put the bags in my room.”
He follows me down the narrow hall leading to the room where I used to sleep, pausing by the room where Mama died. One thing in this house did change. Mama’s old room is now an office of sorts. A desk on one side, littered with invoices and bills. Mama’s old sewing machine, crammed in a corner, and baskets of what Mama used to call ribble rabble. Just crap you never can find the right place for. I don’t think Aunt Ruthie even sews. She just probably can’t make herself take that Singer down to Goodwill.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen these rooms again. I was here for Christmas, and all these things were the same and Mama’s room was already different. I think I feel it so profoundly this time because I’m so different. The girl who slept in this room listening to Rhyson’s music never imagined he’d be standing by her bed.
“This okay?” He places my bags at the foot of the bed.
“Yeah, that’s cool.” I lift up on my toes, wrapping my arms around his neck, waiting for the familiar weight and heat of his hands to settle just below the curve of my hips.
“Where are you?” he whispers in my ear.
I know what he means.
“What do you mean?” I ask anyway.
“You’re in your head or something.” He toys with the end of the braid looping over my shoulder. “You okay?”
I nod because I can’t put words to it yet. I would sound crazy if I told him I envy that girl with her simple life waking to make biscuits before sunup. That girl with the hope of a dream burning in her bright and strong. That girl who never considered sex tapes and sketchy contracts. Her life, though hard, was open and honest. With the tour behind me, Rhyson wanting to go public, and that sex tape still hanging over my head, I’m wrapped in lies. The girl I thought was so lost back then was in many ways much more sure than I am now.
“Really?” Rhyson searches my eyes. It’s such a blessing and half a curse how attuned we are to one another. You tend to pay close attention to someone you’re obsessed with, and we’re happily obsessed with one another.
“I promise I’m fine.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth. Half-truths are becoming a habit.
“Coming here was a great idea.” The palm of his hand cups my chin. “Fresh air. No commitments.”
He leans down to drop a quick kiss on my lips.