The Long and Winding Road

by T. J. Klune

  I never felt like that with her again. Not really.

  I tell myself there was good in her.

  But it doesn’t outweigh the rest.

  IT’S MORE than I expected.

  That’s the first thought I have as we sit in the idling SUV, parked next to the curb.

  It’s more.

  Maybe because I know where she’d come from. That shitty fucking apartment, that place where she’d run from, leaving us behind. And while I don’t think she’d come directly here, this was her end result. This is where she’d planted her roots. Izzie said they’d been here for a few years.

  So yes. It’s more.

  The house isn’t too shabby. There are flowers along the sides. The lawn is wild and unkempt. There is a car in the cracked driveway, rusted and up on a jack. There’s a tire missing. There’s a tree next to the house, and it’s swaying gently.

  “We don’t have to do this now,” Otter says.

  I smile tightly. “Might as well. We’re not expected at the funeral home until tomorrow. I don’t want to stay here longer than we have to.”

  He looks at the house. “I don’t like this place. I don’t like what it’s doing to you.”

  “It’s not doing anything to—”

  He turns to look at me sharply. “Don’t. Don’t pretend. Not with me. That’s not fair.”

  He’s right. It’s not right. “I’m angry,” I admit. “More than I expected.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the house is nicer than I thought it would be.” I groan, leaning back against the headrest. “And that sounds stupid. But there it is.”

  “You thought it’d be—what. Like the apartment?”

  “Yeah. But it’s got flowers. Stupid, right?”

  He shrugs. “No. It’s valid. You’re allowed to be angry at that.”

  I roll my eyes. “Thanks. I feel so much better now.”

  “Stop being a jerk.”

  I wince. “Sorry. It’s not—it’s weird. Being here.”

  “I told you we don’t have to do this,” he reminds me. “We can hire someone else to come in and clean it out. She was renting, so it’s not like we need to worry about selling the house. We don’t need to go in.”

  “I told Izzie we’d get her stuff.”

  “Other people can do that, Bear.”

  “We’re here, right? It’s—”

  “I don’t want this to hurt you,” he says, and I can see he’s frustrated. “It’s like she’s getting to you still. Again. I don’t want that. She’s gone. She shouldn’t still be able to make you feel this way.”

  “God,” I tell him. “It’s fucking stupid how much I love you.”

  He chuckles, but he’s blushing a little. “Ditto.”

  “Ditto,” I scoff at him. “That’s nice.”

  His hand is on my knee, and he’s squeezing, and I really shouldn’t be thinking the thoughts I am.

  “Go get the trailer,” I tell him, voice slightly strangled. “I’ll go in and see what’s there.”

  “Uh-huh. Because that’s what you’ve got on your mind.”

  “Stop it. We’ll have old-people sex later.”

  “I wish you would stop calling it that,” he mutters. “We’re not old.”

  “Says the forty-one-year-old.”

  “Gonna spank your ass for that one later,” he promises darkly. “You’ll be singing a different tune then, I’m sure.”

  I have to get out of the car before I do something dumb like demand he pull out his cock so I can blow him.

  I push open the door and step out, the heat a little stifling. I grab my phone and dig through my laptop bag until I find the key Izzie had slipped me before we left. It feels like it’s burning the palm of my hand, and I shove it in my pocket. I close the door and walk around to the other side.

  Otter rolls down his window. “I don’t like this.”

  “Noted. But I need this. I think.”

  “You call me,” he says, reaching out to wrap a hand around the back of my neck. He pulls me close, forehead pressing against mine. “You call me if you need me. I’ll come right back.”

  “Sure,” I say, wanting nothing more than to get back in the car and go home.

  “I’ll only be an hour at the most.”

  “Okay.”

  He jostles my neck a little before he lets me go.

  And then he’s gone. I watch as the SUV disappears around the corner.

  I breathe.

  THERE’S A woman in the front yard next door. She’s on her knees, pulling weeds from the flower bed. She hears the creak of the rusted metal gate as I push it open and looks over at me.

  “They ain’t home,” she says. She must think I’m here to sell something, like vacuums or Jesus. “Haven’t been home for a few days.”

  “That’s because she’s dead,” I say.

  Well done, it whispers. Don’t you dare pull those punches.

  Her eyes widen a little. “The little girl?”

  I shake my head. “She’s fine. She’s in Oregon with my—where she belongs.”

  She sighs and reaches up to wipe the sweat from her brow. A little piece of grass sticks to her forehead. “Family? Didn’t think they had much of that.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good,” she says. “She deserves it. Didn’t have anything like that around here. None of my business, I suppose. How’d she pass, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Heart attack,” I say, and it might be the most surreal moment of my life. Being here. Talking like this with a stranger. “A big one.”

  She nods like that makes sense. “When it’s your time, it’s your time. Isabelle’s a good kid. I hope you take care of her.”

  I narrow my eyes. “I didn’t say that—”

  “Boy, you look just like the both of them. Don’t you think you’re fooling anyone.”

  I smile a little helplessly at that.

  “You gonna do right by her?”

  “I think so.”

  “There you go,” she says, as if it’s that easy. “It’s hot out today. I need to get back to my flowers before I melt. If you want to leave the keys with me when you’re done, we have the same landlord. I can make sure he gets them. And take care of that little girl, you hear me? She’s a good one. Not saying that her mom wasn’t, but she needs more than that woman was ever able to give.”

  And then she turns around and starts pulling weeds again.

  THE HOUSE is hot and smells of stale smoke. It’s dark inside, the shades having been pulled shut across the windows, the white plastic slats hanging still in the thick air.

  There’s a bookshelf off to the right, next to what looks like an entryway to the kitchen. There are photos, so many photos, all of them of Izzie. Every single one. Most of them she’s alone, and she’s a princess or she’s a pirate or she’s climbing onto a bus or she’s sitting with Santa, little red ribbons in her hair.

  And then she’s with Julie, our mother, and she’s old. She’s fucking old. It’s been years since I’ve seen her—that day she’d come to the hospital, tired and worn, Mrs. Paquinn dying and Otter recovering, though we didn’t know it yet, a folder in her lap—and ah god, she just aged. And it’s here, now, that I remember the last conversation I ever had with her, when she had tried to explain herself, tried to tell me why she’d done the things she’d done, why she was here, now, relinquishing custody of Tyson to me, saying she wouldn’t fight, she wouldn’t push, agreeing to just disappear forever and ever and I would never have to see her again. None of us would.

  And all of the things I’d said to her, all the terrible, terrible things.

  It’s taking all I have to not reach over and put my hands around your neck and squeeze the ever-fucking life out of you.

  See how long you hold on to your daughter when I’m done with you.

  You are nothing to us.

  I have better things to be doing than talking to a cunt like you.

  You didn’t win because we
don’t belong to you. You didn’t win because you have no part in who we are. Our family made us. MY brothers made me who I am. They may not all be blood, but it doesn’t matter. They’re mine. And you will never take them away from me.

  Don’t come back here. Maybe Ty will want to find you one day. That’s his choice. Maybe our sister will want to know us, if you tell her about us. That’s her choice. But don’t you come back here. You’ve done enough.

  I regretted it. After she’d gone. After I’d had time to breathe when Mrs. P passed away and Otter opened his eyes.

  But if I had to do it all over again, I can’t say I wouldn’t say the same exact things.

  It was cathartic. I think I can appreciate that now, all these years later.

  I WON’T go into her room.

  I refuse.

  MOST OF this will go to Goodwill. The truck is supposed to be here tomorrow morning. We don’t need anything of hers.

  Except for the photos.

  Those are Izzie’s now. And if she wants to keep them, she can.

  If she wants to throw them away, she can do that too.

  They don’t belong to me.

  I’M IN Izzie’s room, marveling at how it resembles Tyson’s as a kid, when I hear Otter say my name as he opens the front door.

  “Back here,” I call out to him, digging through the closet, piling clothes and shoes on the bed. Most of it looks like it’d be too small for her now, and my heart hurts at the thought. I’m already making plans to get her whatever she wants. I’ve already pulled her posters off the wall, rolled them up carefully, and stacked them next to the books on the floor that we’re taking with us.

  “You okay?” Otter asks as he stands in the doorway.

  “I’m fine,” I say, not looking back at him.

  “Bear.”

  “What?” I snap.

  “All right,” he says, holding his hands up like he’s trying to placate me. “Trailer’s out front.”

  “Fine. I need you to go into her room. I—I can’t do that. I don’t want to do that.”

  “Okay,” he says. “I’ll do it. Erica Sharp called.”

  I freeze.

  “She’s already filed a petition with the courts for temporary guardianship,” Otter says. “She wanted to warn us that it’s going to be just like with Ty. A social worker will be assigned, and we’ll be vetted all over again. But since we’re already approved to be foster parents, it’s not going to be as intrusive as it was before. She’s also going to see what she can do about tracking down Izzie’s father. She might need to hire a private investigator if they can’t find anything.”

  At one point in time, we’d decided to hedge our bets in case the surrogacy route proved fruitless and went through the process of being approved to be foster parents. We never actually had any kids come stay with us, but it will probably look better to the state.

  “Okay,” I say slowly, a little weight lifting from my shoulders. “That’s good.”

  “She wants us to see if we can find any of Izzie’s health records while we’re here. And we’re going to need to get her transcripts from school, but we can do that when we get home. Social Services can probably help us with that too if we need it. We’ll probably need some kind of documentation from the courts in order to get the transcripts.”

  “Okay.”

  “And a will, if possible.”

  I snort. “Yeah, because Julie would have had enough foresight for that.”

  “You never know, Bear,” Otter says quietly. “People can surprise you, even when you don’t expect them to.” And then he’s gone, footsteps muffled against the carpet.

  I wish I could believe him.

  GOODWILL COMES and goes the next morning.

  The house is mostly empty.

  I wonder at the life of this woman, now nothing but selected memories packed into the back of a trailer.

  “DO YOU want to see her?” Mr. Sampson of Sampson & Sons asks me.

  I gape at him. It’s a question I didn’t expect.

  “It’s okay if you don’t,” he says, probably used to reactions like mine. “Whatever will help you during this trying time. It’s what we’re here for. The choice is yours. People often see it as part of the grieving process.”

  I wonder if he’s fucking insane. Of course I don’t want to see her. It’s the absolute last thing I want to do. I don’t need—

  Validation? it asks. Because what if she’s not really dead? What if this whole thing is a mistake? What if one day, and one day soon, there’s a knock on the door, and she’s there? What if she’s there and she’s coming to take Izzie away from you? What if she comes back and ruins everything all over again? What would you do then, Bear?

  “I don’t think that’s—” Otter starts.

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I want to see her. Now, please. Take me to her now.”

  “Shit,” Otter sighs, but he doesn’t let go of my hand.

  IT’S HER.

  She’s gone.

  Her skin is pale, and she’s covered with a heavy sheet, and Mr. Sampson is saying that if we have something we’d like her to be buried in, we could provide that. It’s horrifying, because he says they can do her makeup, that she’ll look nice if we wanted to have an open casket for the funeral and—

  Luckily for me, there’s a trash can that I just make it to before the scant breakfast I choked down comes right back up. Otter’s hand is at my back, rubbing slow circles as my stomach turns, as my throat clenches until there is nothing left.

  It’s her, and she’s gone, and she can never hurt us ever again.

  I don’t look back as Otter leads me from the cold, cold room.

  “WE’D LIKE to talk about cremation,” Otter says.

  “Of course,” Mr. Sampson says as if it’s nothing. “I can suggest a crematory that will accommodate you. The turnaround time is usually three to five days. Will that be sufficient?”

  “The ashes can be shipped?” I ask, my mouth still bitter.

  Mr. Sampson finally cracks. His eyes widen, but he recovers. “Of course.”

  “Good. I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to.”

  “THE KEYS,” I tell the neighbor as she answers the door. “You said—”

  She holds out her hand, and I give them to her. “Is it empty?”

  “Yes. If the landlord finds anything else, he can keep it. Throw it away. Whatever. We’re done. We won’t be coming back.”

  She nods. “I’ll make sure he gets these.”

  I mumble my thanks and turn, heading toward the road where Otter waits, trailer loaded, ready to put this place behind us.

  “She said something about her son once,” the woman calls out behind me.

  Goddammit.

  I stop, but I don’t turn around.

  “I think she was drunk.” The woman laughs dryly. “Well, I know she was. She liked her Jack, didn’t she?”

  Yes. She did.

  “Anyway, she was out on the front porch, and I thought I’d be neighborly, given that she was new and all. But I could smell it on her even as I introduced myself. She was smoking, and everyone knows secondhand smoke is just as bad as if you put that filter in your own mouth and suck, so I told myself I wouldn’t stay long. And she was polite, but only just, and I knew we’d never be friends. Just one of those things, I guess. She asked if I wanted to share a drink in celebration. I declined, but I asked what she was celebrating. She said it was her son’s birthday. Funny name, she called him. Said it was Bear’s birthday, and she was toasting him, even though he wasn’t there to see it. I asked her why this son of hers wasn’t there. And you know what she did? She smiled at me and said that it was because she wasn’t brave enough. She cried after that. I waited until she was done before I told her that it was never too late.”

  My fingernails are digging into the palms of my hands. Otter’s looking worried, like he’s getting ready to jump out and rush over any second now.

  “You know what she said to
that?” the woman asks me. “She said that sometimes, bravery isn’t enough. I didn’t believe her, of course, but I believed that she believed it. And since I didn’t know her from Adam, who was I to argue? I wished her a good evening and saw myself home. Never really talked to her after that. It was as if that was the last time she knew how to be a person. Every time I saw her after that, she was rude and indifferent. It got to the point where I didn’t even wave hello anymore. The girl, though. The girl was nice. She’s going to be okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Because I think she needs someone to love her. Don’t know that she got enough of that here. Well. Enough jawing. I expect you’ve got a trip ahead of you. Don’t worry about things here. I’ll make sure the keys get to where they need to be.”

  I hear her shut the door behind her.

  Otter sits idling on the corner, and I can tell he’s starting to get agitated, that at any moment he’s going to burst out of the SUV and charge over to me, demanding to know if I am all right. He tends to be overprotective like that, and I think being here is probably affecting him almost as much as it is me.

  I hesitate, only for a moment, looking over at the house that I don’t think ever really became a home. It looks shabbier now that I know what was inside. Dull and lifeless. I can see through the front window, and it’s hollowed out and empty.

  My mother was not a good woman.

  Her decisions hurt all of us.

  I’m not as angry as I used to be, though it’s still there, a low simmer that I’m not sure will ever go away. For all her tears, for all the times she might have cried over the choices she made, she still made them. Regret is a fucking terrible thing, but she wasn’t there when the Kid needed the bathtub, when the earthquakes got to be too much. When I sat him on my lap and explained to him that she wasn’t coming back. When he was just a little guy and too smart for his own good, but still not understanding what that meant.