A Mother's Homecoming

by Tanya Michaels

  “Ah.” Pam stirred vigorously. “So it’s not just my imagination, then?” She used obscene amounts of sugar in her coffee, but she figured that, as far as vices went, that one was pretty innocuous. Life with Julia—who never met a sweetener she liked—was making Pam’s habit even worse.

  “You know,” Dawn said sympathetically, “not everyone’s here to gawk. Some people generally—”

  “I realize the two of you are superbusy gabbing,” Nancy announced from the doorway, enunciating her words so clearly that people down at Granny K’s could probably make out what she was saying, “but there’s someone out here who’s specifically requested Pamela Jo.”

  “Coming,” Pam called cheerfully. She enjoyed being cheerful to Nancy; it seemed to tick off the bitter woman. Dropping her voice, she turned to Dawn with a sigh. “You were saying, about how not everyone’s coming to gawk?”

  Dawn smiled sheepishly. “Look at it this way, most of the gawkers stick around as paying customers. You’re like a one-woman boost to the local economy.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Pam took one last sip of her coffee and poured the remainder into the sink. “Got a mint?”

  “Sure.” Dawn fished a plastic container out of her apron pocket, although if the person here to see Pam was only showing up to get good gossip, they probably deserved her rank coffee breath.

  Nah. No one deserves that.

  Pasting a cordial smile on her face and reminding herself of the latest batch of supplies she planned to purchase after work, she emerged into the main room of the salon. And found all eyes on her—some through surreptitious, sidelong glances, other gazes nakedly curious. Let them goggle, she didn’t care. The only pair of eyes she was concerned with were the hazel ones staring back at her, filled with equal measures uncertainty and youthful bravado.

  “Faith!”

  The girl tucked her hair back behind her ear. “H-hi, Mom.”

  Pam flinched. “Don’t call me that.” Not here, surrounded by these vultures.

  Cosmic irony. When Pam had been Faith’s age, she hadn’t want anyone to link her to Mae Wilson in public because she’d been embarrassed, felt she was better than her mother. Now Pam didn’t want anyone to pay close attention to her relationship to Faith because the kid deserved better. Far better.

  Rather than timidly retreat, Faith scowled, demonstrating a spark of temper. “Why not? You are my mother. Everyone in town knows it already. Pretending otherwise won’t change anything.”

  “Fair enough.” Pam didn’t have much practice defusing angry tweens, but she figured proceeding with caution was her best bet. “How did you get here?” Mimosa was too small to sustain public transportation, but not so small that the girl could have walked to the salon from where she lived.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Faith answered. “I just wanted to come say hello. And … and get my hair cut!” She tacked this last part on rather desperately, as if it were a spontaneous bid to keep Pam from sending her away.

  Seeing the girl’s vulnerability immediately after her anger made it all the more striking. Despite Faith’s bravado, she was as fragile as Nick had worried she’d be when it came to her mother. Pam’s heart tripped over itself, the beats erratic and her mood conflicted. She wasn’t used to thinking of herself as a mother. She shied away from the title, knowing she hadn’t earned it.

  “You don’t have to get a haircut,” Pam said, wondering if her father gave her money for stuff like that or if she was dipping into her allowance, literally paying for the chance to spend a few minutes in Pam’s company. That possibility caused another pang. “Come on. We can go for a walk or something.”

  If they stayed in the shaded parts along the sidewalk, it might even be a pleasant day for it. September was just around the corner, and some mornings there were hints of fall in the air. October and November were when it really started to turn pretty, with cooler breezes and colored leaves and—

  With a start, Pam realized she would be gone before then. Surely even a handywoman with her inexperience could have the house in passable shape before October!

  “I don’t want to leave, I just got here,” Faith said mulishly. “I want to get my hair cut. I don’t mind waiting my turn if everyone’s busy.”

  What the girl obviously meant was I want to spend time with you. In a deep down, undisciplined part of her herself, Pam was thrilled, flattered that her daughter cared enough to seek her out. But panic was right behind—Pam knew from experience what happened when she gave in to her undisciplined, damn-the-consequences side.

  Pam pondered her options. “All right. Stay then, but I’m taking that walk.”

  “Didn’t you just get off your break?” Nancy whined, reminding Pam anew that no conversation with Faith would be private as long as they remained in the salon. “Our policy is one break in the afternoon and one in the morning.”

  Feeling more claustrophobic by the second, Pam whipped her head toward the reception counter where Maxine sat. “I’ll be back in fifteen. If that’s a violation of policy, fire me.”

  Maxine’s eyebrows shot up, but there was amusement in her voice when she answered, “Oh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

  It ended up being a more dramatic exit than Pam had intended when she first suggested to Faith that they go elsewhere. At least now the matrons of Mimosa had something to text about this afternoon. All Pam had really been trying to do was remove Faith from the situation so that the girl wasn’t fodder for gossip. Pam was passing through—nearly anything was tolerable if it was only for a month—but this was Faith’s home. The girl was entering her teen years, which would be hard enough without her mother’s identity making her the object of speculation or ridicule.

  Pam had acted out of a desire to protect her daughter but was left wondering if she’d done the wrong thing. Had she hurt Faith by walking away? Little late to worry about that now. Twelve years ago would have been the more appropriate time to second-guess that decision.

  Fifteen minutes, as it turned out, were hard to kill. It wasn’t long enough that she could truly get anywhere, like Granny K’s to order some fries, but it was way too long for her to simply loiter in front of the salon. The way her day was going, the police would pick her up for looking like a suspicious character. Can’t say I’d blame them. Salon dress code required all employees to wear black. On vivacious, curvy Dawn, her work smock looked like the Little Black Dress, reinterpreted for day wear. On greyhound-thin Nancy, the black added edge to her look, making her the neighborhood femme fatale. But Pam?

  Well, she was still too skinny and since she was cramming in as much renovation work as possible before and after salon shifts, her short, pale hair was often standing on end, accessorized with the occasional paint chip or handful of sawdust. Her build and coloring were not meant for the chic head-to-toe black—she looked like a cotton swab gone goth.

  Only a few sidewalk squares from the burbling fountain where Pam sat, there was a tinkle of chimes, announcing the coming or going of a salon customer. Had Faith backed down and finally left? Pam glanced up hopefully but saw only a dark-haired woman who had considerably less gray showing in her hair now than when she had arrived two hours ago.

  Pam turned away, hoping to discourage conversation. But the older woman trotted up to her and leaned against the fountain railing.

  “I’m Martha,” she said. “Want a licorice whip?”

  Despite Pam’s mood, she almost smiled. As hellos went, offering someone licorice seemed a bit random. “No, thank you.”

  The woman fished a resealable plastic bag out of her oversize purse. “My husband tried one of those patches when he gave up smoking a few years ago, worked like a charm. But not me. This is the only thing that’s worked. Whenever I get the craving, I have red licorice. Honestly I think it’s been harder for me to quit smoking than it was to quit drinking.”

  Pam swiveled her head sharply toward the woman.

  Martha smiled, keeping her voice low. “You don’t
recognize me, do you? I saw you at the last meeting, but I came in late and sat in the back. I won’t intrude on your privacy, I just wanted to let you know … well, you’re not alone. And I’m here if you ever need someone to talk to between get-togethers.”

  “Thank you.” Pam was genuinely touched. This wasn’t some passerby who had an overdeveloped curiosity about someone else’s life, this was somebody who had been through it. “How long have you been sober?”

  “Eight years.”

  “Wow.” Even though Pam hoped to make it that far—fully intended to make it—the thought of all those days and weeks and months strung together, stretched in front of her … She swallowed, her throat dry and tight.

  “I used to be a friend of your mother’s,” Martha added. “Well, social buddy anyway. I spent so much time at Wade’s that I had my first wedding there! Guess it wasn’t such a shock when that didn’t work out. I’m remarried now. And I don’t go down to the Watering Hole anymore.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Yes, it is. I won’t say it’s been easy, but it’s been worth it. Keep that in mind for yourself, dear. I realize you’re dealing with some difficult personalities—” she fluttered her fingers in the direction of the salon “—and probably some difficult personal situations. But hang in there. One day you could be the almost-to-a-decade nosy old lady butting into something that’s none of her business.”

  Pam laughed. “I look forward to it.”

  After her chat with Martha, Pam’s spirits were restored enough that she walked back into the salon with a smile on her face. She even managed to keep it there when she saw that Faith was in Nancy’s chair and that the stylist was egging on the girl’s rebellious moment. Her hair was a good six inches shorter! When the cut was finished, Pam watched Faith stare into the mirror, eyes wide as she considered what she’d done.

  To keep her heart from sinking, Pam reminded herself that hair grew back. Eventually. Besides, maybe this would teach Faith to be more judicious with her actions. It wasn’t even that the cut looked bad—if Nancy wasn’t a stellar human being, she was still a decent stylist—but the new length was something of a shock. She looks older. Faith’s features were highlighted differently. One no longer saw a pretty girl with a fall of long hair; one glimpsed the young woman she was on her way to becoming.

  Pam had the oddest urge to give the girl a hug, feeling almost maternal in that split second. But she squashed the instinct. Pam could just imagine Nick’s outrage if she encouraged Faith … and he’d be right. It wouldn’t be fair to raise the girl’s hopes that they could have a normal mother-daughter relationship. Not that Pam even knew what that was.

  At the register, Pam took a collection of one- and five-dollar bills from the now subdued girl, the wad of cash making it clear that this was accumulated allowance. Nick would have simply handed her a twenty.

  “Wait,” Nancy called, “don’t forget to apply the firsttime customer discount. I’ve never cut her hair before.” Since stylists liked to build their client base and end up with loyal, repeat business, it wasn’t uncommon to use such discounts. But Pam suspected Nancy’s offer came more out of guilt for taking the kid’s money.

  Pam handed back a five. “Here. Are you going to be able to get home okay?”

  Faith rolled her eyes. “Got here just fine, didn’t I?”

  “About that. Faith, I work here. I’m sure you don’t traipse onto your dad’s construction sites in the middle of his projects. If there’s an emergency, that’s one thing, but …”

  “Right. I get it. You don’t want me around.”

  Yes, I do. More than I should. The girl’s wounded expression triggered guilt so sharp that Pam swallowed, suddenly thirsty. She missed the days when she could have a drink to blunt the razor edges of unwanted emotion—but it had never only been one drink and the painful emotions had always been there when she was sober again.

  If she couldn’t make herself feel better, she could at least try to lessen the sting of her rejection for Faith’s sake. “I don’t want you at the salon,” she clarified. “Not in the middle of my shift, anyway. It’s unprofessional.”

  “But other times, when you’re not at work?” Faith pressed. “Because there was something I wanted to talk to you about. Can you teach me to play guitar?”

  Pam rubbed a hand against her temple, torn. It was so tempting, to seize the opportunity to spend more time with the girl. Why doesn’t she hate me? That would almost be easier. “I’m only in town for a matter of weeks. Wouldn’t you rather find a regular instructor who can keep working with you after I’m gone?”

  Faith’s shoulders hunched. “I guess. There’s a guy my friend knows who might be able to help.”

  “There you go!” Pam smiled encouragingly. This other teacher would be for the best. Even though Pam periodically tuned her guitar, it had been a couple of years since she’d really played.

  Faith didn’t return the smile. Instead she glared as she pocketed her change. “See you around.”

  Pam watched the girl slink out of the salon, replaying her last words and wondering how literally Faith meant them. With most people “see you around” was a casual farewell. So how had her daughter managed to make it sound like a warning?

  ALTHOUGH PAM DIDN’T see Martha at Tuesday’s meeting, there were other people who offered a friendly smile and word of welcome. After about twenty minutes, she decided she was comfortable enough to talk.

  “Some of you knew my mother—she was hard to miss. She was used to being a local legend—prom queen, Miss Mimosa in the town parade. But after that chapter of her life faded …” After she had me. “Her drinking became legendary. I started singing at an early age, and, looking back, I think part of the reason I pursued it aggressively was to manipulate the spotlight. I wanted every solo, every leading role in school musicals. Because the second anyone saw me, I wanted them to say ‘You’re that girl with the great voice,’ instead of ‘You’re Mae Wilson’s daughter.’ I left town in the early days of things going bad for me. I’ve never been here as a failure before.”

  There’d been some scandal over her teenage pregnancy, but her peers had assumed she and Nick would marry anyway, so some found it romantic.

  She jerked her thoughts from the past—from him—back to the present. “The spotlight’s a lot less pleasant now, but even when people come into the salon and make a snide comment because they think they know my deep dark secrets, I remind myself that what they ‘know’ barely scratches the surface. The only person in this whole town who’s ever seen me at my worst is me. And I’m determined never to see that woman in the mirror again. That’s what keeps me from picking up a drink.”

  After Pam spoke, a married father of four talked about how he’d started drinking after being laid off two years ago. The ironic part was that he hadn’t been able to stop drinking even when he did find new employment, ultimately costing himself that job, too. He was openly emotional while he spoke of letting his family down, and Pam could only imagine what it was like to be in his shoes. In some of her more self-pitying moments when she’d first joined AA, she’d told herself that she had it harder than most, trying to cope with her problems alone, no family to support her efforts. But she’d changed her perspective.

  Jake, the family man currently trying to get through the probationary period of his latest job, had pressures she couldn’t fathom. Any mistake he made affected the five other people in the world he loved most. There was a certain freedom in being alone. Freedom … or cowardice?

  After the meeting broke up, Pam headed for her car, debating whether to go straight back to Aunt Julia and Uncle Ed’s and call it a night or continue work on the floors at Mae’s house. Pam had made a discovery last night—technically, very early this morning.

  At first it had seemed as though the floors were going to echo the walls. Beneath a peeling and unfinished layer of butt-ugly wallpaper, she’d excavated two more layers. When Pam had pulled up a mildewed corner of carpet, she�
�d found another layer of carpet and thought here we go again … but beneath that, hardwood! Honest to goodness hardwood floors. Sure, they weren’t in pristine condition, but they were a far better alternative to the dingy carpet rotting atop them.

  Did she have enough energy after almost no sleep the night before, a full shift at the salon, learning from Julia how to make a chicken potpie from scratch and a post-dinner AA meeting to drive back out to the house and finish liberating that floor? Imagining its full potential was almost enough to give her a renewed burst of energy.

  Almost.

  “Pam? Hey, Pam!” a male voice called from across the parking lot.

  In some of the neighborhoods she’d lived previously, Pam wouldn’t have slowed down in a parking lot at night to answer anyone. But the lot was brightly lit with old-fashioned wrought-iron lanterns and she was within both sight and earshot of a dozen or so other people.

  “Yes?” She smiled expectantly, trying to remember the young man’s name. When she’d spotted him in the meeting, she’d been taken aback; he didn’t even look old enough to drink legally, although she supposed you didn’t have to be able to purchase alcohol in a bar to develop a problem.

  “I’m Richie,” he said. “Two things. First, a couple of us missed dinner trying to get here on time from work, and we’re going out for barbecue, if you’d like to join us. But also, I overheard you mentioning that you’re trying to fix up the house your mom left you? I actually work in construction, for Bauer and Shepard.”

  She immediately had a visual of that company name on the side of Nick’s truck—followed by the image of Nick getting out of the truck at her aunt’s house, looking great in jeans as he strode purposefully toward her.

  Oblivious to the fact that he’d lost half her attention, Richie continued. “I thought that if there are one or two projects you get stuck on, maybe some of us here can help you.”

  “Thank you, that’s very kind of you to offer. I’ve already had dinner, but I might take you up on the—” Her phone, set to vibrate before the meeting, began buzzing around inside Pam’s purse like a hive of angry bees.