Our Finest Hour (The Time Series Book 1)

by Jennifer Millikin

  “What was that about?” I ask, but Isaac either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t want to answer. We reach the dance floor, and he pulls me in, curling me into his body. It takes a lot of control on my part not to bury my face into his suit jacket. Getting even closer to him might be worth smudging my makeup.

  “Sorry about that,” Isaac murmurs into my hair. “It didn’t look like you were enjoying Craig’s wife very much.”

  I wince. Now I feel bad. I guess I’m not very good at faking.

  “What were you and Craig talking about?”

  Isaac’s shoulders stiffen. The seconds tick by, then he says, “A position that’s opening at Boston General.”

  I look at him. His gaze is somewhere across the room. His shoulders haven’t relaxed yet.

  “What about it?”

  “It’s a prestigious role, that’s all.” He’s shrugging like it’s no big deal, but the defensive edge to his voice tells me there’s more.

  “Why do I feel like I’m not getting the full story?” It takes so much effort to keep my voice light, I have no more energy left to keep the sudden nervousness from eating away inside my stomach.

  Isaac sighs. Finally, his shoulders drop, but something tells me they are far from relaxed.

  “Aubrey, I don’t really think this is the place for you to hear about it. I don’t want you getting the wrong idea.”

  I step back, turn, and walk away. Eyes down, I head straight for the doors. Once I’m outside, I walk another twenty feet until I reach a little wooden bench. I sit, tipping my head back, and stare at the teardrop shaped leaves. My heart hammers in my chest.

  The air beside me swirls, the bench croaks in protest, and I don’t have to look to see if it’s him. Staring up at the pieces of navy blue sky filtering through the leaves, I say “Tell me what you’re keeping to yourself.”

  Now I look at him. He’s rubbing his hands over his face. When he’s done, he drops them to his knees. “They want me for this job—”

  My exhale is angry. “I knew it.” I shake my head and look away. This was a mistake. Getting close to Isaac was a mistake. A giant, horrible, life-altering mistake. Not just for me. For my daughter too.

  “Aubrey, calm down. You haven’t let me finish.”

  Does he even need to? I can fill in the words for him. “You’re going to tell me what a big step up this would be in your career. What an honor it is to be asked to join the team.”

  “Both of those things are true, but—”

  I’m on my feet, furious. With him. With myself. I’m an idiot.

  Fool me twice, shame on me.

  I whip around. My shaky finger points down at his shocked face. “This is what happens when you love people. They leave.”

  Isaac stands quickly, knocking me off balance. He grabs my arms above each elbow, catching me. He’s in my face, and the shadows make it so that I can barely see his features. His nose presses to mine.

  “I turned it down, Aubrey.”

  Turned it down.

  Turned. It. Down.

  The words penetrate, and my anger slides away. What replaces it is no better. “For Claire?” My voice is tiny. For me, I think. Say you did it for me.

  “Yes,” he breathes. And although I love how much he loves our daughter, there was a part of me that thought maybe he loved me too. But that was foolish. Isaac and I are a collection of hours. And the very best one was the first hour we spent together.

  “I understand,” I whisper. And I do. I really do.

  I try to smile, but it feels funny on my face, and I’m certain it looks even more painful to him.

  “Aubrey, why aren’t you happier?”

  The tears show up out of nowhere, and it’s mortifying. I hate crying. I just have to hope the darkness from the tree keeps them hidden.

  “I’m very happy. Claire would be devastated if you moved away.” And me too. But I don’t say that. Especially not now.

  “And you?” Isaac tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Would you miss me too? Or would you—” He stops. His hands have come to my face, and my tears have been discovered. “Are you crying?” He pulls me away from the tree so I’m facing the faint light from the building. His big brown eyes pour into mine. “Aubrey, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I shake my head. “It’s stupid.”

  “Tell me.” His fingers flick the tears off my face, and now there are new ones to replace those and I’m so embarrassed I wish I could run away, but that would only make this worse.

  “I’m very happy you’re sticking around for Claire.” I smile through the taste of salt on my lips. “It’s important. A girl’s dad should be her hero.” That’s something I know all about.

  “I agree. But it’s not only Claire I’m staying here for.”

  My breath catches. “No?”

  One side of his mouth turns up. He shakes his head. “I met this woman once, a long time ago. For a while I thought maybe she was just a figment of my imagination. An hour of time I made up. But then one day she appeared out of nowhere. She came, and she brought more than just herself. A piece of me was with her. She’d kept it safe for all those years we were apart.” His hand slides to the back of my neck, where his fingers curl through my hair. “She brought me a hand that needs holding. A heart that needs to be loved. And a body that needs to be touched. And I want to do all those things for her. Forever.”

  He leans further toward me, softly kissing the corner of my lips. My exhale is thick. I turn my head, crushing his lips with my own. I’ve heard his words. Like a spear, they’ve sliced through layers of hurts, past the lies I’ve told myself, and reached their target.

  He grabs my waist, pulling me against him. I feel his need, his desire, his love. We fit together. There have never been two bodies more meant to become one. Which makes this so much more painful.

  Isaac cannot fix me. I am not a body with a broken bone. Tools cannot mend me.

  My reaction when I thought he was going to take that job… It tells me just what I’ve been too blind to see. For years I’ve been living with a battered and bloodied Band-Aid over my heart, ignoring the pain and hoping the decrepit bandage would keep the pieces together. But it’s not my heart that’s the problem.

  I’m a soul with a wound.

  And that wound needs to be healed. It needs to be loved, and cared for, and given the attention it has long been neglected.

  I push Isaac away. It takes all the strength I have. I could stay in his arms, and let it happen. It would be so easy.

  But I can’t. If I know anything about old wounds, it’s that they do not go away. They fester and resurface until their infection is systemic. I have to stop that from happening. If Isaac and I can have a future, I have to confront my past. Claire and Isaac deserve that.

  “Isaac,” I say, the tears dripping from my chin, “I need to go. I need to see…her.”

  He reaches for me, but there’s already too much space between us. “I’ll come with you.”

  “No,” I shake my head, taking another step back. “I need to do this alone.”

  “You’re not alone anymore, Aubrey. Let me be there for you. Let me take care of you.”

  “I’m fine,” I say out of habit. My fingers hit my lips as I realize what I’ve said.

  Isaac’s eyes challenge me.

  “Give Claire a kiss for me.” I choke out the words. “I’ll see you both soon.”

  “You’re going now?”

  I’ve been suffering from this wound for eighteen years, but suddenly waiting even one more second to heal it seems inconceivable.

  “I can't stand it anymore, Isaac. I have to figure this out. I have to end it.”

  There’s a future for me and Isaac. A family. I want to move forward. Which means first I have to go back.

  On quick feet I walk away, and I don’t pause until I’m far away, until I’m certain he hasn’t followed me.

  A brick wall catches me, and I sag against it. I suck in deep breaths of air
until I think I’m more or less coherent.

  When I’m certain I can speak, I get out my phone and press a button.

  “Hi. I need a ride.”

  “Thanks,” I say to the driver, sliding out of the backseat. He’s old and he looks unhappy. I feel bad that he’s out driving people around on a Saturday night. He looks like he should be in a recliner reading a newspaper.

  He drives away, leaving me on the street in front of Isaac’s place. The light in Claire’s bedroom is out, but the living room light is on. What would Lucia say if I went in there right now and told her what I’m planning?

  She’d tell me to wait on it, probably. Give it a little thought.

  But the time for waiting is over.

  I kiss my hand three times and send it out to the lit window. Two for the people inside, one more for the person who’s been calling me incessantly. The people I love.

  I get in my car, and take my phone from my purse.

  “I’m sorry, Isaac,” I whisper, and then I turn off my phone. He means well, but he doesn’t understand what a lifetime of questions will do to a person. Perfect Isaac from a perfect home. I’m happy he was given a shiny, golden life. I really am. But we don’t all get that. Nor do we all get the chance to ask the person who abandoned us why they did it.

  I’m driving now, almost to the interstate I will stay on for hours. The car is too quiet. I glance at the black face of my phone and put it back in my purse. I turn on the radio, and country music fills my car.

  It makes me smile.

  I’m doing this for us, Doctor Cowboy.

  It’s almost one in the morning when I pull into the dirt parking lot of a motel. It’s in the next town over from Sugar Creek. Briefly I wonder if it’s the town my dad worked in, the one with the power line issue.

  The desk clerk eyes me suspiciously. I would too, given my attire and the time of night.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking the key off the cracked counter.

  The room is exactly what I expected. A bed I would never want to run a black light over, because sometimes it’s best not to know. Everything is in desperate need of an update, or at least a good scrub, but none of that matters.

  I take a mylar blanket from the backpack I keep in my trunk. Never have I been so happy to have a hunter for a father. He gave me everything in this backpack. Inside I find freeze-dried foods, matches in a waterproof case, and various other survival supplies. All I really need tonight is the blanket.

  I spread it on the bed, lie down, and roll up like a burrito. It takes two hours to fall asleep, despite my exhaustion.

  My mouth tastes like cotton. I run my tongue all over, trying to moisten it. I shimmy from my blanket, and walk on stiff legs to the bathroom. Mascara is streaked under my eyes, and my face has long red dents from the blanket.

  I can’t chase her down like this. I turn on my phone to search for a nearby store. While I’m looking, floods of notifications come in. Text messages, missed calls, voicemails. I ignore them all, but I see the very last text, sent at three a.m.

  Good luck.

  Thank you, I write. I pause, my fingers hovering above the keys. I’m sorry I left like that. This is something I need to do. Alone.

  I send the message and grab my purse. Before I walk out, I type and send one more message before I turn off my phone again.

  I love you.

  It’s time he knew that.

  I’m ready to go now. At least, I think I am.

  Physically, I’m presentable. I’m still in last night’s dress and shoes. There was no way around that. But I've cleaned up and brushed my hair and my teeth. I tried to eat breakfast, but the energy bar I bought tasted like chalk in my mouth. Maybe everything tastes like that when you're about to confront your runaway parent. I checked out of the motel under no less scrutiny than I’d checked in with. Different employee, same suspicious, squinty stare.

  Sugar Creek is quiet this morning. Nobody out and about. I’ve passed the bakery twice. The second time I pulled up close enough to see the hours. Closed on Sundays.

  Is the entire town closed? Are people locked in their homes? Where is everybody?

  I drive around, which doesn’t take very long, until I see a parking lot with cars.

  Church.

  Yeah, right.

  There’s no way she’s there.

  I drive around the town one more time, even slower, before pulling my car into a spot in the church parking lot. Well, I suppose church is supposed to be a place for saints and sinners.

  I have no idea how long it will be until the service is over, but it’s not like I have anywhere else I could try. This is the most promising lead. So I sit. And I think. Which is something I managed to avoid doing during my drive.

  I have so much to say to her. I want to tell her about all the years in grade school when I sat and watched my classmates make Mother’s Day gifts. All the colorful, plastic beaded bracelets, the picture frames made from Popsicle sticks, the woven keychains. The training bras I bought with my babysitting money so I didn’t have to suffer the embarrassment of telling my dad I needed one.

  As hard as that stuff was, they are surface hurts. The worst ones are the ones deep down, the daily subjections that gnaw until they whittle me to nothing. Sometimes a girl just needs her mom, the social media posts say. My mom said… followed by whatever advice was given. Now that I’m older, my mom is my best friend, adult females declare. Or the well-meaning people and their assumption that a mother exists in my life. Of all the daily subjections, those are the worst. Because of course I have a mother. Who doesn’t? And if a person doesn’t have a mother, it’s because she died. Never because she voluntarily left.

  The more I think, the angrier I feel, until my anger is the color red and the color red is filling the car. I roll down the windows to let it out. When the breeze flows through, it cools me. A little, anyway. The anger is now sharing a stage with the hurt.

  I concentrate on breathing. Deep, even breaths, in and out. Claire’s little face appears. My Claire Bear.

  The tiny person who saved me. She took my sad heart and brought it light and love. Now it’s easy to see how Isaac and I are meant to be. How much I needed that first hour we spent together.

  I’m almost smiling when the wooden church doors swing open. Out walks a man with white hair, and a woman with white hair follows. They stand beside one of the open doors, shaking hands with everyone who walks out.

  My breathing picks up. I lean forward. My hands are in my lap, my chin rests against the steering wheel.

  Person after person walks out, but I don’t see her.

  It’s like the Dr. Seuss book all over again. Are You My Mother?

  The congregation flows onto the grass lawn. Some people go to their cars, but instead of leaving they grab things and go back to the lawn. Some have chairs, some hold bags, other’s carry things that look like food containers.

  There. At the wooden doors.

  My mother.

  My breath catches in my throat. She’s waving her arms and smiling, like she’s telling a story, and the two old people at the exit are laughing. She walks down the steps and goes to a car. Confusion fills me for the briefest second, until logic kicks in. Of course she doesn’t still own the car she left in.

  My brain moves quickly, cataloguing her every motion. Open trunk, lean one hand on trunk, run other hand along ankle, straighten, pull hair over shoulders, pick up something, close trunk. The first time I saw her I was too shocked to notice much about her, but now I see everything. How she moves, so gracefully. How she talks to every person she sees. Her smile is easy, relaxed, and it never leaves her face. Just like someone else I know.

  She carries a large plastic container to an empty table, where she removes the contents and arranges them. I’d bet my life those are blueberry muffins.

  And I’d be right, based upon the number of people who flock to the table. She’s laughing and picking up the box, walking back to her car. I’m hit with the memo
ry of standing on a chair in our kitchen, stirring the batter while she dropped in the berries. She told me to fold them in, so they stay whole, then she placed her hand over mine and showed me how.

  I’m out of my car. I don’t remember climbing from it, but now I’m beside it. I can see her clearly. She’s five cars away, her back to me. She’s placing the container back in the trunk.

  Someone calls her name and she looks over. She shuts the trunk and takes a step.

  This is my chance.

  I open my mouth. No sound comes out.

  She’s walking away, loose gravel being pushed aside with every step. I’m steadily losing my chance. My voice is frozen, and so are my limbs. I watch her. From my spot beside my open car door, I watch her.

  She moves through people, talking and laughing. She knows everyone. And they all know her. Or at least they think they do. I wonder what story she has told them.

  I watch the picnic unfold in front of me until I can’t anymore. Because now I understand.

  Knowing why she left won’t change anything. Confronting her here, in front of the life she’s built for herself, won’t change anything for me. She can’t give back what she has taken away. Telling her what she’s done to me won’t give me a mother.

  Nothing will.

  I didn’t make her leave, just as I couldn't make her stay. Maybe it was her own ghost that propelled her out the door that day.

  The best I can do now is let her be. I’ve given her enough of my past. There are other people who deserve my future. And I can think of one person in particular who deserves so much more than I’ve given him.

  If life were a movie, maybe I would've looked in the rearview mirror just now. So much symbolism in that one gesture. But life isn’t a movie, and Sugar Creek doesn't need one last, lingering look.

  I turn my phone back on for one minute, to tell Isaac I’m on my way home. When I do that, text messages and voicemail notifications flood my screen. Isaac calls again, just as I’m pulling over to read and listen to the messages.

  “Isaac, hi.”

  “Aubrey, thank god you finally turned your phone on.” Relief colors his words. “Your dad was in a hunting accident. He’s stable but…”