by Paula Stokes
I pause for a minute, then say, “We kind of agreed to take a break while he was overseas. I didn’t want to tell you because it was right when you were getting sick and I know how much you like him.”
“I do like him.” Mom smiles. “But what matters is whether you like him.”
“He’s a great guy,” I say, convincingly. “But being in the army has put him on fast-forward. He wants me to move to Texas this summer. He even mentioned the idea of getting married the next time he’s in town.”
Mom whistles under her breath. “Gosh, you guys are so young to be talking about stuff like that.”
“I know, right?” My shoulders slump forward as I think about the last time Luke and I were alone together, after my junior prom. We got a hotel room for the night, and I was expecting it just to be about drinking and hooking up, enjoying our limited time together. He looked so hot in his dress uniform that I spent the whole dance daydreaming about how fun it would be to take it off him.
But Luke spent half the night on the hotel room balcony, staring out at the ocean. He kept talking about a friend of his whose wife had left him after a long deployment. “I’m just not sure what’ll happen if I end up overseas for six months . . . or longer,” he said. “We’ve never been apart for more than three months, and even that was really hard for me.”
That was the night I first suggested that we take a break—less pressure, I told him. He needed to focus on staying safe, not worry about his lonely girlfriend back home who couldn’t possibly understand what he was going through. He needed to be free to do whatever he had to do to survive the situation. I wanted to be a source of support, not stress.
He got angry at the idea, so I dropped it and led him back inside, to the bed, where he finally let me distract him. In the morning he acted like everything was fine.
But by the end of the school year, he had come around to my way of thinking. “Just a break, not a breakup,” he told me on the phone. “So that way instead of being sad that we’re apart, we can just be happy when we’re able to talk to each other. And then when I return to base we can start making plans for after you graduate.”
At that time I really thought we’d get back together. I mean, this was Luke, the guy who spent six hours helping me look for Betsy when she escaped from the backyard. The guy who took me sailing and kayaking and planned a romantic picnic for the day he first told me he loved me. Luke, the guy who was satisfied with second base for six months and then waited another four months for me to feel ready to sleep with him. Surely, the teensy little crush I had on Holden at the time wouldn’t compare to all that.
How could I have been so wrong?
My mom clears her throat. “Well, just don’t let him pressure you into anything. You’ll always have a place to stay with me, and a job if you want it.”
“Thanks.” I blink away the images that flash through my mind—me at my mom’s funeral after the cancer comes back, snow falling on Puffin Hill as I place a leafy red poinsettia next to her grave. “I’ve been thinking about breaking it off with him completely the next time he comes home. I wish I wanted the same things, but I just . . . don’t.” This is more than I’ve told anyone except for Holden. Holden. His name is on my lips. My mom knows we’re friends. I could tell her the whole truth. It’s the perfect opportunity, and it’s not like she would judge me.
But I don’t. Because the words won’t come out. Instead I push my hair back from my face and change the subject. “Why don’t you ever date anyone, Mom? You haven’t since Jackson, right?”
Jackson Keller was a nurse who worked in the Tillamook General emergency room. Mom met him at the coffee shop. He used to come in a lot during the summer and order fruit smoothies to take to the beach. Eventually he decided to go back to school for an advanced degree and moved to Portland for classes. He and Mom saw each other on weekends, but it gradually fizzled out. Mom never told me what happened—I was about eleven at the time—but I saw her eyes red-rimmed enough to assume he’d been the one who ended it.
Mom toys with a strand of her wig. “Honestly, hon? I’m a lot happier when I’m not in a relationship.” She shrugs. “There were a couple other men when you were little. Back then I really wanted you to have a father figure in your life. But as you’re finding out, relationships can be extremely stressful. You have to make compromises. Everything you do suddenly has the power to seriously affect another person. I just decided it wasn’t worth it, that I’d rather focus my attention on you and the shop. And then when I got sick, I had to find the time to focus on myself too.” She grins. “Not a lot of time left over to deal with romantic bullshit.”
“I just hate the idea of you feeling all alone because of me,” I say.
“Silly girl.” Mom pats me on the hand. “You’re the reason I’ll never feel all alone.”
When Katrina brings our food (which I’m hoping she didn’t spit in), the scallops are just as amazing as I remembered. There are five of them, sautéed to a golden brown and arranged in a circle on a bed of linguine. A scampi sauce made with butter and herbs is drizzled over the top and the edge of the plate is garnished with fresh parsley and lemon wedges. I pull out my phone and snap a picture of the dish.
The time is 7:18. Less than an hour until the deadline.
“Are you going to Snapgram that or whatever?” Mom asks.
I smile. “Nah. It’s just almost too pretty to eat.”
“You must not be as hungry as I am, then.” Mom cuts off a big bite of her herb-encrusted salmon with Florentine sauce and pops it into her mouth. “Mmm. Melts like butter.” She dabs at her mouth with her napkin.
I cut into the first of the scallops. It’s cooked perfectly. Crisp on the outside, soft on the inside without being rubbery. I swirl a few strands of linguine around my fork, the long narrow pasta making me think of the hoses unspooling as the firefighters hurried into the Sea Cliff Inn. Was someone else really there that night, watching Holden and me?
The fork flies out of my trembling fingers and rolls halfway across the table. “Sorry.” I snatch the fork back and give it a quick wipe with my napkin, hiding my still-shaking hands in my lap.
Mom blots at her lips again. “Are you sure you’re all right? You’ve seemed kind of jumpy all day.”
“Sorry. I just have a lot on my mind.”
“Well, if you ever want to share . . .” My mom trails off meaningfully.
I nod. “I know. Thanks. It’s no big deal.” I hope it’s not, anyway. I check my phone again as I tuck it into my purse—7:21. Is someone else watching the clock just like I am, waiting to see if I post on my Facebook page? Or is Holden right and they’re just sitting somewhere laughing at the thought of me worrying about all this?
Turns out Mom and I are both starving and we eat mostly in quiet, save for the occasional murmuring of how delicious everything is. I try not to gulp down my food. I glance around the restaurant, chewing slowly, savoring each bite. The hardwood floor gleams like it’s freshly polished, and the fisherman decor hanging from the walls—stuffed fish, anchors, historical pictures, nets and ropes, etc.—has all been strung with tiny white fairy lights for Christmas. The big glass windows have been decorated with fake snow, except for the ones along the back that look out on the ocean.
My eyes land on a seahorse-shaped wall clock hanging above the bar. Twenty-seven minutes to go.
I cut into my fourth scallop and swirl it around in the scampi sauce. When Mom gets up and excuses herself to go to the restroom, I grab my phone and call Holden. I know if he’s at work he probably won’t answer, but I just want to hear his voice.
His voice-mail message plays. “This is Holden Hassler. Please leave a message.” No frills. All business. I hang up the phone and send him a text:
Me: I’m at Fintastic with my mom, going a little crazy waiting for 8pm. Everything okay with you?
When he doesn’t reply, I log on to the internet and check out some of the local news stories. One of the articles is about the Coa
st Guard rescuing two college boys from a cave south of Yachats, the town where my father lives.
I try to imagine what my father would say if he found out what I did. Is he the kind of guy who would support me and say I shouldn’t be held responsible for an accident? Or would he judge me and lecture me about sneaking around with boys and underage drinking? I wonder if he’ll end up having to pay part of the damages to the Sea Cliff if I get caught. He could probably just write a check for the whole thing. I search “signing away paternity rights,” but I can’t find anything about whether that protects a parent when it comes to financial judgments against their child.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. What would even happen to my mom if we ended up having to sell the Oregon Coast Café? She could probably find a job at a coffee shop or restaurant in Tillamook. Maybe she could be a manager or do their books or something. But what if the Oregon Coast Café isn’t even worth what we’d owe for my part in the Sea Cliff fire? The shop space is rented, not owned, and Mom is always grumbling about how she’s barely breaking even.
If someone finds out the truth, Mom and I could end up losing our house.
I swallow hard. The scallops start tumbling around in my stomach like shoes in a clothes dryer. How did this happen? How did any of this happen?
My mom slides back into the booth. “They even decorated the bathrooms for Christmas.”
“No kidding?” I tap the X on my browser to shut the window so she doesn’t see what I was looking at. The time display on my phone is practically pulsing now.
Twenty-two minutes to go.
“Are you going to finish?” Mom points at my one remaining scallop and a bit of linguine.
My stomach is still twisting and turning. I force a smile. “I’m full, actually. You want?”
“Sure.” Mom cuts the scallop in half and pops each bite into her mouth with a forkful of linguine. “Mmm.” She signals for the check. She hands her credit card to Katrina and waits for her to come back with the charge slip to sign.
Frannie returns to our table while we’re waiting. “Was everything okay?” she asks brightly.
I’m pretty sure by “everything” she means Katrina. “I guess,” I say grudgingly. “Food was amazing as always.”
“That’s what I like to hear. You guys hang on a second before you go. I have something for you, from my mom and dad.”
I nod. It’s probably a Christmas card or a small gift. A lot of the business owners in town exchange little presents with each other. As Frannie heads for the kitchen, I check my phone again. Seventeen minutes to go.
A few minutes later, Frannie returns with a white plastic bag with a couple of Styrofoam containers in it.
“What is it?” I peer into the top container and see a couple of uncooked salmon fillets.
“Just some extra fish and some of our deer sausage. Mom mentioned I should hook up any of our friends who come in. The sausage comes in three different flavors—teriyaki, cheddar, and chipotle. I made the chipotle. My parents won’t let me go hunting until I’m eighteen, but my dad let me help fabricate the deer he shot earlier this month.”
“Gross,” I say. “Not the sausage, which is amazing. Just the dead deer part, and whatever is involved with fabricating.”
“It’s when you—”
“Stop right there,” I tell her. “Before you ruin sausage for me forever.”
My mom shifts awkwardly in her chair. “Thank you, Fran. But your mom doesn’t have to feed us.”
She waves her hand. “Pssht. You know how it is. There’s no way to order exactly enough food for the restaurant, especially when it comes to perishable stuff. And my dad and brothers killed three deer this season, which is enough meat and sausage to last us like a year.”
“Well, if you’re going to twist my arm.” Mom flashes Frannie a smile as she ties the top of the plastic bag into a loose knot. “Is your mom available so I can thank her?”
“She actually left early tonight,” Frannie says. “I think the stress of the holiday season is getting to her this year.”
“Is she still in charge of the nativity play?” I ask. Every year on Christmas Eve we have a Three Rockin’ Christmas Eve Party at the community center next to the Shop-a-Lot. The party kicks off with some remarks from the mayor, who used to be the Tillamook fire chief. Then there’s a traditional nativity play, which is full of the local kids and usually a lot of fun, and later cookies and punch provided by local volunteers. Mrs. O’Riley has directed the play for as long as I can remember. One year Luke, Frannie, and I were cast as the three wisepeople. Luke kept calling his present Frankenstein instead of frankincense, and his mom got really cranky about it. The audience thought it was hilarious.
“Yes, and she is overachieving as usual. She’s actually trying to recruit a Baby Jesus from Tillamook since there are no infants in Three Rocks right now. I keep telling her to just use a doll.”
My mom chuckles. “I think Jesus would be impressed by her commitment to authenticity.”
“Moms.” I roll my eyes at Frannie and she giggles.
“Moms indeed,” my mom says wryly. “Can’t live with ’em. Can’t eat delicious food without ’em.” She turns back to Frannie. “Well, tell her I said thank you. Embry and I will enjoy the salmon over the next couple of days and eat this yummy deer sausage all the way into next year.”
“Seriously. That sausage is responsible for all this.” Frannie pats the front of her fuzzy holiday sweater, which I’m pretty sure is about 95 percent yarn and 5 percent girl. She’s almost as skinny as I am.
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes at her again.
Frannie disappears with a wave as Katrina returns with my mom’s charge slip. “Thanks, you guys. Have a great night,” Katrina says. She’s halfway back to the kitchen before my mom can say, “You too.”
Mom nudges me in the ribs as we head for the exit. “I forgot to tell you. The mayor dropped by the coffee shop yesterday while you were at school and asked if we were planning on attending the Christmas Eve party. Seems you might be the recipient of a Rocky Award this year for what you did the night of the Sea Cliff fire.”
“Ugh.” I make a face. The mayor likes to hand out cheesy awards to residents who have gone above and beyond in exemplifying the mission of our town, which is like “honesty, bravery, camaraderie” or some bullshit. “Did you tell him I had other plans?”
Mom snickers. “No I did not. I told him we’d both be there like we are every year.”
“Great.” It figures the one time someone wants to honor me it’s for one of the worst things I’ve ever done, but right now I have more important things to worry about.
My phone buzzes just as we’re getting ready to head out into the cold. Eight more minutes.
I tap at my messages icon and see a text from Holden. A huge knot of tension in my back starts to dissipate just from looking at his name. “Thanks for dinner,” I tell my mom.
“Thanks for your help at the shop. I can’t remember the last time . . .” Mom trails off as something across the parking lot attracts her attention.
I follow her gaze. There’s a man near our car. It looks like the guy who was checking us out at the coffee shop earlier today. The guy in the baseball cap and the brown bomber jacket.
Nine
I HURRY TOWARD OUR CAR with my mom right behind me. The guy ducks between the rows of vehicles and gets into a black BMW. He backs quickly out of his spot and heads for the exit, his tires spitting gravel as he transfers from the parking lot to the paved road.
“Do you know that guy?” I ask my mom.
“Not sure. I didn’t get a good look at him.” She pulls her keys out of her purse. “I was just wondering why he was by our car.”
“You would tell me if you had a stalker or something, right? I thought I saw that same guy looking at us earlier today from in front of the Shop-a-Lot.” My voice sounds frantic. I struggle to dial it down a notch.
“If you did, it’s probably a coincide
nce,” Mom says. “It’s a small town. If he’s a tourist or passing through, this is one of the only places to get a good dinner.”
I check my phone. It can’t be related to the threatening message I got. I still have seven minutes before the deadline. Unless that guy came lurking around just to scare me.
As Mom pulls out of the lot, I remember the text from Holden. I swipe at my screen.
Holden: Sorry. At work. Anything bad happen?
Me: No, not really. But the official deadline isn’t for a few more minutes.
Holden: Want me to come pick you up after I get off? We could go for a ride on the bike. Take your mind off things.
Me: Brrr! Too coooooold!
Zipping along the coast on the back of Holden’s motorcycle during the summer was great. I’m not sure how much of an escape it would feel like in thirty-degree weather.
Holden: Wuss ;)
Me: Mom and I are actually heading your way to get a Christmas tree.
Holden: Cool. Glad you’re not alone.
Me: Me too.
Mom glances over at me. “You kids work those phones something fierce,” she says. “I’m always amazed at how fast you guys text.”
I laugh under my breath. “We’re all going to have carpal tunnel when we’re your age.” The lock screen lights up. It’s 7:55. Five more minutes. I glance up at the road. We’re only a couple of blocks from the Christmas tree lot. I do my best to watch both my phone and the road until Mom turns into the lot and cuts off the engine. I don’t know what I’m expecting—it’s not like whoever threatened me has been stalking me for the past twenty-four hours and is going to jump out in front of the car as the time runs out on my deadline.
I feel better, though, now that we’re off the roads.
The lot has been pretty picked over, but there are still about a dozen trees left to choose from. Mom gives the smaller ones that will fit in our living room a thorough examination, going from tree to tree and feeling the branches, checking to see if the needles are falling off already.
I peek at my phone every time I can get away with it, my heart thudding in my chest when the display hits 8:00 p.m. As Mom flags down the tree salesman to check the price on a tree that isn’t marked, I spin a slow circle, scanning the entire area for anyone who might be looking at me.