by Freya Barker
Every last Friday of the month the elementary school—where Spencer is in kindergarten and Sofie in third grade—offers pizza lunch for the kids. Those are the kinds of things I’ve never really paid much attention to because Nicky had everything firmly in hand.
“Exactly,” Sofie wails, shoving her chair back and storming out of the kitchen. I hear her feet stomping up the stairs.
Fuck. Not exactly how I want to start the busy day ahead. I take in a deep breath and move to follow her upstairs, when a hand on my arm holds me back.
I’ve tried extra hard to ignore Taz these past few days since I almost…
“I’ll go,” she says before I have a chance to finish that thought. “You take Spencer to the bus stop and I’ll look after Sofie.”
I want to object but I don’t get a chance, she’s already out of the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, just as the bus comes around the corner, I hear running footsteps behind me and my daughter’s small body slams into me, her arms slipping around my hips.
“Hey, honey.” I smile down at her blotchy face and run my hand over her hair, before throwing a questioning glance at Taz who mouths, “Later.”
When the bus takes off—both kids on board—we start walking back to the house. I try not to notice Taz’s energetic step beside me, her dreads bouncing around her shoulders.
“What was that all about?”
“Pizza lunch.” She looks up at me and I notice the long lashes framing her expressive eyes. “Apparently, Nicky would always be at the school to volunteer.”
“Ah.”
It’s messed up that I didn’t know that. Then again, there was a lot about my wife’s activities I was unaware of. First by design—hers—and then by choice—mine. I’d become adept at merely coexisting and naturally slipped back into that pattern with Taz, albeit for entirely different reasons.
My kids are hurting, though. Nicky may have wanted her sister here to look after them, but that doesn’t absolve me. I need to be on the ball, and I haven’t been, because I was too busy avoiding Taz.
“I promised Sofie I’d come to school to help out for lunch, but maybe you should call them first? There may be some list I need to be added to?”
It’s on my lips to tell her I should be the one to help hand out pizza at lunch, but Lisa has my schedule packed today. “Okay,” I agree instead.
“Good. Oh, that reminds me,” she says, pushing open the front door and walking in ahead of me. “We’re you planning on selling the SUV?”
“The CRV? Why?” I watch as she pours us fresh coffee from the pot and hands me my mug.
“I was wondering…I’m going to need some wheels. If you were going to get rid of it, I’d like to buy it off you.”
I’m a little confused why she’d offer to buy her sister’s ride when it’s already sitting in the driveway. “It’s outside, the keys are on the hook, just use it. Why would you need to buy anything in the first place?”
I recognize the stubborn set of her chin: I saw it this morning on Sofie’s face.
“I pay my own way. Which brings me to another issue we haven’t addressed yet: household expenses. I need to know what I owe you. I’ve been looking at rental places, but there isn’t too much available around here at the moment, so until I find something I expect to carry my share.”
“Rental places?” I know she said a whole lot more, but that’s the one thing I hear. “Why? I don’t get it. Why would you worry about wheels or a place to stay when you already have both?”
Abruptly she turns her back, focusing her attention on the window over the sink and I get the sense I said something wrong. Fuck if I know what.
“It’s better that way.”
I can hear she’s hurting. It suddenly dawns on me that maybe it’s simply too painful for her to live in this house. Her breath hitches and I put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Look, I understand if staying here with these daily reminders your sister is gone is painful, but the house is big and you’re more than welcome to make it yours.”
I quickly withdraw my hand when she whirls around, those brown eyes, shiny with unshed tears, flashing unexpected anger.
“You’re an idiot, you know that? It’s not because of Nicky…it’s because of you.”
I’m still standing there slack-jawed well after I hear the door to her bedroom slam upstairs. I guess I am an idiot because I’m utterly clueless what just happened.
I dump the rest of my coffee in the sink, quickly call the school, and leave a note confirming she was already on the list of approved visitors for Taz, and dart out the back door.
Animals are a fuckofalot easier to understand even without the ability to talk.
Taz
I inwardly wince at the curious glances when I walk into the school. I’m sure most of these people were at Nicky’s funeral, and this isn’t the first time they’ve seen me, but I was preoccupied and didn’t notice then.
I’m convinced it’s partly because half the town is wondering where I was, while the other half wants to know what I’m doing back here. The dreads don’t help either, I’m pretty sure I’m an oddity here in Eminence with this hairstyle.
An oddity, an interloper, a troublemaker, as I’d been before I left.
I felt like one too. Especially as an interloper. I’d been wanted—needed—when Nicky was still here, but in the weeks since her death, I’ve felt more and more out of place. I look after her kids, live in her house, drive her car; I’ve all but slipped into her life. I’m not fooling anyone, though, except maybe myself. If not for the promise I made her, and the love I have growing for her children, I wouldn’t have stuck around.
Especially not after the almost embarrassing scene in the kitchen earlier this week. I’m not sure what I was thinking. Actually, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t thinking at all. If that alarm on my phone hadn’t gone off when it did, I’m afraid to think what might’ve happened.
It would’ve validated everything my mother holds over me. Home-wrecker would probably fit on the list as well. It’s what she accused me of when she caught me in that same damn kitchen, throwing myself at my pregnant sister’s boyfriend. At least that was her interpretation of the situation. She’d missed the difficult discussion which preceded that mostly innocent hug.
“I can’t think straight when you look at me like that.”
My breath sticks in my throat at his declaration. Since coming home a few weeks ago, I’ve tried hard to avoid him, but whenever he walks into a room my eyes lock on him. I can’t get enough, registering every move, every gesture, every sound. It’s been agony observing him with Nicky, and I didn’t think he’d noticed me.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m ripping your heart out.”
“You’re not,” I lie, and he looks at me like he knows it.
“Taz…If I’d met you—” he starts, and I rush to cut him off.
“But you didn’t.” I realize I’ve admitted to more with that simple statement than I’d intended to, but so had he. “She’s perfect for you.” I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince, but even as I say it, I know it’s the truth. I don’t want to stay in Eminence where I know I’ll end up living the life my parents envision for me: with a suitable husband, two-point-three kids, and a welcoming home. It’s not that I don’t want those things; it’s just that it’s not all I want from life.
“She is,” he echoes, but I recognize regret in his eyes even as he pulls me into his arms.
“Taz!”
It takes me a moment to realize that it’s not the memory of my mother’s shocked voice calling my name, but Kathleen’s from the other side of the gym. Of course she also draws the attention from the other three women helping out, who turn as one in my direction.
Kathleen meets me halfway and wraps me in a hug. “I’ve been meaning to call you, but the whole house was down with the flu this week. The kids are over it, but now Brent is home.” She rolls her eyes dramatically. “He is the worst patient o
f them all, which is how I ended up here. Normally I wouldn’t be found dead volunteering at the kids’ school. Heck, I practically vibrated with glee when that damn school bus left this morning. Then that big galoot was whining and calling my name all morning.”
I bite my lip trying to hold back the smile at her rambling. This is the Kathleen of old, the one whose mouth always ran a mile a minute, without the benefit of any filters. She’s a little more reserved now she has kids, but clearly my old friend is still in there. “I’m sorry,” I manage, sympathetically.
“Don’t know how you do it; nursing. I don’t have the patience for it. All these needy people.” Kathleen isn’t nearly as cold-hearted as she pretends to be. “Anyway, enough about me, what brings you here?”
“Pizza lunch.” I indicate the cafeteria tables stacked with boxes, and notice the three women still watching.
“Ah, right. Come meet the girls.” She drags me unceremoniously to where the three are still ogling me with curiosity. “Sheila, you remember Taz, don’t you?”
I thought she looked familiar. Old feelings surge to the surface, but I plaster a smile on my face and hold out my hand. “Sheila Mantle, right? How have you been?”
“It’s actually Sheila Quinn these days. I’m well, but you…you poor thing.” She clasps my hand between hers and tilts her head, a fake look of sympathy on her face. “Such a horrible loss.” I finally manage to get my hand back and resist the temptation to wipe it on my jeans. “We should do lunch soon,” she titters on. “Catch up on old times.”
Not a fucking chance in hell I’m going down memory lane with her. She was a snake in high school, and I get the feeling that hasn’t changed much. I pointedly turn to the other two women and introduce myself.
“I need a job,” I tell Kathleen forty-five minutes later when we walk onto the parking lot. “I need a job and a place to live.”
“O-kay…” she drawls, looking at me quizzically. “I’m thinking I need a little more information than that.”
I stop and turn to her. “I have some money set aside, but I haven’t exactly been raking it in over my years in Africa, and I need to contribute to the household until I find a place of my own.”
“Why?” Kathleen seems genuinely stunned. “I mean, I figured you’d live at the house. Easier with the kids and all that. Did Rafe say something?” Her tone turns fierce on that last question.
“No. It’s not Rafe. At least, it’s nothing he said. The kids are at school, Rafe works all day, and I’m wearing spots in the furniture because cleaning is all I do to keep me busy. I feel like a poor replica of the real thing, but I’m not Nicky. I need to feel useful.”
“What does that have to do with the price of lemons? A poor replica? No one is expecting you to take Nicky’s place, but have you considered maybe it’s only you who thinks that? By all means get a job—nothing wrong with wanting to feel useful or paying your way—but why does that mean you have to move out? It just doesn’t compute.”
“It’s complicated,” I mutter, looking down at my toes.
“Uncomplicate it for me,” she fires right back. “From where I stand, living in one place, working in another, and then looking after two young kids at a third location is what would complicate things.” Suddenly she leans forward squinting her eyes. “Wait a minute…”
“Kathleen…” I try, but it’s no use, she’s like a terrier with a bone.
“It’s Rafe, isn’t it? He may not have said anything but he did something, didn’t he?”
For some reason she has never been a fan of Rafe. I never told her I had feelings for my brother-in-law-to-be—too embarrassing—but that doesn’t mean she didn’t suspect. “He’s done nothing. He’s simply…Rafe.” I shrug dismissively, but Kathleen has known me a long time. She’s not easily fooled.
“Do you have feelings for him?” She rolls her eyes and slaps the palm of her hand to her forehead. “You do, you have feelings for him. Oh my God, Taz, your sister was right.”
It’s my turn to look stunned. “About what?”
“Oh, this is rich. Nicky once told me she suspected Rafe picked the wrong Boran sister.”
Chapter Ten
Taz
“Where do you want to start?”
It had been Kathleen who suggested getting my mother involved in sorting through Nicky’s things.
She and I talked a few times since she grilled me in the school parking lot. The most recent was this past week over coffee at her and Brent’s place. This time it was me who broached the subject of Rafe. I told her everything starting from the first time I met him at my parents’ house. I didn’t leave anything out, and I felt relieved once I laid it all on the table. Everything that happened before I walked into my sister’s hospital room, and everything after.
Kathleen had listened quietly—for which I was grateful—until I finally admitted my feelings for him were still strong, as well as utterly impossible. That’s when she spoke up, and she wasn’t shy about telling me I was an idiot for thinking I could ignore my feelings. Then and now. She further suggested I work on fixing my relationship with my parents before I hop in the sack with Rafe, a notion I reminded her would require two willing parties, to which she rolled her eyes.
I felt a lot lighter. I’d missed that, having someone to gab with about everything or nothing. Someone who knows your past and your present, who can listen patiently, but isn’t afraid to give it to you straight when you need it. Amid the minefields I walk daily, with the kids, Rafe, and my parents, Kathleen’s brand of honesty is a welcome relief.
When we were younger I used to share everything with her, but that stopped nine years ago, when I’d found myself falling fast for my sister’s boyfriend. Shame, I suppose. It’s not exactly the kind of information you’d proudly want to broadcast. Back then I never even explained why I ended up beelining it out of Eminence with barely a goodbye, but she knows now.
In fact, I’ve shared more about myself in my recent talk with Kathleen than I have with anyone in the past decade.
Still, I wasn’t automatically on board when she proposed I ask Mom for her help. It was her comment that all it takes to move forward is for someone to take a step in the right direction. Her point hit home.
“I think the closet?” I answer Mom who nods.
“We’ll need some garbage bags.”
“There’s a box in the pantry.”
While she goes to grab bags, I pour us some coffee to take up. This is a task I’ve been avoiding for weeks, and I’m more than a little apprehensive about tackling it with my mother, with whom I’ve barely exchanged a civilized word in a long time. However, if there is any common ground between us, it would be our love for Nicky and our grief at her loss. Maybe doing this together will remind us of that.
We silently walk up the stairs to the master bedroom, where Mom drops the garbage bags on the bed and immediately heads for the walk-in closet.
“She always dressed well,” Mom mumbles, as she pulls the first handful of hangers off the rail.
I bite my lip, trying hard not to hear her remark as veiled criticism. Reminding myself I may not be able to control what comes out of her mouth, but I can control my response to it.
“She does…did,” I agree, and it’s clear from the surprise on Mom’s face she didn’t expect that.
My acquiescence seems to have taken the wind from her sails because the next ten minutes we work almost in silence, emptying out the closet and piling everything on the bed.
“Before we start sorting things for garbage or Goodwill, we should probably see if there’s anything we want to keep,” Mom points out. “Maybe a few things for Sofie.”
I nod and immediately reach for a pretty, colorful, silk scarf. “She might like this. They’re her colors.”
In turn Mom pulls out a sequined cocktail dress I’ve never seen before. “This one too. Sofie loved it when Nicky wore it two years ago for our fortieth wedding anniversary.”
“It’s pretty,” I
manage, my voice laced with regret.
I missed their anniversary, like I missed a lot of significant family events over the years. My sister’s wedding, the births of my niece and nephew, Christmases, birthdays, I wasn’t here for any of them. It would be easy to put that burden on my mother’s shoulders, but it doesn’t belong there. It belongs with me.
The realization has me sink on the edge of the bed, my knees suddenly weak. In the end, it doesn’t matter who or what caused the breach; I’m the one who ran to the other side of the world and stayed there. I’m the one who created a divide that was impossible for anyone to cross. Except me.
God, all these years I’ve felt so justified in my choices, so righteous in my self-imposed martyrdom, I never considered I was the one preventing any chance of healing. Me.
I drop my head between my knees, fighting off the sudden wave of nausea.
“Natasha?” Concern is evident in my mother’s voice. “Are you okay? Do you need a break?”
I shake my head, unable to speak, and keeping my eyes on the floor between my feet. I hear Mom move, then I hear the faucet turn on and off in the adjoining bathroom. Next thing I know, the heavy dreadlocks are lifted from my neck and something cold and damp is pressed against my skin.
I barely recall the last time my mother touched me with care. I reach back and cover her hand on my neck as my eyes burn.
“In through the nose and out through the mouth.” Doing as she softly instructs, I manage to battle back both tears and nausea, finally lifting my head. “Better?” she asks, and I give her a small smile in response. She flashes a hint of one back before disappearing into the bathroom to discard the wet washcloth.
As if nothing happened, we return focus to the task of sorting through the piles of clothes, but it feels like the air is lighter.
With everything on the bed packed in the dozen or so bags lining the wall, Mom disappears back into the closet, coming out with a garment bag. Her turn to sink down on the edge of the mattress, the bag crushed in her arms.