by Leia Stone
“I’m fine. Just tired,” I growl.
"I'll do the dishes," Autumn mutters, jaw muscles flexing as they tighten.
"No, I'll do the dishes," I argue back, squirting soap onto the brush. Too much comes out. Blame it on the anger I feel bubbling just below the surface. Anger I don't even have a right to feel because Autumn hasn't been mine in a very long time. Maybe I should have slept with Naomi this morning. Why didn’t I?
Autumn crosses her arms, standing so that she faces me. "I'm sure you have other things to do, Owen. Thanks for driving my mom home." Her tone is pointed, insinuating, and her anger is back. God, she’s so fucking angry at me all the time. It’s a wonder she can hold it together for five minutes and be cordial. I know she wants to ream me over what happened between us. She’s like a volcano, constantly simmering yet somehow not yet exploding. One day she will and I just hope we survive the aftermath.
She looks down at her bare feet and I do too. Her toenails are painted a bright orange-red, and even her feet are fucking cute.
A long stream of air comes from my nose. I'm trying to calm the chaos inside me. Autumn's head lifts and our gazes lock. She stares up at me; I stare down at her. I think of the Autumn from before, the girl who softened before an argument could become a fight. We never fought; we disagreed but it never became disrespectful or escalated. Not until the very end, until I messed everything up. She left for Santa Clara, and we weren't sure where we stood anymore. For that matter, even when I showed up at her dorm, she didn't fight me, didn't offer a single word in her defense. She just stood there and took my verbal onslaught, the memory of which has my throat tightening with emotion and my head hanging in shame.
Right now, her hardened gaze shows no sign of softening.
My jaw twitches, and I think it's me who's softening, melting like a damn stick of butter left in the hot sun.
I wrench my gaze away before she can spot the weakness. At the same time, a ringing fills the air. Stepping away from the sink, I pull my phone from my pocket.
The name flashing there fills me with dread. I don't want to answer this in front of her, but I have to.
"Hello?"
"Hey, buddy."
His voice is jovial. A good sign. He hasn't crossed over into aggression. Yet.
"What's going on?" I ask. Normally, I would say, What's going on, Dad? But Autumn really liked my father, and I don't want her to know what he has turned into.
"Just headed out to Mickey's. Thought I'd see if you wanted to join us for a beer."
Mickey is my dad's best friend. He lives two streets over and has turned his garage into a bar. It's a BYOB system, but Mickey has the place stocked with essentials so you can pretty much drink what you desire when you're there and stumble home. As long as what you desire is a basic liquor and one mixer. None of the twenty-two-dollar martinis Autumn was probably drinking in Manhattan all these years.
I look at Autumn. She's attacking a pan with the scrubber, her arm muscles flexing. Her whole body is rigid. It's probably best if I leave, like she suggested. This thing we're trying to call friendship is already stretched taut. No need to see how much weight it can support.
"I'm on my way," I say into the phone.
"What?" My dad says, shocked. "Oh, great."
His surprise at my agreement is understandable. I used to go with him to Mickey's when I thought it was just a father and son spending some time together. I quit accepting his invitation once I realized he had a problem. Mickey’s was an alcoholic’s Disneyland and I didn’t want to enable him, but tonight I could use a drink.
My hands tuck into my pockets of my work slacks and I roll back on my heels. Autumn's back hasn't lost even a fraction of its rigidity. "I'm going to take off," I tell her, hoping maybe she’ll try to ask me to stay for a drink or at least go out on the porch and talk.
I have so much to say to her…
She doesn't move. "Thanks for driving my mom home. And for earlier." She glances at me for the shortest second, then her gaze dances away. "With the, uh, needle."
I don't say anything, but I have the strongest urge to reach out, to hold her the way I did at the hospital this morning. It couldn't have been more than five seconds she was in my arms, needing me, but each second stretched out into a minute. I went straight back to being seventeen, to the time before everything between us went to shit.
"No problem," I grunt.
Autumn stays in the kitchen while I say goodbye to Faith.
Then I go to find my drunk father and settle in for a night of babysitting him.
Chapter 8
Autumn
"Since when do you go to church?" I give my mom a skeptical look.
"Since I started going," my mom shoots back.
I'd been lying on the hammock in my mom's small back yard with one of her romance paperbacks when she walked outside and told me to go get changed.
"And I have to go with you?" I ask from my prone position, hoping she'll let me off the hook. My entire life we attended church services twice a year: Easter and Christmas.
"It would be nice if you'd go." I can tell she's trying not to put too much pressure on me, but she can't keep the hopeful look off her face.
She's wearing a flowy gauze skirt and top. She’s blow-dried her hair using a round brush and it looks full and beautiful. I'd heard the hair dryer blasting on my way out of the house a half hour ago when I'd walked out back with the book tucked under my arm, but I didn't think much of it. I don't know her routine yet; maybe she always gives herself a blow-out on Sundays.
Turns out, her routine includes something else I never saw coming.
God.
The old man upstairs and I are on weird terms right now, and I’m not keen on stepping into a church anytime soon, but I’m not going to deny my mother anything while she’s going through her chemo treatments.
"I'll go with you," I relent, trying to cover my reluctance. I scoot over and swing my legs off the side, swaying a little as I stand.
"You can't wear that to church," she tells me, her eyes running down my bare legs.
"Shoot," I say, snapping my fingers. "It's either this or that lingerie I sleep in."
"Very funny," she responds, jostling me with her pointy elbow.
We go in the house, and I do as I've been asked and manage to make it happen in the twenty minutes I've been told I have to do it in.
"Will this do?" I ask, walking into the living room, where my mom is seated on the couch. My hands are held out to my sides, palms up. I'm wearing the black slacks that were a staple of my work wardrobe and a royal blue blouse.
Mom stands. "You're perfect. Let's go."
She's quiet on the way there. Well, technically, that's not true. She doesn't speak, but she's not quiet. She taps a finger on the center console and plays piano on her knees. Even her pursed lips make sounds when she finally has to take a breath. Is she nervous or in pain or something? Maybe side effects of the chemo?
"All good?" I ask her when we park.
She nods. Clears her throat. Adjusts the sleeve of her top. "All good."
"Okay…" I draw out the word, trying to understand why she's acting so strange.
Heat rises from the hot asphalt parking lot, and I swear I feel it seeping into my heels. The temperature isn't too bad yet, but the asphalt retains the heat, baking us all from the bottom up.
As we walk, people wave to my mom. They say hello and call her by name.
What the hell?
Oops. Good thing that was in my head.
"People know you, Mom," I murmur, nodding at someone who looks at me with curiosity.
"Mmm hmm."
I wait for more, but nothing comes. My mom is a full-blown churchgoer! This thought fascinates me. We enter the large front doors and my mom parades me around, introducing me to person after person. They all know me. Or … they know of me. I'm asked over and over what it was like to live in New York City, and if I'm glad to be back home.
It was a
great experience, and yes, I'm thrilled to be back with my mom.
I say it over and over. I say it until I realize it's not just lip service. It's true.
Despite being forced to face Owen again, and the reason I've moved back, it is good to be home, to step away from the hustle and bustle and breathe again.
My mom leads us from the foyer into the sanctuary, where everything is polished oak. The pews are covered in a soft-looking, deep red fabric. It reminds me of Christmas—because, ya know, that used to be when we went to church. When we sit down, I run my finger along the seat cushion. Velvet.
Around us I hear hushed conversations, until all at once the hushed sounds disappear. As I look forward, I watch the man who stands at the center of the stage, the one responsible for quieting the masses. He's wearing a dark gray suit and navy-blue tie and he greets the room with a booming voice. I look at my mom to find that she has a serene look on her face. Maybe that's how I look when I'm practicing yoga. I hope so. If this gives my mother something she needs, then I’m all for it.
For the next hour, I do as I'm supposed to.
I stand when I'm supposed to. I bow my head as I'm instructed. And I pray. It's been so long since I prayed that I don't know if I'm doing it right, but the pastor says there is no wrong way, and I hope he's correct.
When he's done talking, the choir comes back out and we sing one more time. The pastor closes the service with a final prayer, and then dismisses the congregation.
Whew, I didn’t burn up. Maybe this God thing isn’t so bad after all. My mom stands, but she's a little slow to get to her feet.
"Are you okay?" I ask, reaching for her.
"I'm fine," she answers, gently pushing away the hand I've offered her. "You try sitting in one position for an hour when you're my age and tell me if your bones don't protest a bit."
She's only fifty-five. If it weren't for the cancer, I'd tell her she's too young to be making statements like that. Maybe that's what it is, and she just doesn't want to say it.
We walk from the sanctuary and melt back into the crowd once more. There is more chatting. More people to meet. And then I'm introduced to the man whose voice I just listened to for an hour.
"Pastor Greg, this is my daughter, Autumn." Mom rests her palm on my upper arm and smiles warmly at me.
"Well, Autumn, it's sure nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you." He extends a hand, grinning in this earnest way that makes me like him automatically. He's probably about my mom's age. His blond hair is thinning on top, and he reminds me of a cuddly teddy bear. He's not overweight, but he looks soft.
"It's nice to meet you too, Pastor Greg." I'd tell him I've heard about him too, but, well, I haven't. And I can't lie while standing in church, directly in front of the pastor. God might smite me.
Pastor Greg turns his attention to my mom. "How'd you like the service, Faith?"
One side of Mom's lips turn up into a rueful smile. Pastor Greg shakes his head and clucks his tongue. Clearly I'm missing something, but I just watch their interaction instead of asking.
"Would you tell a chef if you didn't like his food?" the pastor asks.
"Probably not," Mom answers, still grinning.
Pastor Greg chuckles. "So I can't count on you for an honest answer about my sermons?"
"Probably not," she repeats.
Pastor Greg laughs again, but I'd call it a chortle. Loud enough to make some people standing nearby look over with interest.
Was my mom flirting with the pastor?
Go Mom.
Before I can think any more about it, he looks my way and tips his head. "It was nice to meet you. If you'll excuse me, there are some other folks I need to talk with."
He shuffles away, and I watch him go.
“He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring,” I say off-handedly, thinking about how much I was expecting him to.
“What?” My mom seems surprised by my comment. “Oh, he’s been divorced a while back. That was before I joined the church.”
I open my mouth to respond but someone else fills the empty place the pastor left behind. She's an elderly woman named Margaret, and once she learns where I've just moved from, she talks at length about the time she spent living there and working on Broadway. Of everyone I've met today, she's my favorite.
Mom taps my shoulder, signaling she's ready to go, and I’m relieved. There is only so much churching I’m capable of and two hours is my limit. I extract myself from the conversation as politely as possible.
"Will you be here next week?" Margaret asks hopefully. I look at my mom and she looks hopeful too.
"Sure," I tell her.
Oops. I may have just lied.
We finally make it out to our car after more goodbyes.
"You're the belle of the ball," I comment, backing out of our parking space.
"They know I'm sick," she answers, waving me off.
"So if you weren't sick, they wouldn't talk to you?"
Mom flicks my thigh with the side of her hand. "You know what I mean."
"Yeah, I do. Are you hungry?"
"Starving."
I smile. "Creamed spinach it is."
"Autumn Marie…"
"I'm kidding, Mom." I can’t help the chuckle that escapes me.
We settle on pizza and salad. Unfortunately, she doesn’t eat much. I see her pop an anti-nausea lozenge into her mouth after two bites … the chemo effects I’d read about must be finally bothering her. I want to ask about it, but she doesn’t say anything and I wonder if she just wants a normal Sunday lunch with her daughter, so I don’t mention it.
When we’re eating, Mom tells me there's no way the pizza in New York City could be any better than it is at this place. I tell her she's right, it's better here because when I ate it in NYC I didn't have her sitting across from me. She tears up, which makes me tear up, and she tells me to quit saying sweet things.
It's something she would have said to me years ago, but aside from the words themselves, everything about her delivery is all wrong. The tone, the tears, the expression on her face.
This time, I don't believe her.
Later that night, my phone buzzes with a text and I inwardly groan. If it’s Matt again I’ll vomit. He tried to send more I miss you texts, but I’ve just ignored them. His most recent text said, I’m starting to get the hint. Hopefully by now the hint has been fully received. I blow out a relieved breath when I look down and see it’s from Livvie.
Livvie: I don't know about you, but I could use a drink.
Me: Perfect timing. My mom just went to bed.
Livvie: Orange Peel Brewing Company? I don't want fancy wine. I'm in a cold beer mood.
Me: I can be there in twenty.
Livvie: See you soon, baboon.
Me: Is that one of the inappropriate texts you warned me about?
Livvie: No. I'm just feeling you out to decide how receptive you are to jokes in general. Starting slow, you know? Like, just the tip.
The water I'm drinking catches in my throat and I cough while I'm laughing. It burns.
Me: Ahhh there it is.
Livvie: That's what she said. See you soon!
I pull on comfortable jeans and my Converse shoes. No spiked heels for this meetup. Livvie is my keep-it-real girlfriend, one who I can be myself around. Maybe I'll wear heels again, but right now it's difficult to imagine a scenario in which I'll need them.
I get to the brewing company first and grab a booth. Livvie walks in a few minutes later. She's dressed like me.
"Tell me the truth," she says, sliding in across from me. "You thought about skinny jeans and heels too, didn't you?"
"Of course," I nod. "But Chucks are one thousand times more comfortable. What were we doing going out in heels?"
"Rookie mistake. Blame it on youth." She eyes me. "How old are you? I know you're younger than me." She points at her eyes. "You don't have fine lines yet."
"Oh stop. I’m twenty-eight but lately I feel forty-five."
She makes a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. "Neophyte."
"You don't want fancy wine but you use a fancy word?"
She shrugs. "I learned it today at the bookstore. It was empty because, shocker, it's ugly as sin in that place with fuck-all to do in the way of fun. Anyway, I was reading a book and that word was in it. I had to look it up, and now my vocabulary has grown by one word."
I high-five her, grinning. "How old are you?"
She narrows her gaze. "It's impolite to ask that question of your elders."
I give her a pointed look and she says, "Thirty-five."
I gasp and pretend to be horrified. She looks around for something to throw at me, but there isn't anything on the table except our forearms. Seriously, she looks amazing for her age. I thought she was only a year older than me.
She sticks her tongue out at me, then looks around for a server. When she spots one, she signals them over.
"I'll have the amber ale in the coldest glass you have," she tells the young guy in the black polo. "And a food menu."
He looks at me, gaze expectant.
"Two, please."
When he leaves, Livvie starts speaking: "I need to talk, but I can't until I've had a sip of beer."
I nod, considering her words. "Then I'll talk while we wait. I went to church with my mom today. Apparently she goes every week, and she has been doing so for some time. I had no idea."
"Is it a big deal that she's going to church?"
"No. It's just that I didn't know, and things like this keep happening. It's not like I moved away and didn't speak to her. We spoke often. I even came back here to visit. They weren't long trips, but it's not as if I left and never came back."
"You’re hurt she didn’t share more about her life?"
I shake my head. "No."
Maybe.
"You sound like your feelings are hurt."
I chuckle. “Maybe a little.”
The server walks up with our drinks. He tosses down two cardboard coasters, then sets down the beers, followed by two menus. "I'll be back for your order."
Livvie's arm shoots out, stopping him. "Wait a sec," she says, quickly scanning the menu. "I'll have a basket of green chili fries."