by Jude Sierra
He could walk to Andrew and take his hand, lead him home and beg him to put him back together. But then a part of him would always be here, only half alive.
Andrew’s face is tipped up to the stars, and Milo takes a picture in his mind. Then he gets up and walks away.
chapter eight
Milo gets off the plane at Logan airport with a clipped step and a determined mind. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be back in Santuit. He’s not sure what his mother’s real state is—her voice has grown increasingly soft, losing the vibrancy she gained slowly in the years since his father’s death. Opening their old home as a bed and breakfast had revived her spirits.
Milo hasn’t been home in seven years. He’s seen pictures of her transformation of the old house. Inviting as it looks now, for Milo it will always be an ugly reminder of the past he’s worked to come to terms with. Once he acquired his job at Miller Green Developers in Denver, he had extra money to send her. The first few years, she slowly rebuilt herself, then confessed her desire to run a B&B. She sent emails with dozens of pictures attached: dreams and then transformations, until one day Graham’s Bed and Breakfast was born. She offered to ship what possessions he’d left behind. Milo barely bit back the hard response that she could burn them for all he cared.
He didn’t want a single thing from that home or his youth. He still doesn’t.
But she needs him now. She held off on asking; once she did, it came with an admission that she needed help. Milo’s not sure what’s going on—she was circumspect on the phone. There are few things in the world Milo wants less than to return to Santuit, but one of them is abandoning his mother when she needs him.
At the car rental place, he requests something cheap and small.
“How long will you need it?” the clerk asks, cheerfully tapping away at a keyboard with only a brief glance at him. His name tag reads “Rob.” He’s very good looking, with startling green eyes that stand out in contrast with his beautiful dark skin. Milo knows it’s polite to use the names of customer service representatives, but he wants to be in and out, not chat with a stranger, even if he is hot.
“I’m not sure, a few days?” He’ll figure something out, should he need to stay for any length of time.
“All right, we’ll write you up for a week for now?” Rob says.
“Sure.” He’s barely paying attention. He signs what he needs to sign, swallows down impatience, because none of this is Rob’s fault and yet Milo’s being an ass, and stuffs his bags into the car. Milo takes a moment to familiarize himself with the car, then sits a while with his eyes closed as the air conditioner runs to battle the humidity already settling over the city.
°
The drive is as ugly as he remembers. He never understood how people found this beautiful. He passes a windmill that makes his stomach clench for no good reason, other than that it’s so big it’s a little unsettling. Once he’s over the bridge and coasting down highway 28, the tension eases a little. He reminds himself that, while this is familiar, he’s not the same. It’s been a long time since he’s had a panic attack; he’s damned if he’s going to regress because he’s visiting a place full of painful ghosts.
°
“Hey, Mom.” Milo hops up the moss-covered rock steps to the lawn, then pulls his mother into a tight hug, lifting her tiny body off the ground. She’s thinner.
“Oh, it’s good to see you, honey.” Shelby squeezes him back. Although he flies her out to his house in Denver when he can, it’s not often she finds time to get away from her business. Even in the off season, she’s constantly busy.
“Mom, you look thinner,” he says right off the bat.
“Oh, let’s not talk about serious things right now.” She swats him playfully. Her smile is real and open.
He kisses her forehead. “Let me grab my bags.”
°
“So where do you want me?” Milo stacks his bag and carry-on in the foyer.
“I assumed you wouldn’t want your old room,” she says. Observant, sweet Mom, he thinks. They don’t talk about it much, but it’s always a surprise, a comforting one, when she acknowledges the reality of their past subtly.
“Do you want the front room or the attic room?”
“Attic.”
“Are you sure? It’s so small!”
“I’ll be fine, Mom. All I need is to be able to sleep. You still have the big bed in there?” Milo lifts his bag.
“Yep. Pretty much all that fits in there.” Shelby grabs his carry-on, which he gently takes away from her.
“Don’t. We can’t both manage on those steps.”
Milo heads upstairs, then opens the door to the narrow, steep steps that lead to the attic. As a kid, this was an alluring but sacred space: his mother’s sewing room, her retreat. Respecting her need for a getaway, he’d rarely gone up there without invitation. He’s always loved picturing her in there, the warm Cape light falling through steep skylights, the sloped ceiling and rich blue of the walls, the braided rag rugs in kaleidoscope colors she’d learned to make from her grandmother. His mother loved homemaking, even when James sucked its joys out of both of them.
He wrestles his suitcase up the stairs, ducks his head through the doorway, then goes back for his carry-on. The ceiling is almost low enough to touch his head at its peak; the room occupies the A-frame top of the house. But the bed is a four-poster with his grandmother’s quilt on it, and tucked against the wall is a dresser he’ll have to stoop to use. It is too small, but it feels perfect: close and redolent of the only soft memories he has of the place.
“Milo, honey,” Shelby calls up the stairs.
“Coming.” He sets the stack of shirts on the bed and maneuvers his way down. It’s definitely going to take some getting used to, the steps are so steep, but he hopes he won’t be here long.
She’s at the table in the kitchen with a warm mug of tea in front of her. “I didn’t know if you’d like coffee or tea or water?”
“I’m fine. Mom, you look tired.” He sits across from her.
“Oh, I’m a little worn; I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“What’s up?”
“Lots on my mind. Excited to see you. Don’t worry so much. We have time to talk,” she says, dismissing his question.
“Mom—”
“Would you mind running to Winslow’s and grabbing some stuff for dinner, honey? I forgot to make time for it.”
“Winslow’s?” He remembers the tiny market too well.
“You know I like to support the local businesses,” she says patiently. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah, of course. Do you have a list?”
“Yes.” She looks around vaguely. “I can’t remember where it is.” She laughs, an almost lost sound, it’s so quiet. His anxiety spikes. “Milo, sweetie, it’s okay,” she says, reading him perfectly. “I really am just tired. I worried, asking you to come here, if it would be too much for you.”
“Mom, I’m fine. I want to help you. I think we need to talk, though.”
“We will, I promise. Let’s have a nice night with some good food, and enjoy each other, please?”
“Of course,” he concedes, hand over hers.
°
Winslow’s isn’t quite what he remembers, even when he was a teenager. It’s all haphazard shelves, hit-and-miss stock, overpriced produce and the same old retired folks gossiping over poorly kept checkout counters. But it’s not as crappy as he remembers. Or it is, and his adult perception is different. Santuit has its own pace, its own flavor, the special energy of the full-time residents who know the waters and winds and ever-shifting sand. He’s always thought of it as a little big town.
“Hey,” the woman checking him out exclaims. She has poofy white hair that’s curled in the regimented style most Santuit women over sixty wear. Her face is weathered but familiar. “Miles Graham? Oh lord, oh we haven’t seen you in years!”
“Mrs. Shoon,” he manages after casting around in his memory for her
name. “I can’t believe you recognized me.”
“Oh hush, you.” She begins bagging his selections at a snail’s pace. He recognizes the rhythm. It’s small talk and catch-up.
“As if I wouldn’t; didn’t I watch you grow up, always at the candy aisle wishing for more quarters with that, that friend of yours—Andrew?”
“You make it sounds like an episode of Leave it to Beaver,” he jokes. Andrew. Andrew, a name and a memory, but so crucial to his childhood history that those with long memories will always connect them.
“That’s life here, darlin’,” she jokes. “So, here to help your mom?”
“Yeah,” he pulls out his wallet. “She needs help, then?” He winces. “Obviously. I mean, you know—I mean—” He really doesn’t want to gossip about his own mother, but he’s dying to know what’s going on.
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I assumed a boy like you would come back to a place like this for his mother.”
“Good call,” he says with forced cheer. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you again, then,” he adds, all awkward phrasing and unsure conduct, because he’s not sure how to cut short the curious and gossipy town rhythm.
“All right then, hon. Enjoy your day.”
“You too, Mrs. Shoon.” He hefts his two paper bags and heads out along Main to his car. On the opposite corner is Ashe’s: one of the nicer restaurants in town, the special-occasion place his father would patronize when he wanted to perform “perfect family” for the big moments. The last dinner Milo remembers there was to celebrate his departure for USC.
°
His mom manages to talk around and under the topic for three days. After pressing on the second day and seeing her get upset, Milo resigns himself to not pushing until she’s ready. He hates feeling itchy but doesn’t want to demand answers, especially because some of that itch is the simple desire to get the hell out of Dodge.
“You know, honey,” Shelby says over breakfast the third day, “Ted still lives here. Married a sweet girl; they have a little boy. Oh, and your friend Sarah, she’s up at Norwalk. You should give them a call.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Mom,” he hedges, disguising it with an over-enthusiastic application of strawberry preserves on his toast. He doesn’t want to revisit his past more than necessary. There’s little he could say to friends he’d let drift away when Andrew cut ties with him. For a long moment they avoid looking at each other, because they know things must be said.
“You know, honey…” She pauses, then looks out the window. The sky is gunmetal gray. “I suppose we do need to talk.”
He puts his knife and soggy toast down carefully. “Yes, that might be good.”
“I’m not sure where to start.” She laughs. It sounds rueful and sad.
“You don’t have any guests this week?” Milo asks. He’s been wondering.
“Um, no. I had a last minute cancellation.”
Milo’s not sure if he can read the truth on her face. Even in the years they’ve both allowed themselves to flourish, it seems they both remember how to conjure the blank faces that often saved them from someone’s anger.
“Milo, I’m not going to pretend I don’t know how hard this is on you, being here. I know you know I know, we all here know,” she jokes, “but it had to be said. I thought a lot about what the right thing to do was, because I feel I owe it to you to spare you everything I can, after not having—”
“Mom, no, please don’t.”
“Like I said, it has to be said. But I wouldn’t have called you here if I didn’t need you.”
He takes her in, the streaks of gray that startle through her once mahogany hair, the creeping lines around her dark-circled eyes. Her skin looks thin, almost papery. He finally asks.
“You’re sick, aren’t you?”
Her eyes go back to the window, again and again. He wonders what they’re drawn to, when all they can see is the peek-a-boo, colorless sky between the leaves of the oak tree in the side yard.
“I’m sorry, honey,” is all she says. Milo stares out the window with her, then clears his throat, trying to force the tension out.
“Don’t be; it’s okay.” He squeezes her hand. “It’ll be okay.”
She gives him a sweet, mother-shaped smile and seems to think through her next words.
“All right.”
°
Milo settles her on the couch and himself in an armchair and gets to the business of fact-collecting so he can construct a plan.
“Please don’t panic,” she starts, ominously. “It is breast cancer—” She leans forward and shakes his knee when he inhales sharply. “The doctors think we have excellent odds. It’s stage two, so it needs treatments and surgery, but also has excellent odds for survival with the plan we’ve decided on.”
“Wait, have you already—how could you not—?”
“Milo,” she says softly.
“You wouldn’t have told me?” Incredulity sharpens his voice.
“No, no, I would have. Just maybe... with better news?” she says.
“Oh!” Now it’s sarcasm. “‘Better news,’ she says.”
“Milo, I wanted to spare you—”
“How is keeping secret your cancer sparing me? What if—”
“Milo, please understand. As a mom, it’s my job to try to spare you. And I have so much to make up for.”
“Mom, please stop. Stop. You don’t, okay? We were both there. He did it to us both.”
For a long time after his father’s death, he blamed her, and anger and resentment simmered. He always managed to tamp down those feelings when he spoke to her. It took therapy and effort to forgive and understand. But he has forgiven, and does understand, now.
She takes a shaking breath and makes an abortive motion with her hand that he knows means she’s dismissing it for the moment. Fine, we’ll come back to that later.
“There didn’t seem to be a clear best choice. Ask you to come back here when I knew it would be painful, and you’ve worked so hard to start somewhere new, or keep this a secret from you when I knew you should know.”
“But only because you need surgery you’ve decided to tell me?” Milo says. A hot wave of resentment he doesn’t want to acknowledge stirs.
“No. Now that I’ve started chemo, I don’t think the surgery itself is going to be the hardest part. I was going to tell you anyway,” she says, sitting up straighter. “I promise. I just wanted to wait it out.”
He evaluates her face, her posture, tries to read if this is true.
“You don’t have to believe me. You can be angry at me if you want, honey. If you want to leave, I’ll understand, too,” she says.
“Christ, Mom, if I want to leave? When you’re sick and need chemo and surgery and whatever else and need me?”
She blinks back tears, and he sighs, runs fingers through already messy hair and tries to channel some calm.
“I shouldn’t have yelled. This is just a lot.”
“I know, I know. I’m so sorry, baby.”
He closes his eyes. She hasn’t called him that since he practically was a baby. He’s not sure when she stopped. When his father started pulling them apart, he supposes.
It’s a long time before he speaks up again. His voice bumps into the jagged silence, against his own hesitation and her expectant breaths.
“When do you need surgery?”
“In about two months? I haven’t scheduled it yet; I thought I’d wait to talk to you. I feel awful, because calling you now means I’m asking you to stay for so long.”
“And what are you having done? How long is it, how long will you be in the hospital?”
“It’s called a lumpectomy. The surgery is outpatient, thankfully. The doctor can explain all of the treatments better than I can.”
Milo closes his eyes again. Her hand on his knee is meant as a comforting weight, but he’s not sure he knows how to handle it. Of course, Milo’s first instinct is to push it away, to let the automatic irritation he fe
els when he’s at his most overwhelmed and scared wash him away. But she needs him right now.
“All right. Then let’s make our plans. We’ll schedule it, and figure out the car rental situation so I can plan to stay here. Do you see your doctor soon? Can I come and ask questions?”
“Yes,” she says. “Of course. I know you’ll have a lot of questions. I’ll be seeing him for my next round of chemo.”
“I’ll have to call work and figure out if I should take a sabbatical or work remotely.”
“Oh, Milo, I’m sorry—”
“Mom, seriously, don’t be; I have leeway.”
“All right, honey.”
“Now, what about the B&B?” he asks.
“Well, I still have bookings coming up, and I don’t want to cancel them if I don’t have to. I know there are girls from town who will be willing to help out if I ask.”
“I can help, Mom.”
“I know you can. I meant with cleaning and cooking stuff. I thought you could handle the business end.”
“Mom, you do know I’ve been living on my own for years. I can cook.”
“Bachelor food,” she scoffs, but it’s friendly.
“How little you know me,” he says wryly. “No, really. It’s a hobby.”
She squints at him. “How did I not know this?”
“I guess we’ve both been keeping stuff close,” he quips, and immediately feels like crap because her face falls. “I was kidding, Mom.”
“All right,” she says, voice a little softer, a little apologetic.
“I promise, I wasn’t being passive aggressive or anything,”
“Okay, okay, I believe you,” she says, rolling her eyes. “This is officially enough gloom and doom.”
“But we have to plan for the business—”
“Milo, we have a week before the next booking. We have time. I want you to digest. I know how hard that is for you. Go for a walk. Go down to the beach. Clear your head.”
“I don’t want to leave you alone, though.”
“Sweetie, I’ve had some time to get used to this and think it through.”
“Maybe I don’t want to leave you,” he says.
“Well, it looks like we’re in for a long haul. I’m fine. I need to think, too.” Milo is pretty sure she’s saying that to get him out of the house. But he sees her point, because his stomach feels full of needles.