He almost kissed me last spring, a week after Cambria broke up with him, while we were at the Porter Beer Bar, celebrating our latest booking. He got this look in his eyes and the hum of the bar muted as I watched him angle toward me in slow motion, his blue eyes pools of familiarity. His blond hair looked thick and soft and for one nanosecond, I could actually experience the pointed ends beneath my fingertips, little pricks of happiness. Before I knew what was happening, I was already jetting away from him.
“I need to pee!”
By the time I got back to our seats, Charlie had paid and waited by the door. We hadn’t talked about it then or since. I didn’t regret not kissing him; I knew it was the right thing to do.
“He was so obviously on the rebound.” When I got around to telling Ben about it a month later, he wanted to know all the details.
“You don’t know that.”
“Oh, but I do. I was there, and it would have ultimately made things worse.” But whenever I recalled that night, I still blushed.
When I was little, I used to sit in the attic for hours, going through old boxes, reading letters. I’d try on my mom’s wedding dress and prance around in front of the old mirror, dreaming of my Prince Charming.
After she left, I moved her wedding dress down to my closet. No longer because I dreamed of a Prince Charming, but rather because I needed some tangible bit of her nearby. I waited months and then years for her to come back the way she left, silently and without explanation. I’d sit on the edge of my bed late into the night and study the driveway, imagining every beam of passing headlights was hers, coming to say she was sorry, that she loved me, that everything would be okay.
But eventually I got used to my new life. I got used to Dad being alone, to confiding only in Ben. I got used to Bernice being a distant idea of something that Once Was. I accepted the limitations of my existence.
I kept Bernice in her Bernice box, Dad in his Dad box, and Ben in a box the size of the whole world over. I grew accustomed to the separations between us; it was easier that way.
Seeing my parents love each other had made me believe love could exist. But when even they couldn’t fix themselves, I let myself grow cold at the idea of love, stale about the heart as if it wasn’t a tangible commodity to be grasped. Sometimes I looked at Charlie and grew confused about the issue, as if love might be something real, but the moment always passed, lost between the wind and things unspoken.
It seemed Blake was a man of consistency; unless there was a holiday, what letters he sent arrived on a Thursday.
Faithful Blake.
We’d grown close in our years of letter writing, and I knew we both anticipated what the time in Ireland would have uncovered. On my first trip out there, all those years ago, Blake and I had spent as much time with his dad and grandpa as we had alone. They were warm and boisterous, ready to show off for the only female who’d ventured out to their farm in years. We’d shared numerous dinners, chats around their fireplace, and treks through the rainy fields. And then Blake and I started finding more and more excuses to go off on our own.
Of course I’d kissed him. Once upon a time, a hundred or a thousand days ago, in a cunning Irish town.
It was on my second trip to his home country, a week before I’d flown back to Omaha. We’d met up at the same pub from that very first trip, all those years ago, unplanned but seemingly by design.
It was inevitable.
I was two beers in and the quirky acoustic band had been playing for over an hour. When he tilted close, all I could hear was his throaty chuckle and taste the bitterness of his beer-laden breath. As I breathed in the scent of him—sun, sky, wind—I imagined lacing my fingers through his hair and—
He didn’t even ask, except maybe with his eyes, only moved his lips over mine. A promise, a prayer. I imagined the light and breadth of that first kiss married only with the romance of a sunset and an ocean, but there it was in the middle of a raucous pub, and it was just the sweetest thing.
It took me by surprise.
It took my words away.
It took me to places unimagined and there I remained for the rest of the night as we danced and swayed, drank beer, and nuzzled close. We stayed in our cocoon despite dozens of curious onlookers.
There lingered an understanding as his hand remained on the small of my back, and I danced against the nearness of him. We held each other until the bar closed, and he brought me back to his house. I was a breath from fainting under the persuasion of his soft, insistent kisses between the nape of my neck and the light of the half moon. We settled inside by the fireplace, talking and kissing until sunrise.
But those days were cut short and now, holding his letter in my hand, I didn’t know how to ask myself what it all meant. I only knew it mattered.
Bernice
I sat on the porch swing with Rocky, ignoring the three full loads of laundry waiting for me, exhausted from working on Reese’s project late the night before. When we’d been married all those years, Carl did the family laundry—it was a promise I’d extracted from him at the very beginning of our courtship. But far be it from me to ask that of him now. He gave me fewer glares than when I first arrived, but we weren’t exactly sharing secrets either. I found myself drifting down the what if train when the door banged open.
Reese didn’t notice me as she flew out of the house and plopped on the steps with her journal. I didn’t even know she was back from Carl’s office.
“Reese, dear, have you thought about going dairy free?”
“What?” I only could see half of her face from behind the porch post.
“Well, all you’ve been doing is sitting around with your letters and how many calories does that burn?” Reese looked a bit soft around the edges, and not the good kind of soft. I honestly thought it was the cheese—my baby had always loved her dairy—and we all sat on our derrieres over here, doting on Carl, not taking enough care of ourselves. “After all, self-care is essential to a healthy life.”
“What are you talking about?” Reese was breathtaking, this baby girl of mine, but when she was angry, her whole face looked as if it had been painted pink, and it wasn’t becoming. I’d tell her about the dangers of those brow furrows later, show her a mirror and hand her some cream, but that needed to wait.
“Dairy free. I reduced my dairy intake five years ago. My muffin top has decreased significantly.” I patted my hips and then pointed to her bum.
Her death stare told me I should switch directions.
“Maybe you and Benjamin could start running together in the mornings. Get the lungs working, those legs moving, and burn some calories.”
“Right.” She jumped up.
“Look at Mama; I know what I’m preaching. Mama doesn’t get this figure by dreaming about it all the livelong day.” I gave her a pointed look.
Reese threw up her hands in response and zoomed away. It was the fastest I’d seen her move since I’d arrived. I’m just saying a little momentum would do her a pile of good. I threw up my hands too and headed to my kitchen. It was beneath me, but maybe I would use the low-fat cream in tonight’s sauce. We were all in this together and as much as I hated it, I would play my part.
“Bernice, where’s my stuff?” Carl glowered from the kitchen doorway.
“Carl, I organized it. I spent the whole morning sorting and cleaning, and you’re welcome.”
“You—you had no right to touch it!” Carl hit the wooden frame beside him, making Rocky yelp in surprise.
“I don’t think this house has been cleaned in months.” I ignored Carl’s shaking body and turned on the oven. “It was disgusting.”
“I like it that way,” Carl roared before slamming the door behind him and sending Rocky scuttling for cover.
I enjoyed two whole minutes of peace before Reese cornered me in the pantry.
“Has anyone ever told you that you are manipulative? And selfish. And narcissistic.”
I sighed and grabbed another can of cream
of chicken soup. Can’t a Mama just put some food on the table for her babies?
“Really, when you want to talk it’s all fine and dandy, but when I have something to say, you’re suddenly short on hearing?” Her hands were on her hips and her nostrils were flared up to her pretty eyeballs. She was on her high horse, riding around like she owned the place. Neigh, neigh, neigh for all the world to hear.
I make a point to keep only pleasant things in my life, so I hummed to tune her out while she shouted, and waved her bad energy away with my free hand. “Sugar, can we do this another time? I’m on a tight schedule to get this on the table.”
“And I was on a tight schedule to grow up, but were you thinking about time then?”
She was red-faced and crazy-eyed, waving her hands and demanding answers. I started to explain myself, until I realized she didn’t actually want my answers. She wanted to hear herself yell, plowing through her grown-up vocabulary of fighting words like it was her job.
Big fancy words for my big fancy girl.
Did you see me telling her what to wear, how to think, who to be? No, ma’am, I did not. Though I did have some fashion tips I’d like to casually pass along. I’d consider it part of her inheritance. How a daughter of mine dressed like that was beyond my understanding.
“Well, sugar, I have a few things to tell you too.” I stretched into the full height of my frame.
“Oh, I can’t wait to hear this.” Reese cocked her head with a snarl.
“Okay, we’ll start with this.” I flourished my finger into her sweet, blotchy face. “Step down, baby girl. Step down.”
Reese
“Bernice is on a rampage.” I found Ben working in his room after my nuclear meltdown with our mother. “Correction: Bernice is a rampage.” With every passing day I’d grown more accepting—or maybe was it resigned—to her presence. But every other day she did her best to help me remember why I didn’t want to be in the same country as her, let alone the same city.
“Oh Reese, give it a rest.” He pushed his chair back from his desk.
“Ben, I’m not kidding. I don’t know how much longer I can handle this. I was on my way to Dad’s office yesterday, packing up some snacks, and your mother came in with a tirade about eating more green leafy substances, how I should eat less sugar. How I should exercise more. I swear, she talked for an hour straight. Here’s the kicker—she handed me a leftover container of green bean casserole to take with me. ‘Like I said, more greens.’ And then she smiled.”
“I can see where that smile would be your undoing.”
“I had a zit, one, and she said I was pretty, but the zit was distracting. As if I’d missed it. Then she printed out twelve pages of acne solutions and left them taped to my bathroom mirror.”
“Do Fred and Wilma even know how to use the printer?”
“Are you telling me it was you?”
“If this is the Spanish Inquisition, I confess nothing. I’m simply saying it would make your life, my life, easier if you let some of this go. You know, take a breath now and then. Go for a walk. Smoke a cigar. Roll your eyes. Healthy coping mechanisms. Don’t let Mom get to you so much.”
“Or we can send her packing.”
“I think that ship has sailed.”
“I caught her on my email yesterday, though she claimed she was only dusting my desk.”
“Okay, now you sound like a crazy person.”
“This morning she told me to give up dairy, as if I could ever part with my Gouda.”
“Reese, she tells me the same stuff. I think it’s part of the Code of Motherhood or something.”
“Uh, she’s not allowed to use any Code of Motherhood.” My snort was louder than I intended.
“Okay, would you prefer Mom’s caring or Dad’s indifference? I’ve personally found they balance each other out, at least on some levels.”
“I printed out twenty pages on motherhood and taped them in her pantry, on Rocky, on her mirror, in her underwear drawer. She can’t miss that.”
“Wow, I’m officially banning you from human interaction today. And that includes me. You need some Reese time and I’m going to give it to you, starting now. Remember what I said, Grasshopper, and this too shall become a thing of the past. Okay, see, there you go. Those are the eye rolls I’m talking about. Get it girl, get it.”
I shoved his shoulder and exited.
Since I needed a break from the rest of the Hamiltons, I holed myself up in the basement for the rest of the day. Rocky insisted on following me down the stairs. He barked and barked when I shut him out, so I gave up and let him into the basement with me. He followed close to my heels as I moved between the trays. Freaking annoying dog.
I balanced myself against the sink and watched the images appear in the tray before me. Though I usually listened to music while I printed, today I worked in silence. Above me, I could hear faint and intermittent sounds of the family walking around. For hours I printed some of my favorite snaps from the last few weeks. I wasn’t sure what to do with these photos; it wasn’t as if I’d ever want the one of Dad lying sick in the hospital bed hanging in my living room.
But maybe this one—shot from behind with Bernice and Dad sitting on the edge of the porch. Her head was angled toward him and she was laughing, though you couldn’t see her face at all. It was there, a bit in the motion of her shoulder, blurred with movement. They both wore hats, and the photo looked as if it could have been taken twenty years before. Back before she walked out of our lives, before Dad was, well, before everything.
I made a face at another frame of my mother sitting at the table, shoulders slumped, looking defeated. Even when I was little, Bernice and I knew how to push each other to the very brink and then beyond.
I don’t remember this, but I’d heard the story a dozen times: when I was two, I got into Bernice’s sewing basket and hid the various occupants of the kit around the living room while she was in the kitchen. She spent two hours finding it all and only at the end realized I still clutched half a dozen buttons in my hands. She demanded their return, but I only glared back at her. I’m not going to say it was Bernice’s finest hour of parenting, but I’m told the stare-down lasted an hour.
“Give me the buttons, Reese.” Again and again for those sixty minutes all gathered on end, but nothing could convince me to let them go. And Bernice wouldn’t try any other tactic but demanding and standing.
I can’t remember how it ended, only that Dad always said he had a vague memory of seeing a button in the toilet a few days later.
“I need Rocky.” Her voice floated from the basement doorway. “We’re going to run some errands.”
We all fended for ourselves for dinner, ate in our separate corners of the house, and I was on the porch when Bernice arrived home late.
“I’m going to slip on in, is anyone awake?” Her lip trembled, and I shrugged as she tiptoed into the house.
“Bernice.” The kitchen window was open, and I could hear every inch of Dad’s frustration.
“Carl, I was just going to drink a little wine.”
“Bernice, you had no right. You moved my stuff. You need…you need to go.”
“Carl.”
“I said go.”
“Carl, can we at least talk about it?”
“No.”
“You know what, yes. Yes, we can talk about it. This is what you did before. You shut down. You wouldn’t talk or listen. We are going to talk about this.” I could visualize her hands waving, her face resolute in her self-righteous anger.
Dad remained silent.
“Maybe I would have done it differently, Carl. Maybe I didn’t do it the best way. Maybe…” Her words tremored, shuddered to a stop.
There was the slam of his hand of the table. “What, Bernice, what, exactly, would you have done differently?”
There was a long pause, and I almost missed her whispered reply. “Everything.” I slid off the porch and walked into the night.
It was three d
ays before Bernice and I talked again.
We called a truce to work on a surprise in honor of Dad’s resilience against the cancer, and I headed to the car first. She got into the passenger seat and when she tried to grab my hand, I ignored her, shifting into third without a word. I cranked up the radio and concentrated on the road spanned wide in front of me.
When we were little, but old enough, Ben and I took turns riding shotgun. And, inevitably, Mom would switch to driving with her left hand so she could hold ours with her right. For miles, years, and all those errands, we rode around holding tight to that love and comfort. Her hands were soft and strong, her fingers covered in rings. We never talked about those car moments; words didn’t fit inside the perfect perimeters of that gesture. But here we were, some fifteen years later, and I wasn’t about to let her back into such a hallowed space. Not now. Not ever.
It took us two hours and four stops to find everything we needed and another hour at home to set it all up. We worked in silence and eye rolls. When we were done, we gave each other one appreciative nod before heading into the kitchen to roll out the pizza.
“I never wanted to be a mother, you know.” Her back was to me and I froze, rolling pin suspended mid-air.
“What?”
“I didn’t want kids; it was your father who decided it was time to start a family.”
“Awesome, thanks for giving me one more reason to…you know, whatever.” I took out my vexations with ruthless smacks and deep kneads of the garlicky, warm dough.
She cleared her throat, “My own mother was, well…” She turned and put her hand on my arm. I shrugged her off. She’d told me many stories through the years of her cold, distant, overworked mother.
“Whatever.”
“Reese, I wanted you when I met you. You were gorgeous, perfection. I wanted you. I just…” Her lower lip quivered, and I almost felt sorry for her. “I didn’t know how. I tried, but I didn’t know how to be a mother. I always felt like a phony, and your father—”
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