“Whew, honey,” a female voice called from behind me. “You look exhausted.” I turned around to see Erica’s mother, Debbie, standing behind me, wearing the concerned-mom expression that I’d only seen in movies.
“Hey, Mrs. Lee. I’m extremely exhausted.”
“Well, you’re working around the clock on the festival, at thediner, on the farm…” She ticked off my growing list of responsibilities on her fingers. “You need to make time for rest.”
“I rest,” I replied a little too quickly. She chuckled and patted me on the shoulder.
“You remind me so much of your mother.” She sighed. My ears perked up as my hunger and exhaustion were forgotten.
“I do?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
“Well, besides the fact that you look exactly like her when she was your age”—she raised an eyebrow—“your mother was always busy doing something. There wasn’t a minute in the day that she couldn’t fill with some activity or project.” I couldn’t suppress the smile that spread across my lips because the person she was describing sounded exactly like my mother.
“She was smart and pretty and the kindest person you’d ever meet. So generous with her time. And she was a great listener. She always gave me the best advice when we were growing up. I didn’t think a problem existed that your mother couldn’t figure out how to solve.” My brow furrowed in confusion becausekindandgreat listenerdefinitely weren’t descriptors I would use when talking about my mother.
“I think that’s why she became a doctor. She talked about it all the time. One year for her birthday, your grandfather got her this toy doctor’s kit with a plastic stethoscope, and she was so disappointed because it wasn’t the real thing.” She let out a chuckle. “Well, your grandfather went right out and bought her a real one, and, baby, she wore that thing everywhere. I mean, everywhere. Even to church.”
My mind whirred as Mrs. Lee’s words triggered a memory.
“Was it red?” I interrupted her midsentence. “I’m sorry, but the stethoscope, was it red?”
“You know what?” she mused, and her smile widened. “It was red. I remember because it was the same color as her wagon. She would pull around baby animals, other kids, and even her stuffed animals. She called it her ambulance.” She chuckled and shook her head. “Why do you ask?”
“My mother has an old red stethoscope framed and hanging in her office. I never knew why it was there, and I never asked.”
“Well, I say that makes a whole lot of sense.” Her smile faded and we were silent for a few moments.
“Were you… close to my mother?” I asked. I’d always wondered about my mother’s childhood, but she never wanted to talk about it. The only thing she’d ever told me was that she’d always wanted to be a doctor and had worked as hard as she could to achieve that goal. That was never the answer I wanted. Since I couldn’t get it from the source, someone who grew up with her was the next best option.
“I was very close to your mother. We were like sisters.”
“Like sisters?”
“Mm-hmm.” She nodded and hooked her arm into mine, and we began to stroll down the deserted hall of the school. “We were both only children, and my father used to work on your grandparents’ farm. We were thick as thieves.”
“So what happened?”
“Well, Erica’s dad was my high school sweetheart, and after graduation we got married and started having babies. Your mom never had plans of staying in town. She’d worked her tail off in classes, applied for every grant and scholarship she could find. Then, as soon as summer was over, she was off to Spelman, then Northwestern. Along the way, she met your dad, had Annie, then you.”
“You never saw her again?”
“No, it wasn’t that dramatic.” She chuckled and patted my hand. “When people’s priorities change, they tend to grow apart. We kept in touch for years, and of course, she’d come home to visit every chance she got. She never missed a Harvest Festival, even if she was parked in a corner reading a book.”
“So what happened?”
“I suspect—well, I know it was all that ugliness around poor Annie’s illness. I’m not sure who suffered more.” She let out a sigh. “That little girl’s illness was something your mother couldn’t solve with logic or studying. I think it took a heavy toll on her. I wouldn’t know, though. After her falling-out with your grandparents, she stopped coming to town. Our phone calls slowed down, and when little Annie passed away, they stopped completely.”
“Do you know why they had a falling-out?”
“I have my suspicions, but that’s not my story to tell.” She gave me a sad smile and patted my arm.
“Are you the one person in this town who doesn’t gossip?” I asked in an attempt to lighten the mood.
“Oh, honey, I’m always in the mood for a giant, steaming cup of tea.” She chuckled. “But some things are meant to be shared. Some things are meant to be kept within families. Have you tried talking to your mother?”
I let out a mirthless chuckle, but I didn’t answer her. She smoothed a comforting palm along my back, telling me that she had her answer. We took a few steps in silence before she stopped in front of a giant display case.
“Here we are,” she whispered and gently turned me to face thecase. I was greeted with a large photo of myself, but it wasn’t quite me. The girl in the picture had hair that was much shorter, but also bigger—and I would never wear blue eyeshadow. Next to the photo of my teenage mother was a plaque bearing the name of some award she’d won. There were also trophies, ribbons, and newspaper clippings. I spun around to face Mrs. Lee.
