I welcome the dose of six-year-old humor into theconversation. It keeps everything from being too tense, too awful.
Mom changes the topic, asking Everly how her week was at school. I say nothing, listening as Everly recounts an altercation near the swing set, and how she overheard the principal say a bad word. Vivi tells us she’s doubling down on efforts to source as many local ingredients as possible, and in doing so has cut a deal with the Hayden Cattle Company. She will exclusively use their beef, in exchange for a discount off her cost. Aunt Carmen reads us her latest obituary, further lightening the mood (as weird as that sounds). Knox and Everly don’t understand any of it, but they know to laugh when we do, one second late and somehow still on time. I love these family dinners, but despite how bright and fun they are, there’s always a bit of a shadow. A dark lining around the picture we make, reminding us who is missing.
After dinner is over and I’ve cleaned up the kitchen, I snag a bottle of beer from the fridge. I pass through the living room on the way to the back porch, where Vivi is snuggled up on the couch watching a movie with Knox and Everly. Everly takes notice of the bottle and promptly informs me, "My dad says beer is bad for you."
Tell your dad it also wasn't a good idea to poke his admin in the whiskers while he was married.
"Thank you for letting me know," I respond diplomatically, then continue on my way.
The back porch has a spectacular west-facing view, and this time of year, the sky holds onto the sunset with afierce grip. Tonight it's showing off an expanse of magenta and orange, a fiery red around the edges.
I settle in one of the outdoor chairs, take it all in. How the grove goes as far as the eye can see. Olive trees, rows upon rows, acres upon acres of gnarled trunks and rounded crowns.
Home. I missed this place while I was gone. First to college, and then after to train for the Olympics, staying with my coach in Denver, and then San Diego. I enjoyed the other places while I was there, the majesty of the Rocky Mountains, the sparkling blue Pacific Ocean. But little compares to the riotous colors of a setting sun filtered through the olive branches.
The screen door snaps shut, breaking my reverie. My mother sinks into the open seat beside me. She holds a glass of Vivi's red wine.
"What has your eyebrows pinched?" she asks.
"They aren’t pinched," I argue.
She reaches over, smoothes them out with two fingers like she's zooming in on a phone screen. "Not anymore."
"Just appreciating the beauty," I say, gesturing straight out with the bottom of my bottle.
Mom looks out with me. "And considering how your mother could possibly want to open up a dialogue with a true crime podcaster?"
I breathe a laugh, tapping the side of my bottle against the arm of my chair. "I suppose."
"All these years I’ve been saying no, but I’m not sure if that was a mistake."
I look up sharply, trying to understand how she could say that. Back then she was protecting us, and herself.
"It's been a long time since everything happened." She sits back, adjusting her long, flowing skirt. "I see now what I couldn’t then. I tried hard to shield you as best I could, not understanding no matter what I did, the effects of what happened to your father would be far reaching."
I shake my head at her, digging through her words to uncover what it is she’s really saying.
She continues. “Your sister married her first boyfriend, even though he was all wrong for her. She wanted to create a home like the one she had lost. And you?" Her eyebrows lift.
"You are busy achieving great things, and keeping every woman you meet at arm's length."
My mouth drops open in surprise.
"Oh yes," my mother says, chuckling softly to herself. "I pay attention."
"Mom," I start, needing to defend myself at least a little. "It's damn near impossible for me to have a relationship. Confiding in a woman about what happened to Dad is a recipe for relationship disaster. Some of them are too curious, and for others it kicks in an odd kind of maternal instinct, and they start wanting to take care of me. Fix me.” I’m not broken, and I don’t need to be fixed, thank you very much.
My mother has always been a good listener, an attribute she still has to this day. Her head nodded along while I was speaking, and even now she says nothing, gazing out over the land.
When enough time has passed that I think maybe she will drop it, she says, "Talk to this woman, for me."
"Mom—"
Her hand covers mine, silencing me. “It’s been a long time, Hugo. Maybe it’s ok to talk about him. About what happened.” She sighs into the open spring air. "Maybe I never should have silenced you."
I shake my head. "Don't do that, Mom. Don't blame your past self. You can't change any of it."
"Fine," she answers, sipping her wine. "I won't blame my past self, if you agree to step into the future with me."
