Heather readjusted her lap blanket, an elegant cashmere throw folded over her legs. A legal pad rested on the swing cushion nearby, and Amy guessed that her sister had been working on song lyrics now that she was exploring more options with her music.
“I think Mom will be too happy to see you to argue with you today, but if I hear loud voices...am I allowed to intervene?Or call for reinforcements?” Heather tapped her ballpoint pen against the wooden swing’s armrest, a small, nervous tap.
“Absolutely not.” Amy wiped clammy hands on the pockets of her jeans, more nervous than ever. “Let us hash it out. I’ll give you a debrief as soon as I recover from my visit.” She pointed to the guitar resting in a wooden stand nearby. “I saw a flyer in the consignment-shop window advertising your performance at Mack and Nina’s restaurant this weekend. I can’t wait to hear you sing again.”
“Thank you. I hope you bring Sam. And anyone else you can think of. I’ll need help filling the seats.”
“That’s not what I hear.” She’d learned from more than one source in town that Heather had the kind of voice and showmanship that would carry her as far as she wanted to go in country music. “But I’ll make sure I fill at least one table.”
She hoped it would include Sam Reyes. But would he understand her decision not to testify? He was having a hard time forgiving the mother of his own son for not informing him of her pregnancy. How harshly would he judge Amy for not being willing to testify against the man he desperately wanted to convict?
Taking her leave, Amy walked the short distance to their mother’s home. The flagstones on the path were worn just the way she remembered. The big screened-in porch still had a latch that stuck. The decor on the porch was different, though. The colors were brighter and more modern. There was a cartoon drawing of the Tastee Freez over the outdoor fireplace, the Heartache haunt rendered in bright pinks, yellows and purples.
After she’d knocked on the door, she heard her mother’s footsteps inside before the door opened. When she caughther first glimpse of Diana Finley in a gold-and-purple caftan, she was besieged by about a million impressions. Her mother seemed smaller. More fragile. Yet her face, while more lined around the eyes, seemed more relaxed around the mouth. Her dark hair had been lightened in places, probably to hide the grays. But it looked good on her.
“Amy Marie. You’re home at last.” Her mother opened her arms wide and hugged her, folding her in an unexpected embrace that made Amy’s throat painfully tight with unspoken emotions.
The scent of lemon furniture polish and patchouli clung to her clothes and hair, the smell familiar and strange at the same time. A deep, shuddering sigh huffed past Amy’s lips, and she knew already that no matter what came out of today’s conversation with her mother, she’d already defeated one old personal demon.
Her mother still loved her. And as she hugged her back, Amy realized that had been what had scared her about this meeting more than anything. The fear that connection had been broken for good.
“It’s nice to see you,” Amy told her honestly as she pulled back to study the woman in front of her, so different from the one she remembered.
But then, Diana Finley had had a nervous breakdown since then. She’d been hospitalized. On different medical treatments. She’d lost a husband. Of course she’d changed. It occurred to Amy that she may have been too hard on her parent in the same way she’d accused Sam of being too hard on Cynthia. At least Sam had a running dialogue with the mother of his son. He hadn’t closed a door between them for years on end.
The realization softened her heart toward him; that wasfor sure. It took a lot of emotional strength to forgive people who hurt you.
“I’m glad to hear that. I’ve wondered what you would have to say to me when you came home, and I have dreamed up a lot worse things over the years—I can tell you that much.” She stood away from the door and waved Amy inside. “Come in now and have a seat so we can catch up. I’ve been making peace with my children, one by one, over the last few years. But I can’t truly celebrate until you and I put to rest whatever it is I did to send you away.”
She doesn’t remember.
The knowledge shifted the ground under Amy’s feet. That fight with her mother had spurred Amy to strike out on her own—to quit school and get her GED instead of graduating with friends. She’d scrimped on a waitress’s meager salary for years to put herself through college. All because she’d been too furious with her family to take a cent of support from them.
Yet her mom didn’t even recall what had happened. It felt like Amy’s whole world had been just slightly out of focus all those years, and now, suddenly, it tilted back into clear view.
As they entered the living room, Amy noticed lots of other differences, including the addition of a hideous purple art-deco chair that her mother chose to sit in—a clear favorite flanked by books, a water glass and an open packet of mints. There were more cartoon drawings around the space, giving Amy the idea that her mother was the artist behind the local scenes depicted in vibrant colors.
Amy wondered how she’d ended up in accounting with so much creativity in her family.
“Oh crap. I should have offered you coffee or tea or something.” Her mother movedto stand again.
“No. I can help myself. Should I bring you something?” She ducked into the kitchen they’d just passed through and peered into the brown refrigerator so old it must be an antique.
Seeing it—and some of the other ancient things in the Finley home—made Amy smile to remember how hard her father had worked to keep some of those older machines going long after other people might have dragged them to the dump. Amy might not have inherited much in the way of creativity, but she had her father’s thriftiness and self-reliance.
“Maybe bring the whole pitcher of lemonade? I made it just yesterday. And there are gingersnaps, which I seem to recall?—”
“Are my favorite.” Amy still knew the cabinet where her mother kept the freshly baked cookies.
Because was there any happier memory associated with childhood than warm cookies?
Grabbing a serving plate, she balanced two paper cups on it along with the cookies, then lifted the lemonade pitcher in the other hand to rejoin her mom.
It was so strange to be here. And she was glad for the distraction of cookies and lemonade while wondering where to begin. If her mother didn’t remember, was there even any point of hauling the past back up now?
“Thank you.” Her mother had cleared a spot on the coffee table, shoving aside an open case of pencils and a stack of newspapers. “I’ll serve us, and you can dive right into your story. And don’t hold anything back, please. It helps me to process what happened better if I have the whole, unvarnished, ugly truth. My therapist is good at putting it all in perspective for me. The hope is one day I’llhave my head on straight again.” She passed Amy a cup of lemonade.
“I worked through a lot of what we argued about with my own counselor.” Still, maybe she’d never have a relationship with her mother if they couldn’t move past this. “But I can tell you that it took me a long time to share with anyone because I was...” Flattened. Unhinged. Walking wounded. “Deeply hurt.”
