Oh? “The wine in your store?”
She takes a bite of her casserole. “They run a winery in Tennessee they’ve owned for a decade now. I sell their wine at the store. It’s the only reason I do, actually. People love it. Since they lived in Baker most of their lives, they feel connected to the story.”
“That’s beautiful.”
“Yeah. Our little town is magical.”
“I grew up in Baker too,” I reply. It’s the first time in years I’ve brought up the town where I grew up. I’ve had my same therapist for years, so I don’t have to rehash some of the past and the details often. It doesn’t mean we only move forward; the reality is quite the contrary. For every step forward, there’s two back, one to the side and a couple leaps, hops, and falls.
“Did you?”
“Mm-hmm. We moved away when I was twelve.” I know it’s coming, the questions and the topic I’ve been skirting around this whole time. I know if I tell her I don’t want to talk about it, she won’t press, but I kind of do want to talk about it.
With her.
“Is that when you thought your dad passed? Is that why you moved?”
I slide my fingers over the table, pushing my almost empty plate aside. With a loud exhale, I say, “Yes. I remember the day vividly. I got home from school, and my mom was waiting for me outside the house by the bus stop. I couldn’t remember the last time she did that. She was usually inside busy with one of her million homemaker tasks. ‘The house chores never end, Holdie,’ she always used to say.”
“She’s not wrong. There’s always something to clean, wash, or put away. It’s never ending. And when you think you’re finally done, you drink water, and now there’s a dirty cup again.”
I chuckle softly, quietly carrying more than joy and sorrow with it. “Oh, I know. I live alone, so I can only imagine how much there is to do when you add a kid or two.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
“You know, my sister and I had about the same age difference as your girls. Liz was born when I was thirteen, and I did everything I could to help around the house. I got very acquainted with the never-ending chores.”
I breathe out, letting the memory of my little sis invade me. She was practically my baby. I know not really, but I loved her as if she was mine. My mom and I raised her, and although I was a kid myself, I grew so fast in those years. When I lost her, it was like losing a giant part of myself.
“Back to the story. Mom was waiting for me, smiling sadly. She said we needed to go for a ride and to not ask questions. She said she was really sad, and she didn’t want to talk about it yet, but that we needed to go for a few days.”
Now I’m the one taking a sip of my water. “I still remember it like it was yesterday. The confusion and the fear. My mom never babied me, and I was twelve, so I could tell something was wrong. Dad was an alcoholic and very neglectful, very demanding, but he never put hands on her or on me, so I washoping it wasn’t that. Eventually, we made it to her friend’s house in Lake City, where we stayed for years.”
“What happened?”
“She left him. She finally had enough. She didn’t tell me that, though. She told me he died. And a few weeks later, she told me she was having a baby. His baby. I never questioned why we didn’t have a funeral or why we had to leave the only place we knew. As time passed, I understood the entire town was tainted by memories of their time together, both happy and sad. It was too much when she was trying to start over.”
“And then he showed up?” Natalie is listening and asking the exact question I need in order to continue, without casting judgment or pity, both things I hate. She’s asking for more information as she quietly guards each answer with her heart.
I drag my hand over my hair, forgetting I had styled it this morning and completely disheveling it. It seems like lately, my hair is always looking like a damn mess either way. I don’t know why I ever try.
Oh, but I know, because of her. Same reason why I’ve kept my glasses on more than usual. I don’t want to miss a single detail. Without my glasses, I wouldn’t be able to count the three freckles that rest right at the corner of her eyes or the way her skin goes from fair to ten shades of red as soon as she’s feeling something.
Anything.
She carries her emotions on her face, her expressions showing it all, and suddenly, I want to see how she looks when she’s showing me how I can make her feel. I’ve thought about other women before, but not in the way Ineedto find out how Natalie looks when I’m making her feel good. I’m fucked, lost in my head now.
“He showed up at their funeral. I thought I was losing it, but I saw his eyes, and I knew it was him. They look like mine,even that day, when we both looked like sap dragging painfully slow down a tree trunk.” I exhale again, shaking my head remembering that day. How numb I was. How upset, how angry, how sad, and how guilty I felt—and then he showed up.
“It wasn’t my greatest moment, and I all but punched him. I told him to leave me alone. Through the years, he has tried to contact me, but it wasn’t until a few months ago when he mentioned he was sick that I entertained the idea of talking. And you know the rest.”
She wipes another tear away. This one carries sorrow and companionship. Companionship for me and my hurt and my pain. I don’t feel alone right now for the first time in years—she not only hears me, but she can feel me too.
And then, the overwhelming-ness of all of it invades me again. Because no matter how perfect she seems, how perfect I know she is, I’m not. All I’ve learned from life is that when I want something bad enough to go for it, I end up losing something else instead.
I wanted a happy family, but I had to lose my father to get it.
I wanted to excel at school, and once I did, Mom lost her job, and I had to pick up a part time gig.
