She leaned back, lips pursed. It meant I was about to get some insightful words. Pops always joked he could tell when she was about to rock his world. First the lips, then the folded hands. It was when she leaned forward and locked eyes that I could feel her preparing a wallop.
“Seamus?” She raised an eyebrow. “Bobby and Laurel?”
The walls came slamming down. “Who talked?”
“Walter.” I should have guessed. He and his platonic life mate had watched us the entire day. “He said you’re really getting through to those kids.”
“And?” Her head cocked to the side, confused by the question. “What other insights did he offer?”
“Charles.” Her tone softened. “Why are you so afraid to connect with people?”
It stung that she didn’t understand my reservations. She and Pops had spent many nights assuring me that everything would be okay. Had she forgotten? Forgiven? It was better than thinking she never understood the way Firefly tormented me, leaving me no option but to leave.
“I can’t forgive this town—these people—for what they did to me. Everybody else might have moved on, but?—”
I stopped when she shook her head. “Not forgotten…neverforgotten.” She reached across the table, beckoning for my hand. I surrendered, and she clutched my fingers. “They were mean. Downright cruel. You survived the best you could. You ran, and we let you go.”
I hadn’t given them notice. A month after graduation, I discovered a friend lived in Boston and offered me a room. It turned into an apprenticeship. I announced it as if it were no big deal. There were tearful goodbyes, but not once did Mum or Pops beg me to stay. They had been brave… for me. Remembering her face that night, my chest tightened, and my throat closed.
I wanted to whisper, “I’m sorry,” but the words caught in my throat. I ran and never looked back. They were part of the past I tried to outrun, and in the process, I shattered the relationship with the two people who always stood in my corner. I did what I needed to survive, but after Pops passed, regret set in.
“You did what you had to do.”
I couldn’t tell if her words were for her or for me. Her eyes held a mix of sorrow and longing. I returned out of obligation, counting down the days until I left. Was I the only one still holding a grudge? Did I wield the anger like armor, trying to keep people from getting close?
“If only Pops could see you now.”
“I wish—” I let go of her hand, leaning back in my chair. I wiped the tears with the back of my hand. “I wish he could have gotten to know me.”
“He knew you.” Her words didn’t have room for doubt. In the spiritual sense, sure, he could watch over me now. There were a thousand stories I could have shared with him. Instead, the photos on the mantle were all of a child who didn’t exist anymore.
Mum got up and, without a word, walked into the living room. I turned in my chair to watch her through the doorway as she pulled one of her scrapbooks off the shelf. Her boot thumped as she returned, dropping the book in front of me.
Covered in bright red fabric, the window in the center had a photo of the three of us. I recalled the trip to Cadillac Mountain. A summer vacation affair, all three of us stood in front of Thunder Hole, a natural formation that caused the waves to shoot into the air. With them, the smile on my face had been genuine. Firefly Valley was nothing more than a dot on the map. They were home.
She moved to the stove as the teakettle whistled.
Along the bottom of the scrapbook, cutout letters spelled my name. Charles. I cracked open the cover, prepared for a trip down memory lane. Had this been one of Mum’s scrapbooking projects she worked on with the other ladies? I expected a makeshift baby book.
As I saw the first photo, my heart pushed into my throat.
Instead of a birth certificate, the first page had a photo from the shop’s social media. It was the announcement of me joining my first shop as an apprentice. Beneath it, the article with my name highlighted.
I turned the page to see a photograph of the first tattoo convention I joined as a guest artist. There were a dozen photos pulled from online, showing me inking attendees. As I continued flipping, I found every article about me and the shop. Even the post they made about me leaving, wishing me well when we opened our own.
“You made this?”
“Your father did.” She chuckled. “He’s the reason I started scrapbooking. He’d make us drive all the way to Bangor to stop by the craft store.”
I stared in disbelief. Not at the scrapbooking, that didn’t shock me. He had a creative soul and found interesting ways to express himself. While I lived my life, he had been silently watching, documenting every accomplishment. For all those years, they hid in the background, cheering me on.
“We’re not techies. Tyler had to help us. He has a Finsta, whatever that is. Whenever your father returned one of his western novels, Tyler would have a stack of papers for him. I think it’s the only reason he read so much.”
She poured the water as if it were no big deal. Dropping in her teabags, she thumped her way over, kissing me on the top of my head.
“You grew up to be a wonderful man.” She squeezed my shoulder. “We’ve always been proud of you.” She made her way back to the living room, just in time to catch the nightly news feature story.
Left alone, I stared at a photo of Sammy, Malcom, and me in our underwear. Debuting the shop, we had strutted around showing off our ink. Everybody boldly flexed, making us looklike a trio of fools. Tucked in the spine of the book, a photo hung loose, yet to be glued to the page.
