‘I can’t explain it,’ I say, as we reach the landing. I check the key for a number, then nudge her to the right, down a carpeted hallway. The walls are papered here in an old floral pattern, and framed photographs of the Silver Spur through the ages line thewalls. There are pictures from its more recent history, and also from the very beginning—women in fancy dresses, men in top hats, locals having a shooting competition in front of the bar. If you look carefully, you can still see bullet marks in the ceiling from where they misfired. Apparently, as the night wore on and the whisky flowed, accuracy suffered.
Bailey takes in each of the sepia-toned photos, smiling at them, pulling out her phone and snapping a couple of pictures. I wonder if that’s for her own interest, or if she’s planning on using them in the article. She takes a lot of photos though—it could just be a habit of hers.
She stops walking when she reaches a framed image of my parents. She drops her gaze and reads the brass plaque aloud. ‘Cole and Emily Donovan were married from the church on Main West Road, then held their reception at the bar of the Silver Spur, with the entire town in attendance. The Donovan family’s association with the tavern and town is longstanding, and Emily Donovan remarked that it didn’t feel right to begin their married life anywhere else.’
Bailey moves closer to the photo, really looking at it. ‘You’re very like him,’ she says, but then, more thoughtfully, ‘Except your smile. I think your smile is all your mom’s.’
Something twists hard in my gut, and I fight an urge to turn away. To run away, more like. Even now, I can’t think of my mom without a yawning chasm growing inside me, a pain of loss I don’t know how to process. It’s not just her absence, but the fact I don’t remember her properly. For me, it’s all a construct—from stories, pictures, old home movies. Dad kept her alive in a way, talking about her every day, every night, keeping the house filled with photographs, but that just made it even worse,like I was betraying her by not being able to remember, by not knowing her.
‘This room?’ Bailey asks, businesslike again. Almost as if she senses my emotional ambivalence and wants to relieve me of it.
I nod, handing her the key. She throws me a droll expression. ‘You’re not going to come in?’
‘Yeah, I’ll show you around,’ I say, clearing my throat.
Her eyes narrow and then she moves toward me, wrapping her hands around my waist, surprising me with the contact. I close my eyes, sucking in a deep breath, tasting her sweet fragrance, relaxing into this. It’s like she knows I need it. And I don’t generally need anything from anyone.
My eyes open, shift sideways to the photo, and something twists, like a dagger in my gut. My parents’ marriage was happy. So damn happy my dad never recovered from losing her. Never got over it. I saw him struggle with that every day of his life. Even his death, I sometimes wonder, almost seems like he chose it. Like he couldn’t keep going without her. We were all grown, he’d done his job, done her proud. I sometimes think he took a risk that day because he wanted to be back by her side, in heaven.
Bailey tilts her face toward mine, and I wish she wouldn’t, because I don’t have it in me to dredge up my usual smile, and I feel like she’s seeing way more than I want her to.
‘It must be hard for you, knowing you’re doing what he didn’t want you to.’
‘Him not wanting me to was hard,’ I admit, clearing my throat again, reaching down and removing her hands, guiding her toward the door. Sometimes, people offering comfort when youreally need it is the worst thing, because it opens up all your vulnerability, makes you feel broken in ways you’d rather not. Easier to keep your walls up, smile locked in, and fake it till you make it. That’s been my guiding motto most of my life. Better to joke than cry.
‘But you seem like someone who wants his approval?’
I stare at her, and when she doesn’t move to open the door, I do it for her, reaching over, taking the big old key and pushing it into the well-worn lock.
This is one of the nicer rooms at the Spur. Heritage wallpaper meets timber floorboards, and the bed against the far wall is mahogany, with dark covers and a heap of cushions. The mirrors are authentic to the building’s age, the curtains damask like in the original photos, and there’s a working fireplace. I watch as Bailey’s eyes skid across the room, taking in the features, her expression inscrutable.
She glances up at me. ‘You’re avoiding the question.’
‘If you say so.’ I try to soften it with a smile and wink, but she holds her ground.
‘Yeah, I do.’ Her eyes probe mine for longer than I like. ‘But that’s okay. You don’t have to answer.’ She moves to the bed, does that thing where she runs her hands over the foot of it. ‘It’s not for the article. I was just wondering.’
My heart skips. I don’t know if I’m glad or not that she’s asking for her own personal interest.
‘You tell me: areyoustill seeking your dad’s approval?’
Her face shifts slightly, but her eyes don’t break away from mine. ‘In a way.’
‘In what way?’
She moves to the end of the bed, sits down, her back ramrod straight. ‘It’s complicated,’ she says, finally. ‘I guess a lot of family dynamics are. I think, as a girl, I was furious with him half the time, hurt by him, you know? For not being there. Forchoosingnot to be there. And then I was also just totally in awe of him. He’d come on the news and I’d watch, totally captivated. That wasmydad.’
I move to sit beside her, not wanting to interrupt her flow, just wanting to be close. Our knees brush and something like contentment settles over me.
‘He spent a lot of time in war zones, embedded with the military. There was nowhere too dangerous, too frightening, for him.’
Silence falls. I study her expression, wondering about how that sense of insecurity would affect a kid.
‘My mom kept it together; I wonder now what that must have cost her. She was basically a single parent, and not only that, she must have been scared out of her mind. I think, on some level, I subconsciously got how hard it was for her.’ Bailey glances across at me, her mind obviously back in the past. ‘She loved ballet. It was her thing. I probably pushed myself into it because I wanted to give that to her. I wanted it to be our special thing, that Dad wasn’t a part of.’
Her smile is cynical, but I nod slowly. ‘That makes a lot of sense. You were hurt, so you wanted to hurt him back.’
Her eyes widen, and then, she nods. ‘Yeah, something like that.’
