Page 1 of Autumn on My Mind

Every autumn, the earth exhales.

She is tired from her comings and goings, from the stagnant, oppressive heat of summer that still lingers. So she returns to her home and sighs with relief at the cool breeze on her skin—she breathes deeply of the crisp air scented with bonfire smoke and a hint of rain. She brews a mug of hot cider and makes herself warm and comfortable, pulls over herself the blanket of leaves that have begun to fall until she’s tucked in cozily.

She might stay awake and read a book. She might watch the glowing hearth and dream of her outstretched future. She might simply go to sleep.

But every autumn, the earth will rest.

I have a new roommate, and that roommate is my mother.

As I’m sure you’d expect, my feelings about this arrangement are mixed. I love my mother, of course. But while it’s one thing to have her living in the same house as me, it’s quite another to have her in the same room.

My life growing up here in Autumn Ridge was pretty good, honestly. My older brother and I got along well; we still do. My mom has never been the most maternal, and she’s a difficult woman, but I think she loves me in her own way. And my dad? He was awesome. The best. He was the heart and soul of our family. The anchor.

But he passed away before I went to college, and we were left operating on a skeleton crew. We muddled along, figured things out—or didn’t—and now here we find ourselves eight years later: all the Berkeleys back in town, in the same house where we lived with my dad. The house where Nathan and I grew up, where I learned to ride a bike and went on my first date and cried over my first heartbreak.

Except because Nate stayed here when I went off to school and my mother moved to the city, now that we’re back we’ve had to adjust to the way Nate kept things. Which means the master suite is now Nathan’s, his old room contains not beds but exercise equipment, and my old room is where my mother and I have been relegated.

My mother’s silky negligee is draped over the footboard of the bed across from mine. I simply cannot unsee such things. But I know there will be more to come.

I know this because I know my mother.

So, without further ado, I would like to present to you a sample list of advice I’ve received over the years from the esteemed Alvina Lucinda Berkeley:

“Never trust a man with a toupee, sweetheart. You don’t know what else he might be hiding.” Alvina changed after my dad died. She’s currently divorced from Post-Dad Husband Three, with each wedding ring having been shinier and gaudier than the last. It is therefore my assumption that this particular snippet of advice comes from personal experience, although I will never ask, so the world may never know.

“A vodka a day keeps the gloomies away!” I actually don’t drink, so I had and still have no response for this. I can tell you, though, that Alvina’s favorite drinks are (in order) vodka cranberry, Chardonnay, and scotch on the rocks. I don’t pretend to understand.

And finally, one last, admittedly relevant piece of wisdom Alvina felt moved to bestow upon me, her darling daughter:

“Berkeleys are criers, dear. Always wear waterproof mascara.” This tip was imparted over the top of her ritzy drink menu in the cafe where she forced me to accompany her for brunch. It also came as a surprise, because Alvina was still married to Post-Dad Husband Three at the time and was therefore not a Berkeley. After telling me this, she told me to sit up straight and asked what I was planning to do about my acne flareup, which until that point I hadn’t even noticed.

I straightened up when my mother criticized my posture. I bought a box of pimple patches off of Amazon that evening before bed. But I let her advice about waterproof mascara go in one ear and out the other.

I should have listened.

The music in the Maple Bar blares loudly, surround sound that drills into my skull from all angles. It’s tempting to bang my head against the smooth waxed wood of the bar in front of me, but I don’t, mostly because I already have a migraine. It’s pounding behind my left eye, like someone is gouging out my eyeball with a plastic spoon—a thud, thud, thud in time to the music.

Instead I press my cheek to the cool surface and let my lids flutter closed, trying to mitigate the near-tears situation I have going on.

I’m not even sad or angry or scared. Just exhausted and overwhelmed by yet one more thing being added to my plate. If Alvina were here to see me slumped over like this, she’d be disappointed in me.

Alvina is always disappointed in me.

I inhale deeply as my mind flits and wanders, taking comfort in the familiar smell of maple that permeates the bar. Autumn Ridge is home to the Carver Maple Farm, so a lot of our small town specializes in maple products—including most of the cocktails here.

I don’t need my maple syrup in a cocktail, personally. I’d just drink it straight from the bottle, or maybe a thermos—me and a cozy sweater and a flannel blanket, curled up with my syrup and a book on the porch of the house I grew up in.

I’m joking. Mostly.

Another deep breath helps to steady me further, and I force myself to sit up. I can take exactly—I glance at the neon-rimmed clock on the wall—ten minutes to feel gloomy. Only ten. After that my mother will arrive, because an hour ago she asked me to meet her here, saying she wants me to “meet someone.”

In her language, that means she’s dating again.

The desire to bang my head against the bar top returns, and I groan.

“You’re too young to be making that expression, Miss Reese,” comes a voice to my left, and I look over to find Hal, the bartender who’s worked here as long as I can remember. He’s in his sixties with sparkling eyes and a quick smile, the kind of man who can put anyone at ease. He remembers everyone’s names and oftentimes their usual orders, too.

“Hi, Hal,” I say wearily.