Page 87 of Autumn on My Mind

I blink a few times to get rid of the stinging at the corner of my eyes, and my pumpkin roll returns crystal clear in my vision. I memorize every crumb and then move my gaze to the empty spot where my potato casserole used to be. We’re all still silent, but there are words dancing on my tongue, begging to be let out, pushing⁠—

Until it becomes painfully clear in my mind, and in my heart, that nothing is more important than what I must say right now, at this very moment. She needs to know; she has to know. Mothers have to be able to feed their young. They have to.

So I speak.

“I don’t like turkey,” I say faintly. “I’ve never liked turkey.”

Another second of silence, and then Alvina lets out an uncomfortable laugh. “Well, really,” she says. “How am I to know⁠—”

“You’re my mother,” I cut her off, barely able to speak past the knot in my throat and the weight on my chest. My bones are cracking, my heart infected and inflamed, and my body shakes in a way I don’t understand—my fight-or-flight frantic in the face of the one person who should be safe.

But it’s occurring to me, in this moment, that maybe it isn’t enough that she tried.

“You’re my mother,” I repeat, and my voice tremors now as the words tumble forth, scattered and broken. “In the wild—the birds. They regurgitate worms for their chicks. They know what their babies eat.”

I stand up without waiting for a reply; the motion is jerky, even awkward. I hesitate only briefly before grabbing my plate, which still contains my pumpkin roll, and then I nod aimlessly.

“I need to go,” I say to no one in particular. “Have a good evening.”

And I leave.

I don’t mean to walk all the way back to Dominic’s. I mean to go to my car. But when I arrive at the parking lot, my legs continue to carry me, and so I let them—down the side of the road, another fallen leaf being carried by the wind. I become aware maybe halfway that someone is following me in the darkness, an echoing set of footsteps, but a quick glance at the shadowy figure reveals Dom’s stature, his easy walk, his hands shoved in his pockets.

Distant but watchful, he follows me all the way home.

It occurs to me, on Friday morning as I start my third maple bar in a row, that my coping mechanisms might need some work.

I’m not even hungry anymore; I’m just giving myself a stomachache.

So I sigh and then tuck the maple bar back into its white paper bag, standing up. The bench swing I’ve been sitting on sways slightly, and the pumpkin patch is so quiet today that I actually hear the creaking of the chains.

The Homecoming parade is currently happening on Main; the marching band is faint but audible even from here. On Monday the schools will open again and fall break will be over, which means things will slow down at Bugelbach’s except for on weekends. Joe hasn’t decided if he wants to change our weekday hours yet, but if he does, I’ll need to pick up some more online work to make up for it.

I debate going all the way to my car to stash the remaining donut there, but ultimately I tuck it in a corner of the corn dog stand instead. My phone is burning a hole in my pocket the entire time, but I don’t pull it out.

I’m hiding. Not forever—just until I figure out what I’m going to say.

Because I haven’t talked to Dom or my mother since last night. I haven’t seen either of them, apart from the silent vigil Dominic kept behind me as I walked home. And I’m not sure how I’ll feel when I do speak to either of them, after the things I said and the things that were revealed at the potluck.

It would be stressful to have three missed calls from Alvina on my phone when I finally check. But it might be sadder to have none. So I’ve spent the morning training myself to be okay with either of those options.

I guess, overall, I’m less worried about Dom. It’s humiliating, knowing that he now knows I doodled his name in my school notebooks. He didn’t even know who I was. But my embarrassment has lessened overnight, possibly overshadowed by my outburst toward Alvina.

Dominic is safe for me. He’s never malicious or careless. He’s made mistakes in the past—but so have I, and even then, our intentions toward each other were always good.

It’s my mother who could cut me to the bone. And the question I found myself asking last night is still swirling through my head, leaving painful tracks everywhere it goes.

At one point do intentions cease to matter? At what point do results become more important?

Dom would say we passed that point with my mother years ago. He doesn’t understand.

The thing is…my understanding is beginning to waver, too.

Because I’ve never actually bought into that saying—The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Intentions matter a lot to me. But Alvina’s good intentions still ended up hurting like hell.

From that, I can only conclude that meaning well is not the same as doing good.

It’s a sticky bit of logic to wade through, when my emotions are grasping at me from all sides and trying to pull me down.