Page 48 of In Your Wake

“To say the least,” Hunter adds.

“Well, I need to figure something out. I can’t just leave it to her. She’s acting like she’s ready to close it all down.”

“I don’t think she is,” Hunter argues. “She organized that cross-promotion with the brewery, after all.”

“That’s true.” I still don’t get why Maxine would go through the effort of trying to promote the inn, of winning future guests, when she’s telling me it’s a lost cause. Is she telling me not to bother because she doesn’t want me anywhere near it?

“That explains his aura,” Hunter says to Spencer, and they both share a laugh.

Their playful ribbing brings back the familiar ease I’ve always felt around them. Soon, we’re all laughing together, like old times, and even if it’s at my expense, these days I’ll take all the laughter I can get.

10

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

Mitch

A week later and I’ve almost grown used to the smell of antiseptic in the house.

As quietly as possible, I walk downstairs, but the last steps squeak under my weight. The living room feels cold, almost sterile, and I realize the house is in a losing battle against the morbid tang of cancer that clings to everything. It all seems tired, like even the walls are giving up. Or it could be that I am projecting how I feel after a shitty night’s sleep.

Turns out everyone’s already awake. Dad sits slumped in his recliner, oxygen tubing hooked under his nose, chest rattling with every breath. His hands tremble when he lifts his mug, and half of it sloshes back into the saucer when he puts it down.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters when he spots me standing in the doorway. “Can’t even drink anymore.”

“Doctor said small sips,” I say, wanting to help, but knowing he’ll tell me not to bother.

“I know what the doctor said.” He glares at me, but says nothing and turns his attention outside, to the rising sun, his eyes sharp despite the gray creeping into them.

We lapse into the kind of silence that I’ve only ever found around him. We’ve never been good at talking, and the years apart have only made it worse. For me, too many things lay buried that my pride won’t let me say. For him, I’m sure those things are buried under deep disappointment.

I adjust his blanket anyway, and he actually lets me without criticism or comment, then I feel Mom hovering in the doorway. She’s hugging herself tight as if she’s holding herself together. I offer her a smile that she returns, albeit weakly. Every day she looks thinner than the last, and today’s no different with her hair pulled back in a no-nonsense knot and her eyes red-rimmed but dry.

“Why don’t you let him rest,” she whispers, but Dad waves her off.

“I’ll rest when I’m dead.” His meek attempt at a laugh is met with a glare from Mom and me. “Tough crowd,” he adds, then nods. “Go talk to your mother.”

I leave him grumbling and follow Mom into the kitchen. As if for the first time since I’ve been back home, I finally take it all in. The chipped white cabinets and the loose door handles from decades of use. Mom’s standing on the same braided rug by the sink that Maxine and I spilled grape juice on. She never replaced it, only scoured it until the stain faded. Like so many things from my past we’ve attempted to scrub clean, but failed. A flash of Maxine comes to mind, of her sitting on the counter, stealing chocolate chips while my mom made pancakes.

Sunlight filters through the narrow window over the sink, dancing across the counter, catching dust motes. It hits a photo on the fridge of me and the boys, and Max, grinning like idiots, arms slung around each other. I was fifteen.

I rub a hand down my face as Mom pulls out two mugs. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

I lean against the counter. “Why her?” I ask bluntly.

She doesn’t flinch. “Sit,” she orders.

I take a seat at the table and remember where Max used to sit with her knees tucked under her, chewing on the tip of her pencil while she tutored me in algebra. I can almost hear her bright, unhindered laugh. That laugh I used to hear constantly before things got complicated. Before betrayal became the word I use when the word hurt is insufficient.

“She’s earned it,” Mom answers, pouring coffee into the mismatched cups. “More than you realize.”

“She lied,” I say. “She knew about the affair and didn’t tell us.”

Mom stills, then puts the coffeepot down. “She was a child.”

“I was too. That’s not an excuse.”

Slowly, she brings the cups to the table. “Maxine carried that secret as if it was somehow her fault. She did what she thought was best. I don’t blame her, so neither should you.” She sits beside me. “After all, that mess affected me more than it ever did you,” she adds with an unusually sharp glare. “And she’s been paying for that secret every day since.”