“Lots of things in life are, dearie, but that doesn’t mean you should immediately write them off.”
I sigh and stare at her. “Why are you always right?”
She smiles. “I observe things and that man has it bad for you. He looks at you like you hung the stars.”
“Thank you, Judith.” I start scrubbing at the same imaginary spot on the counter again.
“Listen to me, Beth Ann.” She leans across the counter as if she’s telling me a secret, the bangles on her arms creating quite a symphony. “You’re young. I don’t want you to wake up one day at my age and realize that you never followed your heart and let yourself have what you truly want.” There’s a twinkle in her eyes.
“Thank you, Judith,” I repeat. A smile tugs at the corners of my lips. I can’t stay irritated at her for long.
She settles back onto her stool. “Look, Beth, just…” she trails off, “will you promise an old woman that you’ll listen to your heart? Sooner rather than later?” she asks.
I stare at her, knowing she won’t drop it until I promise.
“Fine,” I say, letting go of the dishrag. I hold my right hand in the air as I swear, “I promise.”
“Good. Now,” she says as she smiles and reaches for my hands. She takes them between hers and pats them. “How about an omelette?”
I toss my head back with a laugh and then turn to the kitchen window. I get Brian’s attention and relay Judith’s usual order.
“Coming right up!” he yells before getting back to work.
I turn back to Judith in time to see her sly smile before she takes another bite of Thea’s brownie.
Her words repeat in my head, and deep down, I know my heart wants Charlie.
Chapter Four
Ihave the dream again. In it, I re-live the accident that claimed my mother’s life. Only this time, no one comes to save us. I watch as she slowly bleeds out in front of me, as she gasps her last breaths away, like a fish out of water. I keep screaming and screaming until there’s no sound left at all, but no one can hear me. We’re alone and no one comes to help.
I wake up in a cold sweat, gasping for breath and clutching the bedsheets underneath me. My eyes adjust to the darkness and I loosen my grip on the sheets; they’re bunched beneath my fists. My heartbeat is racing as I shift to the side of the bed and stare out the window at the dark beach. I focus on my breathing to try and calm myself down. I’m surprised I didn’t wake Beth up byactually screaming. Thunder claps in the distance and then, a strike of lightning appears, illuminating the night sky.
It was just a dream,I tell myself.
I’ve been having the same dream but with different variations for a while now. In them, the end result is always the same. I haven’t told Beth about them. I don’t want her to worry about me, at least, not anymore than she already does.
As much as I am enjoying my new life in Driftbay, the cost of it is not lost on me.
Some days I would do anything to turn back the clock. To have stayed home that day instead of dragging Mom out of the house. I think that’s part of where my guilt comes from. Our excursion that fateful day was my idea. I wonder if she would still be alive if we had just stayed home. I’ve run away from Seattle and don’t want to revisit, knowing it would be too painful to reopen those wounds. There are just moments when part of me wishes I could go back. A lot of the time I wish I could go back to being a kid. This is one of those times.
I was scared of thunderstorms as a child and I would give anything right now to be able to run into my mom’s room and crawl into bed with her. To feel her wrap her arms around me, tell me it’s all okay and going to be alright, and comfort me back to sleep.
But instead, I’m across the country, dreaming of her ghost.
The tears are silently streaming down my face as I look out the windows. My grief is like the ocean sprawled out in the distance. Calm at times, but it can also be raging, tumultuous, and hazardousdepending on conditions. It ebbs and flows but it will pull me under if I get swept up in it.
Taking a shaky breath, I dry my face with my hands and wipe them on my leggings before I get up and make my way to the kitchen. Baking has become a nightly routine. I can fold and stir and whisk my feelings into whatever I’m concocting. It helps, taking those big, scary, overwhelming feelings and compacting them into something small and delicious.
I didn’t sleep for three days straight after the accident. I think it was shock. Instead, I baked around the clock. I sent Ireland to the grocery store countless times whenever I’d run out of eggs or vanilla extract or anything else. I didn’t know what to do with the grief that consumed me so instead I turned it into something I could hold. Something I could give other people. Something I could set down and walk away from. I didn’t stop baking until Beth physically made me stop.
I open my bedroom door and listen for any sounds of her rumbling around the house. I’m always scared I’ll wake her up, but it seems I’m in the clear. I quietly pad down the hallway toward the kitchen and flip the light on. It springs to life in the sudden brightness and I squint as my eyes adjust. The clock above the stove reads 1:32 a.m. I don’t have a ton of time before Beth gets up for the morning shift so I decide to make something easy. A recipe I know by heart — my mother’s favorite cake.
I retrieve the ingredients from the pantry and fridge and fall into auto-pilot mode as I work. What I would give to bake it again forher, to sing Happy Birthday in a horrendous off-key tone, and hear her laughter. The kitchen fills with the scent of artificial strawberries as the cake bakes, but to me, it’s the sweetest scent I’ve ever known. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine she’s in the room with me, just within my grasp. I want to cry again, thinking of birthdays past, grateful I made them into celebrations when Mom didn’t really want the attention.
While the cake bakes, I wash the dishes. The warm, soapy water feels comforting as I scrub at the mixing bowl. It makes me think of my childhood — Mom hated washing dishes so we ate mostly on paper plates when I was little. When I got older and could take on chores around the house, dishes became my duty. I’ve never minded them.
The timer rings to let me know that the cake is done baking. I pull it out of the oven, the steamy strawberry essence flooding my senses, hugging me. I set the cake pan on the counter and stare at it, thinking about all the love and heartache that I’ve baked into it.
