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“Yeah, sure,” I say, frowning. Really, all I can think about is my mother. “That’s a great idea. ”
* * *
All afternoon, I pace in my apartment, trying to think clearly.
My mother is living in one of the two houses I inherited from my grandmother; the house I have never been able to sell because it is across the street from the Mularkeys. This means that if I go to talk to her, I have to go back to the place where Kate and I met, where my whole life changed on a starry night when I was fourteen years old.
And I have to either take Marah with me or leave her alone. Neither choice seems particularly appealing. I am charged with watching her like a hawk, but I don’t want her to see this meeting with my mother. Too often our reunions have been either humiliating or heartbreaking.
“Tully?”
I hear my name and turn. I think, vaguely, that Marah has called me before, but I can’t be sure. “Yes, honey?” Do I look as distracted as I feel?
“I just heard from Ashley. A bunch of my high school friends are going to Luther Burbank beach park today for a picnic and waterskiing and stuff. Can I go?”
Relief comes in a sweet rush. It is the first time she has asked to spend time with her old friends. It is the sign I have been waiting for. She is returning to her old self; softening. I move toward her, smiling brightly. Maybe I can stop worrying so obsessively about her. “I think that’s a great idea. When will you be home?”
She pauses. “Uh. There’s this movie afterward. A nine o’clock show. Wall-E. ”
“So, you’ll be home, by…”
“Eleven?”
That seems more than reasonable. And it gives me plenty of time. So why do I have a nagging sense that something is wrong? “And someone will walk you home?”
Marah laughs. “Of course. ”
I am overreacting. There’s nothing to worry about. “Okay, then. I have a business thing to do, anyway, so I’ll be gone most of the day. Be safe. ”
Marah surprises me by hugging me tightly. It is the best thank-you I’ve had in years, and it gives me the strength I need to do what I know needs to be done.
I am going to see my mother. For the first time in years—decades—I am going to ask her real questions, and I won’t leave until I have some answers.
* * *
Snohomish is one of those small western Washington communities that has changed with the times. Once a dairy farming community tucked in a verdant valley between the jagged peaks of the Cascade Mountain Range and the rushing silver water of the Snohomish and Pilchuck Rivers, it has blossomed into yet another of Seattle’s bedroom communities. Old, comfortable farmhouses have been torn down and replaced with big stone and wood homes that boast magnificent mountain views. Farms have been sliced and diced and trimmed down to lots that fan along new roads that lead to new schools. I imagine you rarely see girls on horseback in the summer anymore, riding in cutoff shorts on the sides of the road, their bare feet swinging, their hair glinting in the sunlight. Now there are new cars and new houses and young trees, planted sometimes in the very place where older ones had been uprooted. Weedless lawns stretch up to painted porches, and well-maintained hedges make for good neighbors.
But even with the new views, the old town still shines through in places. Every now and then an old farmhouse stands defiantly between subdivisions, its fenced acres thick with tall grass and grazing cattle.
And then there is Firefly Lane. On this small ribbon of asphalt, outside of town, not far from the banks of the Pilchuck River, change has come slowly, if at all.
Now, coming back to this place that has always meant home, I ease my foot off of the accelerator. My car responds immediately and slows down.
It is a beautiful summer day; the unreliable sun is playing hide-and-seek among the wafting clouds. On either side of the road, green pastures roll lazily down toward the river. Giant trees stand guard, their arms outstretched to provide shade for the cattle gathered beneath.
How long has it been since I was here? Four years? Five? It is a sad, serrated reminder that time can move too fast sometimes, gathering regrets along the way.
Without thinking, I turn into the Mularkey driveway, seeing the FOR SALE sign planted by the mailbox. In this economy, it is no surprise that they haven’t been able to sell the place. They are renting in Arizona now; when this house sells, they’ll buy something.
The house looks exactly as it always did—a pretty, well-tended white farmhouse with a wraparound porch overlooking two sloped green acres that are outlined by mossy split-rail cedar fences.
My tires crunch on gravel as I drive up to the yard and park.
I see Kate’s upstairs window, and in a blink I am fourteen again, standing here with my bike, throwing stones at her window.
I smile at the memory. The rebel and the rule-follower. That’s what we’d seemed like in the beginning. Kate had followed me anywhere—or so it had seemed to me then, through my girl’s eyes.
That night we’d ridden our bikes down Summer Hill in the darkness. Sailing. Flying. Arms outflung.
