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13
Birdie sat in her rental car with her head leaning to one side on the steering wheel, staring at Bernadette’s house.
It didn’t look much different than she remembered, other than it was even more in need of primer and a couple coats of paint. If that were possible.
Landscaping wouldn’t hurt either. A few shrubs here and there and some inexpensive pine straw strewn around the perimeter would go far to warm the place up.
Placing her hand on the car’s door handle, her fingers tensed and turned white. Maybe she shouldn’t have changed out of her shorts and t-shirt, opting instead for a demure skirt and blouse. The last minute change of attire didn’t seem to be working for her. Rather than coming off as confident and mature, she felt overdressed and, as Mia’s friends would say, thirsty. Like she was trying too hard.
It hadn’t gotten past her that she was having a difficult time cajoling herself out of cars. But for different reasons. The long trek to the side door of the kitchen, and the possibility of seeing disappointment or even hostility in Bernadette’s expression, unbearable.
She took a couple of cleansing breaths, eyeing the short path to her destination.
People who knew Bernadette rarely made their way to the front door as it was reserved for strangers, which consisted mainly of college kids trying to make a buck by selling replacement windows and gutters. And then there were always the Jehovah’s Witnesses looking to save someone’s soul.
They’d probably deem Birdie’s unsalvageable.
Regardless of the time of day or inconvenience, Bernadette would stop what she was doing to listen to their spiel with a kind smile and a multitude of patience. Then send them on their way with a pat on the back and a homemade fudge brownie wrapped in parchment paper.
Her eyes continued to scan the home’s facade. It appeared one of the porch steps was in need of repair.
Birdie knew of homes with pristine paint jobs and professional-level landscaping that served merely as window dressing. A way to detract attention from the ugliness inside.
She would be forever grateful to Bernadette for showing her something different. That what went on behind closed doors was infinitely more important than fancy trimmings.
Birdie had both with Marshall.
Perhaps it wasn’t the perfect marriage. Romance would’ve been nice. Someone to come home to who looked at you with more than just platonic affection. Although, she was no more inclined toward that kind of relationship with Marshall, any more than he was.
But they did love one another.
God how she missed him.
Theirs might not have been a real marriage, but it was a hallowed agreement that kept everyone safe. And it was nice living with someone who always gave you the benefit of the doubt. Took your side without hesitation.
Your champion.
If she could only find a way to atone for a time in her life when she had yet to develop acceptable coping skills.
She banged her forehead on the steering wheel a few times, similar to when she was in Lucas’s shower. She’d be carted out of town wearing a helmet and suffering brain damage if she wasn’t careful.
This was ridiculous. Guilt and regret were keeping Birdie hostage in a rental car that smelled of body odor, cigarettes, and Taco Bell.
She had played out the next twenty minutes in her head so many times she was sick to death of it. Honestly, she knew better than to predict Bernadette’s reactions to seeing her after all these years, as a way to internally soften the blow. It had been her experience, when you expected the worst, you were never disappointed.
Why did she ever think Bernadette would be happy to see her? Especially after years of knowing the sordid details of how she and Maisie had left town, how that had impacted Lucas’s football career, not to mention the many years gone by without a word from her.
After everything Bernadette had done to protect her from her own mother. Although, she never told her the extent of her mother’s wrath, Bernadette knew something was wrong and in her small way, she was the one person who did something about it. The only one.
She gazed upon the small, two-story house that at one time in her young life had been a safe haven. A place where she was loved, accepted, and fed.
After school, she and Lucas would enter into the side door, and into the kitchen. The table dotted with cookies, brownies, and sandwiches.
Lucas would grab a roast beef sandwich in one hand, while holding his books in the other. Indifferent to the plethora of comfort food that was always there waiting for them. Food that she choked down as if it were her last meal.
Understandable, considering one of the stand-out memories of Birdie’s childhood was that of being perpetually hungry. Withholding food being one of Shelby Wellborn’s preferred punishments for her oldest daughter.
Funny the things that caused kids to feel shame and what didn’t. Birdie remembered feeling more humiliation at being hungry than acting the class bully. So she masked her motives accordingly, playing the schoolyard hellion so she could save face while chomping away at a lunch made by the loving hands of someone else’s mother.
