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I never thought I’d have to step foot in this town again. Memories bombard me as I drive through the main street, which looks like it hasn’t been renovated in decades. As my lungs compress, I try to take a deep breath and remind myself why I’m here.
Mom.
For my entire life, it’s just been my mom and me. Not by choice, my father decided one day that he wasn’t ready to be a father and would rather abandon his new wife and child for the flight attendant he met on his last work trip. Neither of us ever heard from him again.
My mother was strong, independent, and I thought for years that she was unbreakable. Until one night in middle school I caught her crying in the shower, hunched over, shoulders shaking, and it was then I realized how much she missed him. I vowed to do my best to help her, create a life better than he ever could, and for the most part, we succeeded. Yes, we struggled, yes there were days that were hard where I wondered if I would come home to food on the table, but we made it work.She spent all those years taking care of me, making sure I had enough money, enough food—even if that meant she ate nothing—and enough love. And as much as I know she struggled through some of those formative years, now it’s my turn. It’s my turn to sacrifice my time. The plans I once had are now forgotten as I continue to drive closer and closer to the one place that holds some of the best and worst memories of my life.
Cancer.
Even the word garners sympathy from most, and yet I was certain we had left that word behind all those years ago. Being cancer-free was my mother’s biggest wish and she got it the day I graduated high school. Yet this cancer diagnosis was a shock to us both. The second the words sank deep into my skin, I was propelled back to those dark days in high school when I didn’t know if that same diagnosis was going to rip my mother from my life. A time in my life when I wasn’t even sure who I was outside the walls of my high school. Fear can do weird and scary things to someone, like create a barrier between you and the ones you care about most. It can also allow for that fear to translate into anger, something I knew very well back then.
Mom called me that morning telling me in passing that she was going in for her annual mammogram and neither of us thought much of it, joking about how clinical it was and how much she hated being in that paper gown. It wasn’t until she got a call from the doctor later that night asking her to come into his office the following morning that those smiles faded, and the fear began to consume me once again.
We both knew what that meant, and as much as I wanted to be there to support her, I was halfway across the country. So, she went in alone, and neither of us expected the news she got that day.
So began all the tests, biopsies, and scans. I tried to come with her as much as I could, but my job wasn’t allowing for much time away. But we strived on, considering every option but because she was already a cancer survivor, we knew the prognosis wasn’t good. It had been ten years since she was considered in remission, and there’s a saying that if you make it past eight years, you’re golden. Seems the world thought this was a cruel joke.
I shake the past from my eyes as I pull into the driveway of my new townhouse. When the doctor called and told me my mother didn’t have much time left, I knew I had to act fast, so I bought this place without seeing it. I called the broker, paid a little over asking and then packed up every single piece of my life back in California and moved back to Harbour Cove. To most, this place would seem quaint, even Hallmark movie-esque with its main street filled with small shops, diners, and ice cream parlors, but for me, being back here after all these years just reminds me of what I’m about to lose.
When we first got the diagnosis and knew it was terminal, my original plan was to take over Mom’s house, the one I grew up in and the one that held all my childhood memories, but she sold it a few years back when the bills started piling up again. I offered to buy her out, move back home and help, but Mom was a proud woman and nothing I said could convince her to let me help. I made good money, more money than I think she realized, but still, it didn’t matter. She sold the house, put everything into storage, and moved into a retirement community. From what she told me, she loved it. She made friends, had excursions, and even had a boyfriend there for a minute, but when the cancer spread and we knew it wouldn’t be long, we moved her somewhere with more round-the-clock care.
As I pull in and park my car in front of the dingy garage that looks like it’s collecting rust as a hobby, I realize this place is going to take some work, and the idea of creating a life here in this house causes my fingers to grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white. I never planned to come back here. I planned to stay away for the rest of my life, but the universe seems to have other plans. So, I take a breath, gather my purse and open the door, hoping I can make the best of it.
* * *
It’s been three weeks since I drove through Harbour Cove for the first time in ten years and I’ve spent all my nights at my mom’s home soaking up all the time I have with her while she’s still here and lucid. I’ve maybe spent two nights at home since I arrived, sleeping on a pullout couch my mother has in her room. The minute I walked into this place, I knew I needed to renovate it. Even if I didn’t plan on staying here, I couldn’t let the potential in this place go to waste, so I contacted one of my mom’s old high school friends and he hooked me up with a crew that would help me design a whole new house. It took a few weeks to get the drawings done, but we worked fast since I was keen on doing anything that could take my mind away from the real reason I’m back in town.
I smile at my reflection in the mirror, something I haven’t done in weeks because today is the day the contractors arrive, and I’ve been looking forward to starting this project for weeks. so, I put on a pair of jean shorts, a white T-shirt that is a few sizes too big, and knee-high socks before tying my boring brown hair up into a messy bun.
Once I make it downstairs, I peer over at the clock and realize that I meant to warn my neighbor, who I have yet to see, about the upcoming noise. So, I take out a scrap of paper and write out a simple note.
Dear Neighbor,
I hope this note finds you well. I am your new neighbor and I wanted to let you know that today I am starting my renovations that will take a few weeks to complete. I am sorry in advance for Feel free to come over and say hi, I’ll be home sporadically this week.
Your Neighbor, Kate.
There. That should work.
* * *
A few hours go by and I’m in the middle of explaining to the head contractor what my vision for the kitchen entails when I hear a banging at the front door.
“Sorry, excuse me,” I say to Karl who nods and goes back to removing the cabinets that I swear have been in here since the early eighties. I quickly make my way to the front door and when I open it, I swear my mouth drops open.
“Drew?” I gasp, not believing my eyes.
It’s been ten years, but I’d remember those green eyes and blond hair anywhere. He looks good… really fucking good, with his lean build, strong arms and chiseled jaw. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him all of that but from the scowl on his handsome face, I’d say he remembers me and wouldn’t appreciate the compliment.
“Kate?” he mutters, his jaw ticcing as his eyes scan me from head to toe. “Of all the people to move in, it had to be you…” he whispers as his hand runs down his face.
Earlier I thought I looked cute but under his scrutiny, I feel exposed, like I’m showing him a piece of myself I never wanted anyone else to see. But then his words filter back through my brain, and I scowl up at him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap back, my shoulders rising as his eyes divulge just how much he remembers me.
I know I wasn’t the most liked person in high school, and if I’m honest, I didn’t even really likemyselfback then, but I was dealing with things no high school kid should ever have to deal with; bills, making sure we had enough food, working a job after school just so the creditors wouldn’t shut off our power. I hated the world back then, and obviously I took it out on everyone else around me.
Queen Bitch was probably the most apt title I was given back then, and I ran with it, not giving a shit about what others thought of me. But now, standing in Drew’s shadow and seeing the utter hatred in his gaze, I wish I could go back to seventeen-year-old me and tell her it’s not worth it. That anger wasn’t meant for others to see or feel.
