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My curtain of hair falls over us as I lean into her. Removing her glove, she wraps the ends around her fingers. She always plays with my hair. “Still beautiful,” she whispers, mostly to herself.
“Keep going,” I tell her. “I can’t stay long. The moving vans will be at my new place in an hour.”
She nods, pops her headphones back in, and continues with her work.
Sitting on the step with my sister, I’m grateful she doesn’t go inside. The house has ghosts in every corner, and I try to avoid them.
Leaning my elbows on my knees, I take a deep breath to rid myself of the knot that usually develops when I visit.
I glance over at Nick’s house and smile because all my best memories are there. Two houses on one street, but the sun only shines on one. A dark cloud crept over my childhood home many years ago, and it never left.
My mother is humming a tune, lost in her gardening. This garden could win awards.
“How’s she doing?”
Amy clears her throat and shrugs. “It’s her first time outside all week.”
My head twists back around so fast, my neck cracks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her brows rise because I already know the answer.
Guilt gnaws, and I lower my head. “I could have helped.”
“I had it under control.”
“You shouldn’t have to do it on your own. I’m closer now. I can help.”
She takes my hand and places it on her lap.
“I wasn’t here when Papa left. I was too busy traveling the world, and I didn’t look back. You stayed. You turned down amazing opportunities to stay here with her. I’m here now. My house is down the street. Me and Jen can do it. Besides, she’s started coming into the shop with me.”
“Really?”
She nods. “She still doesn’t play, but she enjoys it when the kids come in. She loves to listen to them.”
My sister owns a music shop in town and is the most talented musician I know. I’ve yet to find an instrument she can’t play. She attended university abroad and traveled the world teaching. She came home once. It was supposed to be for a month, but she met Jen. Two years later, they got married. She opened a shop in town, never left again, and I’ve never seen her happier.
“She’s getting better. You know how she is. There’s nothing you can do, Claire.”
She looks away from me, unspoken words lingering on her lips.
“I know,” I whisper, fighting the sting behind my eyes.
She kisses the top of my head. “I’m sorry.”
She has nothing to be sorry for. It’s not her fault my mother hasn’t looked at me since I was fourteen. She loves me. I feel it with every touch she grants. But my eyes remind her of another’s.
I sometimes envy my sister with her red curls and emerald eyes. My mother always jokes that she’s the postman’s baby, but she looks like my grandma.
I’m exactly half and half, with my mother’s dark hair and my father’s blue eyes. I remind her of him. Truth be told, I sometimes look in the mirror and see him too. I hate it. I’m not sure what parts of me my mother finds it more difficult to look at—the parts of my father, or the parts of herself.
She won’t get better when I’m here because after she’s done with her garden or painting the house for the third time in a year, she drinks to forget.
My eyes don’t let her forget.
Looking at her, you’d never guess the depths she climbs into when she’s alone at night. My mother is beautiful. Time has taken an obvious toll on her, but her beauty shines through. High cheekbones, and despite years of hardship, there’s hardly a wrinkle on her skin. She’s slender, her curves always petite. My dips and curves are fuller. My grandma may have given my sister her red hair, but she gave me my ass.
Thanks, Grandma.
