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We park in the crumbling space near the front door, which is completely boarded up to discourage trespassers. On the back side of the lighthouse, overlooking the cliffs, is an old stone picnic table that has weathered centuries of wind and sun.
Mom ties her wild black hair back so it won’t get in her food. There’s something approaching a chill up here, and she wraps a sunny yellow scarf around her shoulders as we sit down and take our foil-covered platters out of the bag.
Mom peels back just enough foil to stick her fork in the rice. “You seem really down, Gabe. Has your friend gone home?”
I shake my head. “Wednesday morning.”
“And you were willing to meet me? Shocking.”
“She’s with her sister and niece.” I don’t even know what they’re doing this morning. I don’t know how to follow up on her last text, or if I should.
Mom examines the chicken on her fork. “It’s tricky, dating tourists. They come and they go.”
Her tone is kind. My mother doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. But the words cut.
I make a show of unwrapping my plate, but I don’t feel like eating it. Is this awful feeling worth the high?
But I remember the cave, Burr Island, and countless encounters in my room.
Definitely, yes.
Mom sets down her fork. “I’ve never seen you poke at Micah’s jerk chicken. Letting go of this girl must be a real gut punch.”
I force myself to take a bite rather than respond to that. She’s not telling me anything I don’t already know.
She passes me a napkin. “I think it would be good for you to go to Georgia.”
I swallow the bite. It tastes like chalk. “She may not even want me to.”
“Have you asked her?”
“No.”
“You don’t think her coming here is a sign?”
“She’s not one of your candle sayings.”
Mom presses her lips together, her gaze drifting to the tumultuous sea. The waves crash against the cliffs. Getting too close to La Jarra on this side would mean certain destruction of a boat of any size.
I realize she’s poking at her chicken, not eating, either. I’ve upset her.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I mean it’s not that simple.”
Her dark eyes hold my gaze. “Those sayings are truths, Gabe.Fuck cancerisn’t just an expression. It’s a mantra of strength and determination.Fuck the hatersreminds us to love ourselves no matter what.”
“I know.”
“Do you? You know Anita is out there. You know she’s unfinished business.”
At that woman’s name, I flinch. Of all the people I hate bringing her up, Mom is the worst.
She closes her foil. “I’ve known where she is for years. Facebook makes it easy to keep track of someone.”
She’s told me this before. We don’t discuss it often, but sometimes Mom gets determined to make me face my past. She’s sure I won’t heal until I do.
“I’m not sure I want that.”
“I know. And I get why. But it’s part of you. Part of your history. What if you learn something that frees you from these demons?”
