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“Away.” I never knew one word could cut my throat. “He’s left town, mom. Family business. Said it was urgent, I believe. I’m not working for him anymore.”
There’s a small crash in the kitchen. We both turn. Dad looks at us sheepishly, lifting a small saucer out of the sink. Rather, one broken half of it. “Butterfingers. You gals are sure you don’t need anything?”
Mom sighs, slumping in her chair. “I’m so sorry, dear. So, you’re living here again full time then? Such a bore. My condolences.”
Oh, mom. You have no earthly idea.
I take coffee after all. Dad brews a fresh pot of decaf, just for me. I’m doing everything by the book for this pregnancy, well into weaning myself off caffeine.
Once he sees mom’s brain is still in one piece, he’s comfortable enough to leave us alone. I sit with my mother making small talk, sugarcoating the tragic irony growing inside me.
She gives the doctors and nurses who tended her brutal reviews. I pretend to give her my full attention, the impossible. Of course, there’s plenty of guilt to go around.
How long will I have to sit on my secret? Weeks? Months?
If Jackson finds Marshal, maybe sooner. I hope he doesn’t, and for no good reason.
“We did some work in your bedroom. Want to see?” I force a smile, hoping the clean new bedroom-studio waiting upstairs does her some good.
“Sure, dear. It’s important to know where I’ll be spending ten hours out of the day. These damn drugs are narcotics, I swear.” Yawning for emphasis, she stands and we walk together.
I lead her past dad mopping the dining room. He looks up, mouthing a single word: easy.
Duh, I mouth back, following mom upstairs.
She moves cautiously into the bedroom, past the miserable mess where I’m sleeping. I’m glad I remembered to shut my door. I’ve been too down the past few weeks to catch up on laundry, or even arrange the things Jackson retrieved from Marshal’s place.
We stop at the entrance to the room. My mother pokes her head in and sniffs, then gives me a restless look. “Birch themed. Predictable, I suppose, but it’ll do.”
The breath I’m holding in slips out. No freakouts. That’s good.
Before, mom refused to let anyone touch her things. Now, she’s accepted the clean slate we’ve tried to give her. A few deflated words feels like a miracle, like we’ve averted a storm.
Maybe people really can change.
“Are you tired, mom?”
She shakes her head, brushing past me. “No. And I’m in no mood to work either. Not for a couple more weeks, the doctor said. I’d better pretend to listen. Give the drugs some time to settle before I fight them tooth and nail for my muse.”
I wish this was more of a victory. I’m trailing behind her, heading downstairs. I almost crash into my mother’s back when she stops on the last step, her eyes narrowed, peeking through our glass door.
“What’s that?” She lifts a finger, pointing to the small scrap of paper lodged inside.
Shrugging, I head over. Probably just an ad, but why in God’s name anyone would want to brave an Iowa winter to go door-to-door, I’ll never know.
I open the door and pull it out as fast as I can. There’s no time for the familiar handwriting to hit me with mom standing over my shoulder.
A short, surprised hiss slips through her teeth instead. “Ah-ha. So, it’s him, isn’t it? I knew he didn’t just up and leave.”
My cheeks combust, burning red insanity. I fight the urge to rip it up with my hands before I even open it. Surely, that’s better than the scream I’m holding in.
“Oh, don’t look so guilty, my love. I’ll leave you to your love letters. Someone will fill me in sooner or later, but just between us, I hope it’s you. Your father still thinks I’m liable to become a fire breathing dragon.” Mom claps me on the shoulder and trots away, humming to herself.
Dare I? My fingernail slides under the seal. It’s harder than paper, more like tearing fabric.
The note falls open. A precious artifact from another life, which ended the day I threw Marshal’s ring in my nightstand drawer, never to be seen again.
I take a deep breath. Let’s get this over and done.
Dear Red,
I’m not risking everything to get this to you for sweet talk.
So let’s get straight to the point: I love you.
Really. Truly. So fucking much.
Wish somebody told me love comes with a lot of regrets. Wish even harder none of the shit with your brother happened that night. Mostly, I wish I’d told you the truth from the get go.
This isn’t getting on some high horse. We’re both liars, him and me. Difference is, I’m finally coming clean. I’m done spending another second on this planet without you knowing the truth, thinking I’m a monster.
