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I had grown up far away from the hustle and bustle and craved it with every breath. Now I was going back to the place I had run from. It felt all sorts of wrong. Like going backward.
I got into my beat-up Toyota Prius with the daisy air freshener hanging from the mirror. With a final wave at Damien, I pulled out into the thick line of cars, steadily making my way back home.
Not sure what would be waiting for me once I got there.
**
“There you are! I was getting ready to call out the cavalry!”
Mom was waiting in the driveway when I pulled in front of the house a little after five o’clock. It had taken me close to four hours to drive home due to a seven-mile back up on I-95. Nothing like sitting in gridlock to put you in a good mood.
“Sorry, there were a bunch of accidents on the highway. I would have been here hours ago if not for that.” I had barely gotten out of the car when I was enveloped in a rose-scented hug. I melted a little at the familiarity of my mother’s smell. My chest tightened, and my eyes burned. I hadn’t realized how much I missed her hugs until that moment.
She pulled back, patting my cheek lovingly. “You’re too skinny, my darling. You haven’t been eating enough.”
I pushed a wayward strand of hair out of my eyes and grinned at the concern on my mother’s face. She always said the same thing, even when I had gained the freshman ten my first three months at Pittsburgh College. She was a mother first and foremost, so the worry was ingrained in her marrow.
“I’m pretty sure I’m the same weight I was when I saw you at Easter,” I assured her, closing the driver’s side door.
She looped her arm with mine and walked me to the bright blue front door. It was still the same color after all these years. My dad had decided to paint it the brightest blue he could find.
“We need to stand out. No sense being dull when you can shine, Meg.”
It was my dad’s creative love of color that had propelled my own passion for art. Even though he had worked for the county for thirty years and was an avid sportsman, his first love was drawing and painting. He’d spend hours on the weekend, his fingers covered in charcoal, as he created picture after picture. I had loved watching him work, his brow furrowed, his lip tucked between his teeth in concentration.
“Well, I think you’ve lost weight. A mother knows these things.” Mom patted my arm. “Still gorgeous, though.” Her compliment hit me straight in the heart.
“You’re a bit biased, Mom.” I leaned down to kiss the top of her head, noting how much greyer her hair was now than it had been even a few months ago. Worry lines were etched on her face as though they had been chiseled there. She looked tired, exhausted even, but her smile was the same. It was bright and full of all the love in the world.
“I may be biased, but it’s true. Now come inside and let me make you something to eat. I doubt you’ve had a bite since you left New York.” She opened the door, walking into the foyer.
The cool shadow of the room beyond was silent and too empty. I hesitated on the threshold, not sure I really wanted to go inside. It had been this way ever since Dad had died. The house that had always been my haven felt unfamiliar without his larger-than-life presence. It was hollow as if the life had been sucked out of its walls.
“Come on in, Meghan. Don’t let all the air conditioning out. I’m not cooling the outside,” Mom chastised good-naturedly. With a deep breath, I stepped inside, closing the door behind me.
I followed her through the living room and into the kitchen. It was all the same as it had always been. The same photographs lined the mantle. The blue and white checked throw pillows were arranged just so on the couch. Dad’s green afghan hung over the back of his Lazy Boy. It was both comforting and disconcerting. It was like a time capsule to a world that would never exist again.
“Sit, sit. Tell me all the news,” Mom instructed, pulling out a stool at the island. I perched awkwardly on the seat, watching my mother buzz around the kitchen, opening the cupboard and getting out plates, and then cold cuts and cheese from the fridge.
Whitney and I used to share everything with our mother. As teenagers, she knew all our secrets. The boys we liked, the friends we fought with. I had told her about my hopeless love for Adam at the very beginning.
