“Did you get fired?” Darlene asked.
Remi snorted as she opened the mug cabinet over the coffeemaker and dug through the contents until she found her favorite. A chunky, bright yellow mug that said Don’t Worry Be Happy. “No, Mom. I didn’t get fired. I’m actually painting full-time now.”
“You are? Well, isn’t that—Holy crap! Is that the time?” Gilbert squawked, checking the microwave clock. “I have to get to school!”
“Well, shit. I have a call I can’t miss this morning,” Darlene noted as she glanced at her own watch.
Remi jumped out of the way as both parents dove for the coffeemaker to top off their travel mugs.
“Family dinner for our starving artist,” her mom decided, screwing the cap on her mug.
The starving part of that description was something Remi had, until recently, looked forward to dispelling. But now she couldn’t reveal the good news without breaking the bad.
“Tonight?” Gilbert shoved the now empty carafe back on the burner and frowned. “Do I have a thing or do you have a thing?”
“Double shit,” Darlene groaned. “You have the fundraiser at the basketball game tonight, and I have a town council meeting.”
“It’s okay,” Remi insisted. “I’m in town for a while.”
“Tomorrow night,” Gilbert announced, pointing both index fingers at her. “I’ll call your sister.”
Darlene grabbed the bag of coffee beans and shoved it at Remi. “Make yourself a fresh pot and pull a roast or something out of the freezer. Oh, and since you’re here, mind switching the laundry over to the dryer?”
Her parents sandwiched her for noisy, rushed cheek kisses, and then they were gone. She heard the old Yamaha snowmobile fire up on the street and watched through the front window as her dad climbed on behind her mother. Chief Ford would drop Mr. Ford off at the K-12 school and then loop around into downtown to start her day at the police station on Market Street.
She felt the tiniest sliver of disappointment that they hadn’t had time for coffee together. But that’s what she got for popping in on them unannounced on a Thursday. The kitchen was too quiet, so she switched on the ancient radio her father used to catch Wolverine games.
As something quiet and classical poured forth from the speaker, soft yellow and gold clouds billowed around the room, keeping her company. Who’d have thought that the little girl with skinned knees and pink E’s would find her place in the world painting things that only she could see?
“Coffee first,” she decided.
She started a fresh pot, then ducked into the tiny laundry room housed between the kitchen and dining room. Not much had changed there besides the amount of clutter. Since there were no longer two teenage girls in residence, the space was tidier. The little clothesline strung between two walls was no longer laden with bras. Now, it held unmatched socks clipped with wooden clothespins.
She opened the lid of the washer and began stuffing damp clothes into the dryer. Everything took twice as long as it should with only one good arm. She wasn’t looking forward to four to six weeks of being without full use of her dominant hand.
Something red and lacy caught her eye. Digging it out, Remi gingerly held up a fancy thong.
“Dear God. What is this?”
She grabbed her phone and snapped a picture.
Remi: Please tell me this is Mom’s and not Dad’s.
She saw three dots appear then disappear. It took a solid five minutes before her sister responded.
Kimber: What are you doing digging through our parents’ underwear, perv?
Remi: I came home to surprise everyone. By the way, surprise! Mom and Dad abandoned me and gave me a list of chores.
Kimber: Some things never change. Except Mom’s underwear apparently.
Remi: Are you home? Want to hang out?
Her sister didn’t respond, so Remi finished loading the dryer and pushed the start button. The tinny vibration on top of the appliance signaled a new message.
Mom: Don’t forget to clean the lint trap! That’s how fires happen.
Remi: I know, Mom. I’m not 10!
Guiltily, she stopped the dryer and emptied the lint trap before restarting it. Then just for fun, she pinned the thong to the clothesline where her parents would definitely see it.
Dryer running, fire averted, and mug full of fresh coffee, she headed into the basement. The wooden steps were scuffed and worn in the middle from decades of trips up and down. Paint splatters on the risers told the story of her earliest artist days.
With its low ceilings and lack of natural light, the Ford basement hadn’t been the best studio. But as long as she covered the chest freezer with a tarp before she started painting “happy little trees” with Bob Ross, no one cared how messy she got the concrete floor and block walls.
The lid of the freezer opened with a haunted house creak, and she peered into its frosty depths.
Remi: Dad, you have 1,000 roasts in the chest freezer. Which one am I defrosting?
Dad: It’s a special occasion! Bust out the turkey breast. We’ll have ourselves a Thanksgiving redo! Now, time to go break the spirits of my class with a pop quiz!
She broke out into an honest to goodness smile for the first time in what felt like forever. It was good to be home.
She took the turkey breast back upstairs and submerged the bird in a sink full of cold water.
After topping off her coffee, she decided to take a little homecoming tour and headed upstairs. Her parents’ bedroom was in the back of the house. The door was closed to keep the heat in just like every other winter. Life on Mackinac was expensive, and winters were cold. Most folks worked more than one job and sacrificed balmy indoor temperatures for lower heating bills when possible.
Growing up, Kimber and Remi had each had rooms in the front of the house.
She pushed open the door to her childhood bedroom and sighed. They’d made changes in here. Gone were the deep purple paint and the posters of Usher, Alicia Keys, and Zac Efron. They had kept some of the art prints she’d collected, though. The colorful pieces popped off the clean, beige walls.
The bed was the same, with its wrought iron headboard, but the kaleidoscope of scarves she’d woven between the bars was missing. Ivory bed linens made the room feel tranquil instead of moody.
Remi couldn’t help but wonder if this was the version of her that her parents would have preferred. Toned down. Restful. No longer a “hurricane of color and chaos.”
She couldn’t blame them. She was well aware that Remington Honeysuckle Ford was a lot to take.
Alessandra Ballard, on the other hand, was whimsical and interesting. At least, that had been the plan. But now, standing in her old bedroom, Remi wondered exactly where outgrowing the past and ruining her future left her.
Not that she could afford to think about that yet. Not when there were more pressing matters.
She took out her phone and opened her email. Ignoring her overflowing inbox, she started a new message—slowly and painfully due to the restricted movement of her right thumb.