Home > Echoes Between Us

Echoes Between Us
Author: Katie McGarry

VERONICA


In my early morning stupor, I stumble down the stairs and into the kitchen. I smile at the sight of my mother sitting at the window seat of the circular turret at the far side of the room.

Mom’s in her favorite white sundress, the one that has spaghetti straps and lace around the hem. The sunlight hits her straight, long blond hair in a way that makes her glow and she has this soft presence about her that warms my heart. It’s my mom, my best friend, and I know everything will be okay as long she’s in the world.

“Good morning,” I say.

At the sound of my voice, she turns her head in my direction and gives me one of her patented glorious smiles. Maybe she’s smiling because my hair is one big rat’s nest or because it’s August and I’m in winter Minnie Mouse pajamas, rocking them like I’m six instead of seventeen. Regardless, she’s happy to see me and that makes me elated.

“Morning.” My truck-driver father is elbow-deep in waffle batter and is completely unashamed that his black T-shirt and worn blue jeans have been bombed by flour.

No matter what Dad makes in the kitchen, he’ll be covered in it from head to toe. How he manages this, I’ll never know. But it’s an art form he excels at and I applaud him for the effort.

“How did you sleep?” he asks.

“Good.” I shuffle across the room and take a seat next to Mom. Still cuddly, I lean my head against her shoulder and the pillow behind her, and she laces her fingers with mine.

We reside on the second and third floors of this humongous three-story Victorian house my mother purchased with her minimal inheritance years ago. The first floor we rent out for additional income because living there would be creepy. Years ago, people died mysteriously on the first floor, and what eleven-year-old wants to sleep in a room where people died? But the great news is that dead people in houses make them cheap and this place was practically a steal.

With my enthusiastic but non-helpful help, Dad renovated our floors. He turned the third floor into two bedrooms and a bath, and the second floor into our living space and kitchen. Besides the half bath, closets and pantry, the second floor is wide open. Because Mom loved the color of a sky on a cloudless day, the walls are a sunshine blue with white trim.

Dad sings along with an eighties song that’s playing from the speakers mounted to the ceiling in the kitchen. His voice is gruff, rough and edgy, sort of like his appearance. Internally, I giggle with how dorky he is as he mock headbangs and acts as if he still has long black locks instead of a bald head. Dad’s not a great singer, and he’s definitely not a good dancer, but he is a good dad.

“How did you fall for him?” I whisper to Mom, even though I know the answer. There’s something comforting in having the same conversations with someone you love.

“The better question is how did your father fall for me?”

My parents are exact opposites. She’s delicate sunshine, and he’s a thunderstorm with his broad shoulders, bouncer-for-a-bar physique and black goatee. Mom’s poetry, art galleries, quiet days and poppy-seed muffins. Dad’s football on Sunday afternoons, poker on Mondays, and a few beers on his tab with friends on Fridays.

“He loves you,” I say. No one has ever loved anyone as much as Dad loves Mom. Even though he’s not particularly happy with her at the moment, the love is still there.

“He loves us,” she corrects.

I couldn’t agree with her more.

Dad remains focused on the waffles and allows me time to ease into my day before jumping into conversation. I’m not a diva, it’s just that most mornings I wake with a pounding headache. Moderate pain days equate to a massive migraine that makes me feel as if a 747 is continuously landing on my brain. On terrible days, the pain is so bad, I can’t make it out of bed.

But I didn’t wake up with a raging headache, and I really did sleep well, so I’m quick to let Dad know it’s a good day. “How did you sleep?”

Engaging with him this early is a gift, and the smile Dad flashes in my direction lets me know I couldn’t have given him anything better. “I slept great. Are you ready for today, peanut?”

“Yep.” Not really. I’d rather rip out my eyeballs than go to school orientation, but Dad’s pretty adamant on this whole education thing. I don’t want him going on the road worrying about me so it’s easier to lie. “Are you ready for your trip?”

Dad leaves this afternoon for a five-day drive. “I think so, but you know me.”

Mom and I giggle as Dad is notorious for forgetting things when he has long hauls. He’ll forget toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant, shoes …

“He didn’t sleep well,” Mom whispers to me. “He tossed and turned all night.”

“Why?” I ask, glancing at Dad to make sure he can’t hear us over his singing and the accompanying air-drum solo.

Mom combs her fingers through my corkscrew short blond hair. Worry consumes her expression and the pain in her eyes hurts me. “He’s concerned about you.”

And she is, too.

Unable to stand either of their worries, I look away from Mom and notice the strawberries, blueberries and whipped cream—all of my favorite toppings—on the table. Dad loves doing things for me and with me. My throat tightens because I’m lucky to have a father like him.

Dad forks steaming waffles out of the iron, and his eyes fall on the fifty colorful, construction-paper turkeys I stayed up to make last night then taped to the wall. “Does this mean we’re celebrating Thanksgiving again?”

“Yes.”

“When do I need to be home?” Dad doesn’t balk at my strange fascination with creatively celebrating holidays at a time other than the designated day. It’s one of the many things I inherited from my mother.

A lot of people at school call me weird. People called my mom weird when she was in high school, too, so I do my best to view any taunts as a compliment. “I need to talk to Leo, Nazareth, Jesse and Scarlett and see what works for them. We should buy a huge turkey this time. I want lots of leftovers.”

“Can you give me two weeks’ notice on Christmas? I’d like time to buy you a gift that isn’t from a gas station.”

“Join the present day, Dad. Internet shopping. Two-day shipping. It’s a thing.”

“Won’t Leo be leaving for college soon?”

The reminder makes me frown, and I change the conversation. “Are the new people still moving in downstairs today?”

“Yes, and they’ve been instructed to never knock if they need anything. They’re to call me. If they break the rules, tell me and I’ll evict them. I don’t want them bothering you.”

“Sounds good.” Dad is gone several days at a time driving long distances, then home two to three days driving locally. It’s a rotation that works well for us. Sometimes our renters will try to talk to me when they’re impatient with waiting for Dad to return their calls and that pisses Dad off. “Who’s moving in?”

“Someone from within town. It’s a short-term lease. Rich people waiting for their house to be built in The Springs.”

The fancy-schmancy neighborhood being built on the east side of town. If Dad and I saved every penny we made in the last ten years, we still couldn’t afford a down payment for one of those overpriced, mammoth mansions.

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