Then there was small town.
Southport was definitely the latter. It gave new meaning to bum-fuck-Egypt.
“I’ll survive, Damien. Plus, I’m not there to have a rockin’ social life. I’m going to help Mom fix up the house and put it on the market. She can’t do it by herself, and she’s too damn proud to ask anyone but her kids for help. And even that was like pulling teeth.”
The truth was I had been worried about Mom since Dad died ten months ago. She put on a brave face, assured me she was fine, but I could see the heavyweight on her shoulders, the deep stress lines around her eyes. Dad’s life insurance hadn’t been much. It had barely covered his funeral expenses. And when Dr. Walton had unceremoniously cut Mom’s hours in half, she finally had to tell me how upside down she was. Her finances were stretched to the point that she had gone delinquent on her electric bill for the past three months. She couldn’t keep up with the taxes on the house. And even though the mortgage had been paid off for years, she was barely scraping by.
Whitney and I had spoken at length about what to do.
“She can’t stay there by herself,” Whitney had exclaimed. Getting hold of my older sister was difficult, given the six-hour time difference between us. When I was finally able to get her on the phone, she wasn’t very helpful.
“I get that, Whit, but she won’t move to New York. Lord knows I’ve begged her enough times.”
Mom’s reaction to my suggestion she moves into my dinky studio apartment in Queens was raucous laughter.
“Where am I going to sleep, Meghan? Under your bed?” she had asked humorously.
“I can get a bigger place,” I had argued, feeling defensive. Mom hadn’t meant to be demeaning about my apartment, and by extension, my life, but it felt that way. I spent a good portion of my life feeling like I could do so much more.
“Dearest, I appreciate your offer, but I can’t leave Southport. Your father and I fell in love here. This is where we raised you girls. This is where we were happy.” Her voice had broken, and I could hear her soft sobs on the other end. My mother’s grief ripped a hole through my chest. It magnified my own anguish until I was swallowed by it.
“Of course, she won’t move to New York. This is Mom we’re talking about,” Whitney had snapped impatiently. At some point during the last decade, my once bubbly, hopeful sister had become waspish and cold. I blamed the highly competitive nature of her work, but I always wondered if there was more to it than that.
As an in-demand makeup artist for the stars, she was always traveling, always on the go. As a result of her high-profile life, most other things had fallen by the wayside.
Including our once close relationship.
It was just one more thing I had lost over the years that I could never get back. I was becoming painfully accustomed to heartbreak.
“Well, what are we going to do?” I asked my sister, hoping she would solve the problem like she always used to.
But the days of Whitney holding my hand were long over. She had learned to survive by looking out for number one. Sure, she loved our parents and me, but she existed in a dog-eat-dog environment that left little room for things like feelings.
“I’m in Paris, Meg. I can’t get home for at least three months. This movie I’m working on should wrap up by the end of September, but I’m hoping to roll onto the next Scorsese that starts filming in Rome this fall.”
I tried not to get angry. “What about Mom, Whitney? She needs us. She needs you.” I hated that I had to remind her of something that would have been second nature to her once upon a time.
For the briefest of moments, I thought I had her. I could hear her soft exhale in my ear. “I know,” she said gently. Maybe, just maybe, this time, she’d do what’s right for her family. Not simply what was right for her. But that Whitney was buried deep. “I have a thriving career, Meg. What do you have?”
Her question hurt. Mostly because I didn’t know how to answer it. I had been so quick to leave Southport after graduation. I went to art school in Pittsburgh and got a Bachelor of Arts degree in Art studies. I then went to New York and interned at a gallery, all the while working on my own pieces. My dream had always been to make a living off my artwork. And for a time, I thought I had made it.
Mr. Duncan, the gallery owner, saw some of my work and decided to feature me. People started buying my prints. I was able to rent a cute studio apartment in Queens. Several small newspapers featured me in their lifestyle sections.
I was building a name. Slowly but surely, my reputation was spreading in the art community. Mr. Duncan, impressed with the sales of my early pieces, decided to set up a showing of my art. A whole night devoted to my paintings. My dreams.
And it tanked.
The once bright light I had been shooting for burned out.
The thing about the art world is staying relevant was hard. Once people stopped talking about you, it was damn near impossible to make them start again. Not when there were so many other artists out there vying for their attention.
So, I was now, a decade later, working full-time as a waitress in midtown, still trying to pedal my art.
I thought having my dreams crushed with a sledgehammer was the worst feeling in the world until my dad died of a heart attack at the age of sixty-three—only two years from retirement—and I learned that anguish could morph and multiply in horrifying ways.
I hadn’t answered Whitney’s insensitive question, because I didn’t know how to force the words out of my mouth without telling her to go fuck herself.
So, after haranguing Mom for weeks, it was finally agreed that I’d sublet my apartment to my good friend, Damien—a fellow artist—and move back to Southport.
After many tears, it was decided that Mom couldn’t continue in my childhood home. It was too big for just her, the upkeep was too much. She needed something smaller and more affordable. But the place needed work before it was ready to go to market. If Mom wanted to get the optimum amount for the property, there was plastering and painting to be done. The downstairs bathroom could use updating and a new fence installed. It was a lot of work, and Mom’s finances were in dire straits. There was only one solution: I’d come and help her out. We’d pool our money with Whitney agreeing to pitch in and get the jobs done on our own. I could paint just as well as any professional. I could wield a hammer.
If there was one thing Meghan Galloway wasn’t afraid of, it was hard work.
“She sounds a lot like you,” Damien teased. I snorted because it was true. I had inherited my mother’s stubbornness, that was for sure.
“Don’t forget to feed Sunny and Lola. And if you go away, I have those weekend tablets to put in the tank—”
“I got it, Megalicious. I promise I won’t kill your goldfish.” Damien crossed his heart and held his two fingers up in a Boy Scout salute. He put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my face with a sober expression. “I do hate that you’re leaving, though. I’m worried I’ll never see you again. That this tiny, tiny town will swallow you up and keep you.”
I smiled weakly. His concerns weren’t entirely unfounded. Southport had a gravity about it that made it difficult to leave.
Was it Southport?
Or was it the people who lived there?