Conversation had been nearly nonexistent through the meal, and I’d excused myself early to settle into bed, blaming my sudden fit of fake yawns on the travel and the time change. Mom had seemed sad to see me retreat up the stairs. Or had she been relieved?
Avoid. That was the plan for this week. I’d stay out of everyone’s way, not spark any conflicts or discussions of the past, then retreat to my life.
Dressed in a pair of jeans and a simple black tee, I swallowed three Advil down with a guzzle of water, then braced to go downstairs.
“Morning,” I said, announcing my arrival in the kitchen.
“Good morning.” Mom was buzzing around, pulling out colorful, plastic bowls for cereal, much like she’d done when we were kids. Except there were wide swaths of gray in her blond hair now. When she smiled, wrinkles formed by her blue eyes. “How did you sleep?”
“Great,” I lied, putting on a happy face despite my throbbing temples. Coffee. I needed caffeine.
“Isn’t that bed comfortable?” she asked.
“Very.” I nodded at the truth.
It was nicer than the bed I’d had as a kid. It was soft. The blankets were warm and heavy. But it was strange to sleep in my old room without my twin bed. I’d woken up a few times, not exactly sure where I was.
That didn’t happen when I traveled. Maybe it would take me a minute to remember what city I was in or where we were headed next, but I always knew I was in a hotel bed and could sleep.
Last night, too many memories had played through my mind, and despite the cozy bed, I hadn’t been able to relax.
“Would you like coffee?” Mom nodded to the full pot in the corner of the kitchen as she poured orange juice into three little cups. Were those for us?
“Yes, please. I can get it.” The coffee mugs were in the same cupboard where they’d always been. Everything about the kitchen seemed the same. The familiarity was comforting.
Maybe that was why I hadn’t slept. My room hadn’t been my room. Now it was for guests.
I was a guest.
“Would you like some?” I asked after filling a mug to the brim.
“No, thanks. Your father and I gave up caffeine a few years ago. But I figured you’d want some, so I dug out the pot.”
“Thanks, but you don’t have to do that. I can go grab coffee every morning.”
“It’s no trouble.” She stared at me for a long moment. She’d done that during dinner too, like she was worried I wasn’t really here. Or maybe that I’d leave again and not come back.
Her worries were justified.
Though in all fairness, it wasn’t like they’d made an effort to visit me.
Seattle was a long day’s drive from Bozeman, but the flight was easy. I’d offered to fly them out countless times and get VIP tickets to one of our shows. But there’d always been an excuse. There was always something happening with the church that kept them busy. Dad had to preach on Sundays. He couldn’t be at a rock concert on a Saturday night.
The man didn’t take vacations, not even the Sunday after his mother had passed.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked, sitting in a chair in the dining room. The table was set with three plastic green bowls, each filled with cornflakes.
“He’s gone already. They had a men’s Bible study early this morning.”
Thank God. I sighed into my coffee. A morning with just Mom would be much easier to handle.
If Dad was at the church, he’d probably stay all day. Maybe Mom and I could go out and explore. It would be nice to spend a day with her. The last time we’d been alone together had been on our trip to Seattle when she’d driven me out to visit a college campus.
A day alone might help me remember how it had been once, before the bitter resentment had driven me away and the awkwardness had settled into every phone call and text.
“What’s all this?” I asked, waving a hand at the bowls. If Dad was gone, why were there three? “Breakfast?”
“Yep. The kids will be here soon.”
“Kids?”
“Your niece and nephews.” She frowned, but it quickly disappeared. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one not wanting to rock the boat. “I watch them in the summer. It saves Brooklyn and Walker from having to enroll them in year-round daycare and summer camps. Plus, it gives me time with them while I’m on summer break.”
“Ah.” We’d have to find another day to catch up. If there was time before I left.
Mom was a first-grade teacher at the same elementary where we’d gone to school three blocks away. Dad’s church was only one block from home.
My entire childhood had taken place in this quiet neighborhood. Other than trips to the grocery store, we hadn’t ventured out of our safe haven much. Everything we’d needed had been here and within walking distance.
Even Graham.
I pushed his name out of my head, not wanting to dwell on how cold he’d been yesterday or the fact that he had a son. Replaying it over and over again last night had been enough.
Nan had told me about the boy. Colin. But knowing he existed and seeing Graham’s mini in person were two entirely different experiences. Colin was the evidence that Graham hadn’t waited long to find my replacement in his truck bed. I, on the other hand, had waited three years before dating, if you could call two dinners and lousy sex with an executive at my label dating.
I hadn’t bothered much with men since then. They were a distraction and required energy I just didn’t have, not when I was pouring myself into the music.
Nan had been hounding me lately to wade into the dating pool. Every week, it was the same question. Found a man who can keep up with you yet? I’d laugh, tell her no, and she’d change the subject, usually to tell me about whatever gossip was running through her canasta club.
She had been the only person in my family who’d kept in touch regularly. The only one from home who’d seemed to miss me.
“Nan used to call me on Mondays,” I told Mom, toying with the plastic spoon beside my coffee mug. “Every Monday. Did you know that?”
Maybe that was the root cause of my headache. A heartache. There’d be no call from Nan today. For the first time in nine years, my Monday wouldn’t include her voice.
“I know.” Mom sat down across from me. “She’d report to me each week and tell me how you were.”
“You could have called me yourself,” I snapped, instantly regretting my tone.
“I’m sorry, Quinn.”
“No, it’s fine.” The phone worked both ways. “I have a headache and it’s making me irritable.”
“I thought about calling you. Often.” Her shoulders fell. “The truth is, I think I forgot how to talk to you once you left. After the fight and everything . . . I wasn’t sure what to say.”
During the fight, she’d said plenty. So had Dad.
After I’d left the next day for Seattle, it had taken her three weeks to call me. We’d gone from daily talks to silence for three, miserable, hard weeks. The woman who’d been my hero, the one who’d walk me to and from school, who’d set out cereal for me each morning and who’d play with me in the evenings, had let me run away to college without so much as a check-in to make sure I was safe.