Chapter 13
JUNIPER
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, honey. How was your week?”
With the phone to my ear, I signal to my coffee, appreciating that Wynonna knows exactly what I’m asking without having to say it. We’re on a first-name basis now. Yay me for making friends in a new place.
Peering through the window of the diner, I soak in the stillness of the early morning before the chaos of my day to come.
“It was good. I was able to connect with a lot of newer patients I haven’t met yet.
I can tell it’s going to take time to build up the same trust they had with Dr. Wolk, but I’m hopeful. ”
“Well, that’s great. Those things take time. Just remember what sets you apart and run with it.”
A piping cup of coffee lands in front of me, and I send a small smile to Wynonna in return. “Thanks, Mrs. Nonna,” I tell her just above a whisper, and my mother doesn’t miss it. “Who was that? It’s nearly six o’clock in the morning there. Are you not at home, sweetie?”
I roll my eyes, picturing the motherly concern across her face now. “No, Mom. I’m actually at a cute little diner I found. Reminds me a lot of the one we used to go to when I was young. Remember?”
“Broken Egg,” she mumbles, and I hear shuffling in the background. “We made lots of good memories there, didn’t we?”
“We really did. When do I get to see you again, Mom?”
“Come up any time. Everything’s still the same,” she reminds me, the vivid picture of filth and clutter clouding my thoughts. “You’ll have to sleep on the pull-out, but I know you don’t mind.”
Oh, but I will. Ever since moving to Atlanta, I think my feelings on the way I was raised have only amplified. I’m not angry like I once was, but more so hurt knowing I have parents who saw nothing wrong with the condition of our living.
Trash piles everywhere, stacks of old newspapers and Coke boxes lined to the ceiling, rat feces fallen in corners, unwashed clothes thrown into piles, and my dad’s favorite records thrown in disarray.
The pollution had no end. In my heart of hearts, I believe the only good thing I gained under that roof was an incredible taste in music. My parents may have been chaotic and incompetent, but they knew good music when they heard it.
The Beatles. Billy Joel. Fleetwood Mac. The Eagles. The list goes on, and I’m convinced those classic troubadours saved me. And not just as a way to get by. They molded me into a woman who could live amongst an army of madness—in this case, my home—and still find joy to cling to in the morning.
Were they bad parents? Absolutely not.
But they were blinded by their own fixations. A mental illness that stole the show and left me in the dark more times than not. It was more my mom who did the hoarding after the death of my aunt, and my dad who learned to tolerate it because he loved my mom.
Loved her with an unshakable passion. So much so that the only thing that mattered to him was her processing her grief. Whatever she needed to do to stay the same woman he loved.
If only that were the case.
I learned quickly that although having a beautiful love story is the goal, love also doesn’t enable wrong. Love calls out faults even when it’s hard. And by dad not constructively supporting Mom’s irreversible depression, he fell victim to it right along with her.
Now, they’re simply existing. Same place. Same home. Same conditions. And zero ambition to change it.
Moving away was for the better. But it doesn’t mean I don’t still miss them.
“Oh,” I respond, realizing I mentally disconnected for a moment. “I was kind of hoping you and Dad would want to visit Atlanta? You know, let me show you around the city. Give you a tour of my new practice. I’ve got lots of space at my place. Promise you’ll be comfortable.”
I can predict where this will go, but I still wanted to give it a shot.
“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. The chickens have been quite needy for our attention lately. I’d hate to leave them.”
Add chickens to the list of responsibilities they’ve taken on, only to have zero drive to actually care for them. They introduced me to the first three before I moved, and since then, another five have been added to the coop.
That’s eight chickens who will likely be denied a clean living space. Mom will surely feed them, but it’s the maintenance that will suffer.
I’ve reached a point where I accept that they’ll never change, and I can’t wait around for that to happen.
However, this is where I feel pressured to compromise. I love my parents, no matter how much I disagree with how they live. Their hearts are good, and I can’t take that for granted.
“Your neighbor can’t watch them for a few days? I remember you guys used to watch their golden retriever all the time before he passed. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”
“Phyllis and Stuart don’t talk to us anymore, honey. Stuart had a conniption fit when your father refused to cut the backyard trees. Something about them scratching the hood of his RV camper across the fence.”
Sounds like Dad. And looks like I’m taking a trip back home sooner than planned.
“You know what?” I reassure her. “That’s totally fine. I don’t mind visiting. It may be a while, though, since I’m just getting settled with work. Can I let you know in a few weeks?”
“Sure. That will be just fine. Looking forward to it. I’ll even make the baked ziti I know you love.”
My stomach churns, remembering the last time Mom made me dinner. I couldn’t see past the stack of ancient Tupperware littering the countertops or the thick layer of dust across every surface.
There was a time many, many years ago when my stomach soared at the thought of her home-cooked meals. That’s how far out of touch she is with reality. It’s heartbreaking.
“Can’t wait, Mom. I’ll call you soon, okay?”
“Okay, Juniper. Love you, honey.”
“Love you too. Tell Dad the same.” And I hang up.
Maybe it’s the way my head falls to the table, or the exhaustion I’m quite positive can be read from across the diner, but Wynonna settles beside me and sets a small plate on the table.
The glorious combination of cinnamon, butter, and freshly baked dough ignites my senses as she slides the plate closer, my head lifting on its own.
Or in this case, my growling stomach leading the way.
“Wanna eat your feelings?” she mumbles, and I laugh softly.
“What makes you think I need it?”
“I’m a lot of things, Juniper, and nosey as shit is one of them. I’ve also taken a liking to you, and it makes me twitchy seeing you upset. Or, well, trying not to be upset.”
The giant homemade cinnamon roll calls to me, and without thinking twice, I rip off a piece of the end and shove it into my mouth.
“Oh my god,” I say in a mouthful. “If only I had access to stuff like this in med school, I would have studied so much harder. Ice cream can only hold down the fort for so long.”
“Yeah, well, you’re welcome to mine anytime,” Wynonna says kindly. “So, anything you wanna talk about? I’m a really great listener.” She grins, and I hear her husband, Jed, in the background yell, “The woman’s got a grave full of secrets! Damn vault, if you ask me.”
I laugh, the worry of my conversation with mom slowly fading away. “I just wish she tried a little harder, you know?”
“Your mama?”
I nod. “Yeah, and Dad. I know we’ve talked about their…choice of living before, so I won’t get into that. But I really want to see them, and they all but told me they won’t come here. I need to go to them. Which is fine, but for once, I was really excited to show them my new home.”
“Rightfully so,” Wynonna mutters, reaching for my hand. “And you should want to show them around, but can I ask you something?”
“Go for it.”
I’ve learned that most things that come out of my older friend’s mouth are usually things of value. Wynonna may have graying hair, faded tattoos, and an unpredictable lack of filter, but she’s one smart woman. And she doesn’t talk just to talk. It’s gotta be worth it.
“Does you wanting them to come here so badly stem from also wanting them to change? Like maybe if they came to Atlanta and saw the way your life is here, that would make them want to change, too? Make something better for themselves like you did?”
I guess I never thought about it like that.
“No. Maybe,” I exhale. “I don’t know. Could be. It’s hard to accept that I can’t fix them.”
“Darlin’, it’s not our job to fix them. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.
But it is our job to love them. You keep doing just that and give them something to be proud of.
I believe good things are coming for you,” she proclaims, standing from the booth.
“These things take time. You just wait.”
I thought I’d truly be alone in a new city where I hardly knew anyone, then in walks Wynonna, the motherly example I never knew I needed.
I look up and grin. “More things, as in more cinnamon rolls?”
“You tell your friends about this place and get more people through my doors, and you can have whatever you want. Mrs. Nonna will make sure you never go hungry again. Ain’t that right, Jed?” she hollers over her shoulder.
The bell at the serving window dings. “Better believe it, Junie Pie. Start keepin’ yourself in shape now. Those Southern pounds pack on quick.”
“No pie for dinner, then, Jedadiah,” Wynonna threatens as she makes her way back to the kitchen.
I laugh to myself, tears on the verge of spilling. There are times when I feel an overwhelming weight of homesickness. But lately, and I’m not sure who or what I owe credit to, I’ve felt a peace I’ve never experienced. Like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
I’m thriving in my purpose, and that’s a powerful thing.
I forced myself out of bed this morning, knowing I’d go crazy without any permanent plans for the day—aside from my date tonight. I’m nervous and figured a morning walk to my new favorite place would hopefully do the trick in settling my nerves.
Sometimes, being alone in that big house makes me feel…claustrophobic. Call it the trauma from my childhood and reliving nightmares of junk falling on top of me in my sleep, but I’m starting to question if, in Atlanta, it’s the fear of being alone.
The fear of occupying such a large space by myself, and never truly feeling filled in. Quite opposite from growing up, but the weight of it sits firmly against my chest.
I finish my coffee and muster up the courage to head home.
There are plenty of things I can do to pass the time before my date.
I could unpack the rest of the boxes for my kitchen or go pick out some outdoor patio furniture.
I’ve been meaning to go shopping for that since the weather’s been so beautiful.
“See you later, Nonna. Bye, Jed,” I shout over the playing record and lay a stack of cash on the table.
I’m out the front door before they can respond, with a prospective plan in place.
As much as I want to be the type of woman who follows her list, and typically I am, the closer I get to home, the more those ideas sound less appealing.
Because all I find myself wanting to do is prepare for tomorrow morning—making pancakes with my new little friend.
And her hot daddy, of course.
Yeah. I think I’ll do that.