Chapter Twelve
Twelve
We touch down in Chicago in the purple of dusk, and a heavy melancholy settles over me.
It’s that end-of-vacation feeling that hangs like a wet velvet cape over my shoulders—I felt it at the end of every summer growing up when it came time to trade crackling bonfire nights at the Outpost for the weight of real life and responsibilities.
Back then, it was school, homework, and bass lessons; now it’s studio shifts and dishes—and actually texting my mother back.
“I’ll cover those.” I wave Renee off. “Consider it a gift.”
Her lips twitch. “But you said your studio job is unpaid and that—”
“Renee,” I warn. “It’s a gift. And if you make me think about numbers right now, I’m going to explode.”
We can already hear Rishi idling outside in the pickup lane, paying homage to our weekend by blaring Snoop Dogg’s “Gin and Juice” at max volume.
Tired as she is, it gets a laugh out of his fiancée, who distributes hugs goodbye.
Chrissy follows her out to catch an Uber, and Renee turns to me with a hopeful half-smile. “Any chance of me getting a ride?”
There would be, if there weren’t a prickly and persistent tug in my chest that needed addressing.
I don’t want to feel all the hard feelings that I know come with going back to Mom’s house, but I don’t want to feel this guilt either.
It has to be one or the other. I adjust my grip on the handle of my suitcase, scanning the sterile airport for a sign to point me in the right direction.
“I’m sorry,” I sigh out, deciding.
“Sure, I get it.” Renee nods and takes one gratuitous step back. She’s not offended; it’s more of an apologetic understanding, an actor taking a note.
“No, no. It’s not…” I shake my head. “I would, but I think I need to stop by my mom’s.”
“Oh.” The tiny crease between Renee’s brows smooths out, and her eyes soften.
Behind her, the sliding glass doors open and close, letting in the screech of city buses and trunks slamming shut, a thousand little distractions, but I can only look at Renee, who looks right back at me.
It’s like our eyes are magnetized, and it’s an effort to pry our gazes apart.
It’s strange—just a few weeks ago, sharing an Uber with Renee Roberts was a punishment; now, I really wish I could offer her shotgun.
In the parking garage, I load Big Blue into the back of my truck, the weight of a half dozen unused disco-cowgirl outfits working against me.
At least no one can doubt my commitment to being a good bridesmaid, but it’s past time I stepped up to be a good daughter, too.
I route to Mom’s house, queuing up the only song that feels right: “Willin’ ” by Little Feat.
Dad’s favorite, buzzing through the speakers of his truck as I steer it back to where it came from, the tree-lined streets of the suburb where I grew up.
Every emotion shuffles like a deck of cards in my chest. I missed it, but also I didn’t. I’m happy, but I’m also haunted.
I spent three quarters of my childhood at this house, but less than a quarter of my memories are set here.
Mostly, I remember our summers at the Outpost, and of the few scattered memories I do have from here in Oak Park, Dad is in so few of them.
Mostly, it was Mom and me, with Dad popping by between tours.
I worry sometimes that I have more memories in this house without Dad than with him.
When I stayed with Mom after the funeral, it almost felt normal, like he’d be home any day and we’d all go back to the Outpost. That was a shade of grief I couldn’t reconcile—feeling like nothing had changed while knowing it would never be the same.
I close out of the maps app and let Little Feat sing me the rest of the way.
I pull up the driveway, and the emotional card deck in my chest slows its shuffling when I spot an unfamiliar car in Mom’s driveway—a generic silver Lexus that could belong to anyone.
Maybe one of Mom’s book club friends? I loop around past the hydrangeas to the side door, the one Mom never locks.
It swings open, like always, and I step inside, down the wood-paneled hall and into the kitchen.
And…there’s a man in my mother’s kitchen.
At least I assume it’s a man. A reasonable assumption based on the stature of the person seated with their back to me.
Their red-and-white Hawaiian shirt stirs up some vague recognition, but I can’t place the silver slicked-back hair of the person wearing it.
They’re knuckle deep in a bowl of trail mix, touching all the other snacks while digging out a cashew.
“Um, hello?”
The man startles enough to knock the trail mix on its side.
When he whips around to face me, it still takes a second for me to place him out of context.
He looks like any number of white guys in his early sixties: ruddy cheeks and wire-frame glasses, like Santa’s slimmer younger brother.
But then it clicks. I know that face: It belongs to Kurt Stanley, the drummer for The Handful.
“Alice, hey!” Kurt’s smile crinkles his cheeks up to his eyes. A perfect thumbprint of a dimple appears in the center of his stubbly chin. “Jeez, let me tell ya, you could’ve given me a heart attack.”
“I could say the same for you.” I shake off the shock and give Kurt a hug.
He smells like unfiltered cigarettes, a smell I recognized as Kurt’s signature scent long before I even knew what a cigarette was.
Dad always loved the story of when we stopped for a burger at a bar in Indiana and six-year-old Alice proclaimed, “It smells like Uncle Kurt in here.”
“How’ve you been, kid?” Kurt digs out another cashew and pops it in his mouth. “Still at Gentle Giant?”
“Sure am.” My gaze flicks from him to the car out front. Gay Nancy Drew is back for a hot new case: What the hell is Kurt doing at my mother’s house?
“Great, that’s great.” Kurt offers up a lopsided smile but still no explanation for his presence.
“Is…is the band here?” I ask.
Kurt’s mouth shrinks behind his mustache, shaky cashew-dusted fingers nudging his glasses up his nose. “I, uh. Well, no.” He clears his throat just as Mom’s voice rings through the house.
“Kurt? Is someone here?” She appears on the stairs a moment later, and a smile breaks over her face. “Alice! What a surprise!”
“A nice surprise,” Kurt amends. He clears his throat into his fist, and Mom joins us in the kitchen.
The two of them stand shoulder to shoulder, facing me as a united front, and a chill zips down my spine.
No. It can’t be that. I run my tongue over the ridges of my teeth, trying to conceive of any possibility, any scenario where this isn’t what it looks like, but then Mom snakes an arm around Kurt’s waist, and I freeze.
“What the hell is going on here?” My voice comes out strained, but it’s nothing compared to the tightness in my chest.
Mom’s lips press into a firm line. She glances nervously up at Kurt, then back to me. “Kurt and I…” Her lips wobble a little. “Well, you know Kurt.”
I do know Kurt. Or I thought I did. Now I’m not sure I even know my own mother. I grit my teeth, biting down on every rude, honest thought that tries to slip out.
Mom keeps going. “Kurt was the one who originally suggested the memorial concert in Galena.” Her hand hasn’t budged from its resting place on his hip.
“We’ve always stayed in touch since we lost your father.
The whole band has, but Kurt is…well, Kurt has shown me a lot of kindness through all of this. ”
“Kindness, huh?” I can feel my pulse in my jaw. “What else did he show you?”
“Alice Marie,” Mom snaps. “Show some respect.”
“Show some respect for Dad!” I fire back. “The man has been dead less than a year, and you’re already dating his drummer?”
“We’re just getting to know each other,” Mom argues.
“Bullshit.” I cough out a bitter laugh. “You’ve known each other for years. Don’t sugarcoat it. Just say that you’re fucking.”
“That’s enough.” Mom’s voice cracks like thunder through the room. Every trace of humor has disappeared from her face; what’s left is red-hot anger and exhaustion and that deep, haunted sadness we’ve both been carrying all year.
I shouldn’t have come here tonight.
“She’s been trying to get you out here, kid,” Kurt offers. As if that’s supposed to help, knowing that Mom was just dying to give me the news. Bile rises in my throat with a vision of the not-so-distant future—Mom cheering for her boyfriend at the one-year anniversary of my father’s death.
“I should go,” I choke out.
“You should stay.” The desperation in Mom’s voice makes my stomach churn. “There’s a storm coming in, honey. It’s not safe, and we should talk about this.”
“I should go,” I repeat, colder and more detached this time.
“I’m sorry.” And I really am, because I know I won’t be back anytime soon.
There’s a look in Mom’s eyes that I’m sure I’m reflecting right back to her.
The look of someone who knows better than to cry right now but really, really wishes she could.
I’m almost to the door when panic cements me in place, the ache of knowing in my gut that I’m forgetting something. My wallet? My keys? When it hits, it’s like a pool cue scratching against the billiards table of my belly. I turn back to catch Mom’s gaze, and my voice breaks. “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you, too,” she croaks out, and only then can I finally leave.