Chapter 23 Georgia
Georgia
I shouldn’t be surprised when Eddie Rigsby pops his head up into the attic of my childhood home and shuffles over to Junie.
He gives her a platonic side hug (the chasteness for my benefit, I’m sure) and waves.
“You ladies are making quick work of this,” Eddie says.
I was already shaky from the memories of Mama in here, and now he’s here, and my knees are jelly, and I just want to melt
and cry, but maybe I’ll just scream. Not now, I can’t—
Tina jumps in. “Are you up for lugging some boxes downstairs? That ladder’s a bit wobbly for me.”
I turn back to my boxes, tucking myself behind a row of them. I’m doing my best to be happy for Junie and Eddie, but just
looking at them burns a little. I’m already being forced to revisit the loss of Mama up here; I don’t need my Eddie scars
resurrected at the same time.
“Eddie isn’t staying,” Junie says. “It’s supposed to be ‘Louises only,’ remember? But I’m sure he could take something down
on his way out.”
“Just stopping by, huh?” Tina bites a grin. “Awful sweet.”
“Stop.” Junie swats at Tina playfully then slings an adoring glance at Eddie.
“For once I agree with Georgia,” Cece says from the other end of the attic. “There’s a mountain of work here. We don’t need
puppy dog eyes slowing us down.”
“Let him take the heavy stuff down, and then we’ll send him on his way,” Junie says.
“Sounds good!” I yell from behind my barricade of boxes across the attic.
It comes out far too loud, and I stay in my hiding spot.
It feels like the sound I made gets stuck up there with us. I just hope it gets easier to watch my little sister dating the
only man I’ve ever truly loved. Even the sound of it is absurd—something impossible by definition. But I don’t have a choice,
and I won’t make a stink—that’s what big sisters do. Sure, I probably went a bit far saying I was giving my blessing, like some half-wit in charge, but I also caused Eddie a boatload of hurt in the past, so who am I to deny him a bit of happiness
now? Maybe karma is a thing after all.
Eddie lets the aunts load him up with an overstuffed box and shouts an enthusiastic “Good luck!” behind him as he navigates
his way down the ladder.
His absence feels like a reprieve. Not that I should be lingering on my bruised heart when I was the one responsible for it.
Despite my culpability, the memories become noisy in my head and the dense air around me is too much. I’m desperate for a
fresh breath, a moment away from the important-unimportant stuff that my mother once touched. So I can think.
I wait a few minutes to make sure Eddie is gone, then drag myself out from behind the boxes and perch on a stack of National Geographic magazines. “What can I haul down?”
“I got a load of old Christmas decorations over here that no one’s touched in years,” Cece says. “Nothing sentimental. Just limp tinsel and cracked bulbs.”
I weave my way over to her and take the box. “I’ll trash this and be back after I grab a glass of water.”
I shimmy down the attic ladder, balancing the light box on my palm. I plop onto the carpeted hallway with a muted thud and
continue down the stairs. When I round the corner into the kitchen, I slam front first into a person, and the box launches
out of my hand and flies across the room, leaving a sprinkling of Christmas behind.
My father stands in front of me. He adjusts his glasses, runs a hand down the front of his button-up, and sets his eyes on
me.
“Hey, Dad.” I smile, noticing he’s a bit grayer at his temples than I remember. He was out for a walk in the woods when we
arrived this morning and let ourselves in. “Just getting this old Christmas stuff to the trash. Might need to schedule an
extra trash pickup now that I’m thinking of it.”
I bend and start grabbing gnarled strings of bulbs and winding stray tinsel around my hands into Christmassy bird’s nests.
My father lowers himself beside me, reaches for an ornament and begins turning it for examination.
“I can handle the trash,” he says. “But I’m surprised you’re still here and all—seeing as it’s a workday. You have a minute?”
He nods at the breakfast table.
I follow him over to the table, where I place the box and sit. “What’s up?”
Dad pulls a chair out slowly and takes his time getting comfortable. He smiles. “It’s so good to see your face, Georgia. We’re
so proud of you, but we sure miss you.”
“I know, but I’m here now,” I say.
He nods, then places a finger over his lips, creases his brow, and puts on his thinking look. After a moment he sucks in a
breath. “I’m a little worried about your sister.”
I realize in that moment that I don’t know how much of the situation Junie has looped him in on.
Arguably, he would’ve asked questions about why we’re setting up a garage sale of his things.
I decide the safest bet is to reveal as few facts as possible in the course of the conversation.
“I think she’s just got a lot on her mind with the shop. ”
He nods. “Yes, I know all about that hullaballoo. Well, mostly. I think. Do you think she’s . . . alright?”
I sigh in a tone I hope is understanding. “Construction in your place of work is stressful, Dad, so probably she’s not her
normal self. But from what I can see, she’s stepping up and managing the situation as best she can.”
“It’s just—it’s not only the shop. She seems off. Maybe she’s just embarrassed about the whole situation and avoiding me,
but she rarely takes my calls and when she does, she’s always rushing off somewhere.”
It wouldn’t surprise me if Junie’s trying to downplay the extent of the problem to him. She has always wanted to prove that
she can stand on her own two feet. “She’s working hard to fix her mistake. I don’t think there’s much else we could ask.”
“Guess that’s what I’ve always wanted from her.” He chuckles. “Maybe soon enough she’ll be handling it all and you’ll be off
the hook.”
He says it like it’s a best-case outcome for me, having no practical reason to come back, no longer being called upon to tag
in. Little does he know they are some of my favorite moments.
I start to stand. “I’ll keep an eye on her, but the others will have my head if they think I’m just down here shooting the
breeze while they’re sweating their rears off up there.”
Dad pats the table efficiently. “Of course.”
When I grab my box, the grocery bags on the other side of the table shift, revealing the contents. Mama’s old recipe book
sits beside.
“I’ve been trying out baking in my retirement.” Dad’s cheeks flush. “Learned quite a bit so far.” He takes the bags and moves them over to the counter.
Dad worked at the local bank as his primary job for decades, his accounting at June’s always his part-time, after-hours gig.
“Very cool. You know they say keeping active in retirement is important.” I stand. “I should head up. See you in a bit.”
I return to the attic thinking about my father baking. It’s a swirl of fondness and sadness inside me. Because I know it’s
an attempt to feel close to her. He misses her just like the rest of us upstairs. It was the only directive he gave us: “Don’t take anything of June’s, but otherwise have at it.”
As I rise through the gap in the ceiling, the physical presence of Mama feels like a warm, welcoming hug. No wonder she is
missed in the flesh.