Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
CELESTE
With my father currently occupied at his biweekly physical therapy session that goes for two hours, I sit in the town library hoping to find something to read, information on caring for a family member with Alzheimer’s, and maybe something on home maintenance.
Despite Marie giving me the rundown and the Godzilla of all binders, I still feel out of my depth.
Christmas is not helping.
All the expectations of participating in town events and seeing people I haven’t spoken to in over a decade are resurrecting my long-lost anxiety, that’s for sure.
As if the universe is indeed laughing at me, my old principal from elementary school wanders past, stopping short when she notices me at the long central table in the center of the library.
Yeah, right in the center of the library was probably a bad idea.
“Celeste! How lovely to see you home.”
“Hey, Ms. Kincaid.”
“It’s Mrs. Semple now,” she says with a wink, flashing me her ring finger.
“Oh, I didn’t realize. Sorry.”
She pulls out a chair, dropping the three books that were in her arms to the table.
Just great.
“How have you been? It’s been so long. How’s your dad?”
I don’t know which one to answer first, so I go with the easiest. “Dad is doing okay, I guess.”
She tilts her head the way people do when they feel bad for you. “You’re a gem to come home and take care of him. I know that must be really hard. To leave a career behind and move back to the tiny town you—” She squeezes my hand.
I ran from. Was that what she was going to say?
“So far, it’s been nice to be home, but I’m not sure I’m cut out for the caretaker gig. I’m kind of terrible at it, actually.” The last few words fade out.
“You know what you need? A project of your own to think about. It can feel very isolating when work or whatever is the only thing you’ve got going on. Take it from me.”
The way her face strangles back something that looks like grief tells me all I need to know.
“How long?” I ask softly.
“Five years now. And Steven was a godsend. And now I don’t know what would have become of me without him.” She glances at her gold-and-diamond adorned finger.
“I’m sorry,” I utter, trying to not let emotion get the better of me. One of the downfalls of being a creative—I feel everything so intensely, even if it’s not my own.
She scrunches up her nose and forces a smile, her hand clasping over mine. “The school is looking for someone to help with the art program. They have taken on a rather ambitious project for Christmas Eve. Your help would be much appreciated.”
“I don’t know, it’s hard to leave Dad alone.”
“I understand, but think about it, will you? For you, more than anything else, okay?”
I nod.
She rises from the chair and waves goodbye as she hugs the books to her chest before disappearing into the history section.
How am I supposed to focus on anything else but the full-time, twenty-four-seven job of taking care of my father? I’m barely managing as it is.
I flip open the book I found on his condition, checking that it covers what I need to learn.
When I find two that seem to have a comprehensive overview on Alzheimer’s, I set them aside.
Next, I flip through the pages of a home maintenance manual.
Diagrams and detailed instructions on how to do just about anything to upkeep and fix your home resides on the pages.
I set that one on the take-home pile, too.
After applying for a new library card—who knew they expired?
—I bundle up and brave the new fall of snow and take a walk down Main Street.
Each shop or building I pass resurrects memories I’d long forgotten.
But unlike the memories filled with friends and my siblings, of that feeling of freedom that someone on the brink of discovering the big wide world has, now I feel the heavy regret of not having accomplished the things I’d set out to do.
My art.
All the travel I wanted to do, the places I wanted to visit. The cultures I never immersed myself in . . .
The art and people.
Now anchored to this small town by my heart and soul in the shape of the man who raised me, any hope I had left is fleeting. And that burns, so much so that I stop in the snow, staring into the window of the Gift Shoppe on Main Street.
Only, I’m not staring at treasures for my loved ones . . . Just at my reflection that feels as stagnant as my future.
I never thought this was how my life would turn out. My art was everything.
But maybe I was just a big fish in a small pond.
Guess now I’ll never know.
With a sorrowful sigh, I turn and head back to the truck parked by the library. Unlocking the driver’s side door, I toss my bag onto the passenger’s seat and climb up. My head hits the steering wheel. The horn blares. I jerk back, my heart racing.
Shit.
Maybe Mrs. Kin—Semple was right. I need a hobby. A distraction. Something to think about other than all the ways I’ve failed myself and am currently failing my dad.
Putting the truck into gear, I drive home, a tiny sliver of hope sparking to life as I turn onto my street.
The binder lays on the counter, open to the Thursday meal plan, the corresponding recipes for the day tabbed in a color-coded pink. Parental care for dummies.
That’s me.
The dummy who is having trouble deciphering how to make beef meatloaf and steamed dark greens.
I reread the recipe for the third time. Do I put the eggs in on top of the meat, or in a separate bowl? Lord, who knows.
The counter is now littered with ingredients, measuring cups, spoons, a bunch of herbs—some of which I’ve never heard of—and the basics like flour, pepper, salt, and garlic powder.
A loaf pan. I need a loaf pan . . .
What on earth is a loaf pan?
Urgh, Marie, how could you do this to me?
“Need a hand?” a small voice chirps from the doorway.
I jump, dropping the wooden spoon that was in my hand.
“Oh my god, where did you come from?” I ask the young girl in the kitchen entrance.
“I heard you swearing from next door.” She’s trying and failing to flatten a cheeky smile.
Oh shit.
I mean, dammit.
You shouldn’t swear around kids, I’m guessing.
“Sorry, I’ll keep it down.”
“That’s okay.” She walks in, slipping onto a stool like she’s done this before. “I can help.”
“Um . . . okay?”
“I’m Maisey. What are you making?”
“I’m Celeste.”
I turn the binder around to face her, and she slides it closer, nodding. “Yum!”
“Really?” I wring my hands through the apron covering my jeans and sweater.
“We’ll make it yummy.”
I chuckle and she smiles up at me. I like this kid. She’s got spunk.
“You read the recipe, and I’ll do the grunt work,” she says, sending the binder sliding over the counter toward me.
“You can’t read?”
“I’m in kindergarten, lady, so that’s a no.”
I can’t help laughing at her, but I try to tamp it down, pressing my lips together and holding a hand over my mouth.
“Got it,” I finally manage to say.
“So, what’s the first instruction in the recipe?” she asks.
I raise a brow. “You sure you can’t read?”
“Yep. My dad reads, I cook.”
“Ah, of course.”
I read the first dot point out to her slowly. She grabs the ground beef and dumps it into the bowl with the herbs, salt, and pepper just as I instructed.
We work as a team until the bowl is full of what looks like a mushed-up brain with green flecks and the random diced vegetable poking from the mass. It looks . . .
“Your oven, it’s not on.” Maisey looks at me, surprised.
“Was it supposed to be on?”
“You always turn on your oven before you start cooking.”
“Oh shoot, really?”
“Yeah, it’s okay, this will wait. Baking is a whole different story, though,” she says with an exaggerated eye roll.
How is this little girl better at life than I am?
“Okay, how do I turn it on?”
“You serious?” Maisey’s brows fling toward her hairline.
“Yeah, my mom—I never learned to cook.”
“Oh, okay.” She looks as if she’s figured something out. “Turn this knob to bake. This one does the temperature.”
Marie was great at taking care of us. We never went without, but she didn’t teach us the things a mother would, I guess.
I’ve never cooked. Which was sometimes an issue for roommates I had, and not for others. Takeout is always welcome, and I was happy to buy it in lieu of cooking. A choice that is now coming back to bite me.
When the oven dings, I open the door and slide the loaf pan into the middle shelf under Maisey’s supervision.
She holds a hand out for a high five when I shut the door.
I slap my palm to her small one and she wanders toward the pantry cupboard, her head disappearing a second later. “Got anything to eat?”
“You mean apart from meatloaf and dark greens?”
“Yeah. Yuck, spinach is so gross.”
I pull open the drawers until I come across a bag of chocolate chip cookies. “How about these?” I ask.
She pulls her head from the depths of the pantry. On seeing the cookies, she plants herself onto the stool by mine. I bust open the bag, and we dig in.
Milk, we need milk . . .
“Milk, hon?” I ask.
She scrunches up her nose at the endearment but answers, “Sure.”
I grab two glasses and the milk from the fridge. After pouring our milk, we dig in again.
My name is a faint call as I scarf down the cookies, chatting away with my new friend and cooking buddy.
Dad.
“Sorry, I better see if he’s okay.” I rise from the stool, finishing off my milk.
“That’s okay, I’ll wait.”
“Be back in a bit.”
I stride to the living room, where I find my father worrying over the tree we bought the other day. The three lines of tinsel wrapped around the girth of it glitter in the afternoon sunset.
“You okay?” I ask, coming to his side as he rubs a hand over his sweater, his head shaking.
“No, this tree is . . .”
“It’s lovely.”
He gives me a deadpan look.
“Come on; it’s fine. We barely even do Christmas, anyway.”
His mouth opens in something like shock.
“Daddy . . .”
Confusion floods his face.
Shit.
I will never get used to this. I scramble to think of something to fix this. “My daddy is, ah, coming with more decorations next week. It’ll be beautiful then.”
“What day is he coming? I need everything to be perfect for Tish this year, after all that happened last year.”
Last year?
I rack my brain, trying to think of something bad that happened to my mother besides her dying when I was seven. But we were so young, and Dad didn’t talk to us about her much after she died. We figured it was because it was just too painful.
Now?
“Is she okay now?” I ask, hoping his memories are clear enough to be understood. Desperate to know more about my mother.
“She will be, lass. Marie will make sure of it.”
Marie?
He turns his attention back to the tree, his jaw feathering. “This Christmas has to be a good one. It just has to be.”
Oh, Daddy.
The front screen door whines and then slaps closed. Oh shoot, I forgot about Maisey. Leaving Dad to the tree, I walk toward the sound of heavy footsteps now thundering down my hallway.
Not Maisey, then.