Chapter Ten Prue
Ten
Prue
I wake up to a text from an unknown number, and notice I’d somehow texted them last night before they replied today.
Prue: Hi sexy
I roll my eyes, adding Milo’s number to my phone. His text from this morning reads:
Milo: good morning hot stuff
Prue: You’re annoying.
I send. Then, three little dots appear almost immediately.
Milo: is it always so hot and cold with you?
I slip on my housecoat and slippers and make my way down the stairs from my loft to the studio below. After brushing my teeth and getting dressed, I’m out the door into another brisk September morning and walking toward my parents’ back porch when I feel the buzz of two more texts come in.
Milo: when do you want me today?
Milo: is Mrs Welch in good spirits?
I guess he was serious about painting with her. I quickly wipe the smile off my face, once I notice it’s there. I will not be the kind of girl who smiles at her phone when a boy texts. Especially not this boy.
I look up to the back door, unsure of what awaits me inside.
Prue: I’ll let you know.
Milo: stop putting periods at the end of your sentences, it’s freaking me out
Prue: Punctuation is important!
Milo: it’s texting, killer! Loosen up
Prue: Never.
I slip my phone into my pocket as I enter the kitchen and find Mom and Dad both at the table, enjoying breakfast. He’s brushed her hair, as he does most mornings, and tied it into a low bun—just the way she likes it.
“Morning.” I grab the coffeepot and pour myself a mugful. “How did everyone sleep?” I ask them both, but really just Dad.
“Very well,” he says, nodding. “And we’re feeling good this morning, aren’t we, darling?”
Mom nods, biting into her toast. “We are,” she repeats, rocking slightly in her chair. “I slept well.”
“Good!” I lower into the chair next to hers and place my hand on her knee, which is covered by soft fleece pajamas. “Mom, I have a question for you.” I look between her and Dad, unable to help the smile overtaking my face.
She turns toward me, her eyes keen and curious.
“Would you want to paint today?”
She inhales deeply through her nose, nodding. “Yes!” she responds with childlike wonder. “Yes, please.”
“Good,” I say, leaning back into my chair and bringing both hands around my mug, soaking in its warmth as I take in the view of both of my parents contentedly eating their breakfast across from each other.
“A friend of ours is going to come by at some point. He wants to paint with you, if that’s okay. ”
“A friend…” Dad repeats curiously, swallowing a forkful of eggs as he reaches for his coffee. “Is that what we’re calling it these days?”
I nearly shut him down, nearly correct him, but then I see the smirk he buries into his own mug before a nice, long sip. The subtle pride in his eyes that cannot be mistaken for anything but just that.
“You wanted me to get a life,” I mumble, stealing the toast from his plate. “Remember?” I say between bites.
“And life looks rather fun,” he says, snatching back his toast. “I like life…” he adds, taking a gargantuan bite. “Life fixed my sign and speaks my mother tongue.”
“Mother tongue?” I ask, giggling. “You spoke five words of Russian my entire childhood and I’m fairly certain they were just swear words you didn’t want me repeating.”
“Your babushka, God rest her soul, would throw a scalding-hot draniki at my head if she heard you say that.” He sits straighter in his chair, smiling smugly. “I was a good Russian boy, tempted away from my culture by a Welsh witch!”
Mom laughs, sipping her orange juice. “She did like to call me that.”
I reach for his plate again, helping myself to the last piece of toast. “Anyways, you can like life all you want, but he’s probably going to leave soon. So don’t get too attached,” I tease.
“Maybe he’ll be persuaded to stay by a second-generation Welsh witch like I was,” Dad says, wagging his eyebrows. “Or maybe you should go with him.”
“Mom didn’t have to do anything to convince you to stay. Right, Mom?” I ask, patting her wrist on the table. “You knew how to charm Dad without trying, didn’t you?”
“He was easy,” she responds.
“See?” I gloat.
“Did you invite life to your party?” Dad asks me.
“No,” I say, standing to make my own breakfast. “Because I specifically recall saying there wouldn’t be a party this year.”
“It’s your twenty-fifth, darling!” As soon as he speaks, we both check in with Mom to make sure that announcement didn’t startle her. Once we realize she’s off in her own world, staring into her cup of juice, Dad continues. “That is a birthday worth celebrating.”
“I said no,” I repeat. “No,” I warn as he smiles apologetically. “Dad, seriously, no…” I add when he places his hands under his chin like the innocent cherub he is not.
“Just a few dozen people, an extravagant triple-layer cake John and I designed together, and some live music played by yours truly…nothing too much.”
“No, we wouldn’t want to be too much, would we?” I reply.
“You’re my only daughter!”
My toast pops out of the toaster and lands on my plate as I turn over my shoulder to glare at him.
“You’re a menace.” I grab the plate, a knife, and the butter on the counter, and make my way back to the table, enjoying the feeling of normalcy we don’t often get to experience these days.
If Mom wasn’t rocking in her chair, this would be a typical scene from a typical household.
I can settle for nearly normal. Nearly perfect.
I text Milo after my first bite.
Prue: Mom is in great spirits. Come over whenever is best for you.
When he doesn’t immediately respond, as he had earlier, I read my message over again and start to worry.
I’ve never been excellent at niceties, as Milo was quick to point out.
My father told me it’s because I’m otherwise preoccupied, my mind elsewhere, and that I need to try to slow down.
My mother practiced that with me, kept me grounded and present when my imagination beckoned and seemed a much safer place to venture off to.
It’s hard to feel present these days. Hard not to feel like I’m moving from one part of the daily routine onto the next and missing the moments in between. That’s why mornings like this feel so sacred—the three of us sitting around a table in our pajamas, as if there’s nothing to pull us away.
Lately, I’ve been trying to avoid the fickle feeling of hope where I can.
I try not to imagine better scenarios or realities or fixes or cures.
But, even still, I cannot help but feel like today is the start of something better.
That we’re turning over a new leaf as the ones outside of the house begin to crisp and fall.
It’s difficult to admit, but Dad was right. Just one day after accepting some help, we’re already in a better place. Which, subsequently, means Milo is partially to thank too for this happy, hopeful morning.
Prue: And thank you.
I check my texts after I get Mom some more toast…nothing.
Then, when I take Mom upstairs to get dressed ten minutes later…still nothing.
By the time thirty minutes have passed, I decide I’ve offended him somehow, having demanded his help without so much as a please, and begin to panic slightly. I cannot mess this up. Mom needs this. I need this.
Prue: Now that I’m reading that back, I should have said please. Please come by whenever is best for you.
Prue: Sorry.
I fight the urge to text a fifth time in a row, telling him to forget the whole thing, when I see three little dots appear on the left side of my screen.
Milo: easy, killer
Milo: I was in the shower and getting ready to come by
Milo: I like you bossy, don’t forget
Milo: I’ll be there in twenty, if that’s okay?
Milo: please and thank you ;)
Prue: Twenty minutes is perfect.
Prue: …Please and thank you…
When Milo arrives twenty- seven minutes later, he’s dressed as if he’s ready for his first day of school. He’s got a gray backpack strap on one shoulder, a black band T-shirt tucked into his dark blue jeans, and white sneakers that look well-worn.
And, he appears to be, or at least what I’d venture to guess is, his version of nervous. His smile a little tentative, his eyes a little wider, his stature a little less domineering—with his shoulders resting instead of lifted back, his chin straight instead of lifted up.
I meet him at the door of the A-frame as Mom makes herself familiar with her studio again, telling me the same story about the same painting for the second time this morning.
“Are you okay?” I ask, instead of an actual greeting, holding the door only slightly open as his wary eyes search the space between us.
“I-I-I…” He shakes himself, as he did that first day we’d met. “I don’t really know how to…do this. ”
“Just treat her like you always have,” I tell him. “Speak slowly, pronounce your words clearly, but otherwise, you don’t have to be any different. The person you knew is still in there, she’s just a little harder to reach.”
“Are you…” He swallows, his eyes going over my head to the studio and my mother inside of it. “I know the point of all of this is for you to have some time to yourself but—”
“I’ll stay today,” I assure him. “She’s not always great with…” I stopped myself before saying strangers, but based on that sad look on his face, he heard it just the same.
“Okay. Thanks,” he says, nodding.
I open the door fully and wave him in.
“Mom?” I say, getting her attention from the painting next to the sink, the one of a jam-covered field inspired by one of Dad’s favorite songs. “This is Milo, he’s here to—”
“Milo!” She perks up, smiling as she walks over with arms extended wide.
Milo bends over to accept her hug, his stunned eyes held on mine. I smile softly, letting him know that it is perfectly okay when he wraps his arms around her too.
“Hi, Mrs. Welch,” he says softly, then repeats himself louder, and clearer. I nearly laugh at his unnecessary overpronunciation, but resist. “It’s so good to see you again.”
“Look at you!” She steps back, admiring him as she covers her mouth with hands that seem to always be shaking these days. “My, you’re a man now!”
“How many years do you think it’s been, Mom? Ten, eleven?” I ask, helping her along.
“Must be, at least!” Her hands fall to her chest, clasping at the powder-blue fabric of her billowy dress. “You look well, honey, are you well?”
Milo’s eyes well with tears that I pretend not to notice. “Getting there,” he answers plainly. “How are you?”
“Old,” she replies, laughing. “Losing my marbles, I’m afraid.”
He laughs dryly, checking in with me for permission, it would seem. “Aren’t we all,” he says, then sniffs. “It’s really good to see you again.”
Mom reaches out toward me, smiling brightly as her hand finds mine. “This is such a lovely surprise,” she says, then mouths thank you to me.
Realizing she’s forgotten this morning’s conversation, I kiss the top of her hand before I ask, “Would you two want to paint together? If Milo is up for it, that is…”
Milo nods, following my lead. “I would love to. Are you game, Mrs. Welch?”
Mom laughs, short and sputtering. “Wow, it has been a minute since anyone has called me that!”
“Should I start?” I ask her teasingly. “Or get Dad to call you that?”
“Oh, your father would love that,” she returns jokingly, swaying as she holds herself in a tight, hug-like grip.
“So?” I ask, trying to kick-start her memory. “Painting?”
“Ah, yes”—she nods eagerly—“if you have the time…” She looks at Milo for an answer, her eyes dancing with a playful, youthful energy I long to see every day.
Milo drops his bag onto a lifted, bent knee, then pulls out a folded roll of brushes and a sketchbook that’s well used. “For you, Mrs. Welch, I’ll always have time.”
And in that moment, and the moment that follows when Mom smiles and loops her arm through Milo’s after he offers it to her, two realities hit me.
One, this is going to be really good for Mom.
Two, this is going to be really, really bad for my willpower.