Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Delilah
“Since when do we have places this cute in Fly Hollow?”
Alicia turns to look over her shoulder at the room. The News Room was once someone’s house, now turned into a cozy cafe. It has the original creaking floorboards and framed news clippings from the local paper on the faded olive walls. In what used to be the kitchen, a lanky teenager took our order and grumbled our total to us, which Alicia insisted on paying. I couldn’t talk her down, so I bought two biscuits with chocolate gravy while she collected our coffees, to make up for taking two weeks to answer her invitation.
Two weeks spent mulling over what Truett had said, both on the road home from the school as well as at his house. Two weeks spent wondering if I could forget how it felt to be so close to him again, to have his lips brush mine, this time knowing full well it wasn’t for practice.
If what he said was true—if he’s always wanted me—why wait until now to admit it?
I can’t make heads nor tails of it. But he was right about one thing: I’m not immune to mistakes. Nearly allowing myself to kiss him, to ruin the fragile arrangement we have for my dad by giving in to a temptation with no chance of a future? I’m proving the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. And if I want to believe I can be better, then I have to believe Alicia can, too.
Her gaze slips from the closest news story, meeting mine with an amused spark. “A few years back the local government allotted grant money for any business plans that would improve the town and bring fresh blood to Fly Hollow. Since then we’ve cycled through a couple cupcake shops, one Italian restaurant that lasted a single summer?—”
“Let me guess, no one wanted food they didn’t know how to pronounce?”
“Listen, Delilah, speziata just does not roll off the tongue with an accent this strong.” Her expression is mock serious as she takes on an affected drawl. “They’d honestly do better if they stuck with a classic. I’m thinking McDonald’s, KFC, et cetera.”
I divert my laughter into my cheeks, puffing them out. “Have they tried a Dollar General? That’d drum up some interest. I think this might be the last small town in America that doesn’t have one.”
“Not yet.” She sags in her seat, suddenly listless, and swipes a hand dramatically over her forehead. “But a girl can dream.”
I snort, then hiccup, choking on the sip of coffee I’d been in the middle of taking. “Dream a little bigger, Alicia.”
She grabs a napkin from a nearby table and passes it to me. “But anyway, through all those failed businesses, this one is the only to have thrived so far.”
I finish wiping the coffee spittle from my chin. “With good reason.” I spear a bite of biscuit with my fork. “Their food is delicious.”
Her gaze drifts up the walls, settling on a framed clipping featuring a photo of a man and his son in black-and-white, tilling a small garden. The headline reads, “ Local family starts vegetable garden for the needy. ”
She smiles. “I think it’s because it feels like home.”
She’s right. And not just because it is one. It’s all the things I loved about this town, once upon a time. Even the surly cashier knew Alicia by name and cracked a smile when she asked him about joining concert band in the fall. There’s a group of white-haired women gathered in the corner, holding a gossip counsel they’ve disguised as a book club. Each story on the wall celebrates an achievement, like the ground breaking for a park near the town square, or the year Renee Holt turned one hundred and five. The big and small wins that make up a life.
I know my mom always found it stifling. Since leaving, I’ve tried to convince myself I do, too. But Truett was right. A fact I’m afraid to look too closely at, lest it apply to other things.
“So how’ve you been? How’s your dad?”
“He’s all right.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and bite the corner of my lip. “His meds keep him calm, and he’s altogether pretty alert most of the time. Nights are hard. Talking is getting harder for him now. It takes him a while to find words once he forgets them. The doctor recommended a speech therapist, so he starts there on Monday.”
Her normally serene face crumples with pity. “I’m so sorry, Delilah. I hate that you guys are having to go through that.”
Her words settle over me like a balm to a wound I didn’t know I had. So often I think of this as something my dad is going through that I’m simply bearing witness to. But she’s right. I’m going through it, too. Losing your parent is never easy, I imagine, but how cruel of the universe to make me do it day by day, hour by hour for however many years Dad has left. Wouldn’t it be better to lose him all at once, rather than waking to find pieces of him have disappeared in the night, never to return again?
“It’s been really hard,” I whisper, my voice fracturing. I suck in a deep breath. My lungs ache with the pressure of holding it. “ He’ll be fine all day, and then it’s like a switch turns, and he panics. Or retreats into himself. I’m not sure which is worse.”
“But you have help?”
I nod. “His caretaker, Roberta, comes during the week. And Truett—” I cut myself off, pressing my lips together. My eyes burn. Even with me avoiding him, he hasn’t wavered. He checks in on Dad a few times a week. Brought the mower by on Monday. He even texted me instructions for starting it and cutting the engine off so I wouldn’t have to ask for help. He’s giving me space when he could so easily force his way in. He showed his hand, then left it up to me whether I want to play.
Alicia tilts her head. “And your mom?”
I flinch, and she clicks her tongue.
“I suppose I could’ve guessed as much.” Her hand, smooth and scented with vanilla lotion that wafts up to my nose, settles over mine. “I’m glad you’re not alone in this. And I’m here if you ever need anything.”
My responding smile is wafer-thin. “Sorry it took so long for me to get back to you on making plans.”
“I didn’t really think you’d meet up with me, if I’m being honest.” Alicia takes a sip of her latte. Milk foam pools on her upper lip, and she releases my hand to swipe it away with a napkin. “You didn’t seem too keen when I initially asked.”
The sound of conversation ebbing and flowing, of coffee grinders buzzing, fills the silence between us for a beat. I suck in an aromatic breath and let it out slowly through barely parted lips. The truth is, Truett was right about people changing. About letting people grow, letting them become someone we might not have believed they could be. And since I’m too terrified to apply that logic to him, I picked the next logical person to call.
Alicia doesn’t look at me with any expectation written in her wide brown gaze. She laid it all bare that day in her new classroom, and now she’s giving me the option to do the same. I get the sense I could brush the question off with a nonanswer, and she’d let it go. But that wouldn’t gain me any friends, and Truett hit too close to the truth on that for me to bear. I’ve isolated myself for too long, and for what?
“To be honest, I didn’t plan to at first.” I move a piece of biscuit through a pool of chocolate gravy, back and forth, forming a divide. “I want you to know I’m not angry at you. Not anymore. What you did hurt me a lot back then, but you were a kid. We all were.”
Her throat tenses as she swallows. Her eyes are glassy, cheeks hollow. “I’m so sorry I left you alone to deal with that mess. When Truett said you’d left town, well… I couldn’t help but think it was my fault.”
“You weren’t the one bullying me.”
“I didn’t stop it, either.” A tear puddles on the apple of her cheek. I recognize the sheen of regret in her eyes. I’m sure mine look very much the same.
I drop the fork and reach for her hand. “We’ve all made mistakes. The important thing is that we learn from them.”
“God, you sound like Truett.” Her laugh is part sigh. A relieved smile softens her mouth. Today her lipstick is a vibrant pink that reminds me of the azaleas growing wild along the roads. It suits her.
I think of their easy conversation that day at the school. “Do you two hang out a lot?”
She shakes her head. “No. We see each other around town as much as anyone, but we’re not nearly as tight as the two of you were. There was this one time, though, when I was home on break from college. I ran into him at the Crow Bar and we got to talking about life. About you.”
I imagine the two of them in the local dive, discussing me over a couple of beers. My cheeks warm. “What about me?”
What few sharp edges she has go soft. I feel her gaze tracing my features, and I wonder what it is she’s looking for. Her cheek twitches, the prelude to a smile, and that’s the only hint I get.
“We both had a lot of regrets about how we handled things, that’s all.” She sucks in a breath, sits up straight, and rearranges her face into her normal brand of sunshine. “But you two seemed to work things out, yeah?”
The bell over the door jingles, signifying the pseudo-book club has concluded their discussion. I watch them leave, hoping beyond hope that Alicia no longer possesses the uncanny ability to read me like a letter. “Sure.”
“Oh, come on.” She nudges my shin with the toe of her sandal beneath the table. “Explain that look.”
I sigh. Of course. “Glad to see you haven’t changed a bit.”
“I’ve changed a ton,” she says, puffing up her chest. “But you’re still terrible at hiding your emotions. What’s wrong? Haven’t told him you’re in love with him yet?”
“I’m not in love with him,” I grumble. My biscuit is stodgy and cold at this point, but I take a bite anyway to have something to do.
“I know I’m not a doctor, but my husband is. I’ll bet I could get him to prescribe you something for that denial.” She swirls a finger in my direction.
I roll my eyes, and she chuckles.
“In all seriousness, Delilah, can I give you a piece of unsolicited advice?”
“It wouldn’t be unsolicited if I said yes.”
Her grin is wicked. “Exactly.”
I ball my napkin up and toss it at her. She dodges, and the employee cleaning up the book club table scowls at us.
“Sorry!” I scurry over to collect my garbage and bring it back to the table. Alicia is trembling with laughter by the time I return. “Go on, before I get us kicked out of the nicest restaurant in town. ”
“Uh-uh. The only restaurant in town.”
I point my fork at her. “How could you forget the Grille?”
“Does the Grille count if it’s technically outside of city limits?” She shrugs. “I’m just saying.”
I roll my eyes but smile. “Touché.”
Her smile softens. She trains her gaze on me, watching for my reaction to her words. “Anyway, I think you should be honest with yourself, and be honest with Truett. I imagine your parents, and mine too, would’ve spared a lot of people so much pain if they’d done that.”
A stone sinks in my chest, weighing me down. I part my lips to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.
She leans forward, places a hand on mine, and offers one of those half smile, half frown expressions that says, I know it sucks, but I’m here with you, in a way that fits right into the hollow of my heart.
“Thank you,” I manage to force out.
She pats my hand. “What are friends for?”
I’ve grown so accustomed to getting my mother’s voicemail that it takes me a few seconds to realize she’s answered when I call her on my way home from the cafe.
“Hello? Delilah, can you hear me?” She scoffs. “Godforsaken town with its shitty cell service.”
“I can hear you,” I interject. Early afternoon sunlight filters through the canopy of oaks overhead as I drive down the main road through town, creating a kaleidoscope on my dash. I retrieve my sunglasses from the center console and slide them into place. “Sorry, I didn’t think you’d answer.”
“And why not?” Her tone is tight. Poised for an argument I wasn’t prepared to have. Hell, I wasn’t even prepared for a conversation.
“I don’t know, Mom. You just haven’t lately, I guess.” I don’t want to go home with her on the phone. Not when Dad’s awake to hear every reply. I flick my blinker, then take a turn down a winding dirt road that leads to another access point for the river that flows through Truett’s farm. Groves of dense forest line either side, broken up every so often by double-wide trailers painted varying shades of washed-out beige.
“You haven’t either,” she retorts.
Because you call in the middle of the night, I want to say, but I grind my teeth over the unspoken answer. Mom has always been a night owl. Sometimes she’d climb the stairs to my floor at two in the morning, tiptoe into my bedroom, and shake me awake just to talk about the movie she finished, like I wasn’t dead asleep moments ago.
So often it felt more like we were two college students sharing a too-big apartment rather than a mother and a daughter. I wonder if she was trying to recreate an experience she never really got to have. I know she was a freshman in college when she got pregnant with me and moved to Alabama to marry my dad. How much did she miss because of me? How much did she give up?
Sympathy stretches my impatience out like taffy, working it into something more malleable. More forgiving.
A wooden bridge appears in a break in the trees ahead. I slow, pulling into a small dirt parking lot. There are only a few other cars right now, but come Saturday, the road leading here will be lined with cars overflowing the lot. It’s a popular spot to swim on sweltering summer days. I crack my window, and the sound of children splashing in the river filters in.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I’ve just had a lot on my mind.”
I hear a door close on her side, followed by a wrapper being split open. The image of her raiding our pantry for a pack of Veggie Straws fills my mind, the familiarity of it tugging at my heart.
“What’s been going on?” she asks around a mouthful of her favorite snack. I smile at her predictability. Sometimes I wonder if I know her better than she knows herself.
That thought triggers something in me. A reminder of Truett’s words, and the truth he hinted at but wouldn’t explain. On impulse I decide to ask Mom, hoping someone in my life can shed a little light on things. “I’ve been spending time with Truett?—”
“Lucy’s son? I didn’t think you wanted anything to do with him after?—”
“Yes.” I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I mean, no. I didn’t. He was helping out with Dad before I came back.” I’m toeing the edge of honesty, staring down from this precarious ledge. For reasons I don’t look too closely at, I want to keep parts of him to myself. Who he’s grown up to be. The moment we shared in the kitchen. But there are things he hinted at, things I need to understand, that push me over the edge. “He said some things about the affair, and I just feel like there’s so much I don’t understand. I was wondering if you could help.”
She laughs. It’s a harsh, painful sound. My hand flutters to my throat like I can soothe her ache.
“What’s there to understand? Your dad cheated. That bitch was always prowling around, and she finally got what she wanted. They didn’t even have the decency to do it in private, for Christ’s sake.” Her voice grows louder, more heated with every word. She sucks in a shaky breath and adds, “I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but God help me if that isn’t karma.”
A tear snakes beneath the rim of my sunglasses. Falls down my cheek. I shake my head, knowing she can see me about as well as she can understand how much it hurts for her to talk about someone I loved that way. Someone I lost, too. Which is to say, not at all.
“Was that night the first time that something happened between him and Lucy?”
“Why? What have you heard?”
“Nothing.” I sigh heavily, but it relieves none of the weight in my chest. “It just doesn’t make any sense. Why would Dad cheat out of the blue? I know you two didn’t always get along?—”
“We got along fine.”
I bite my cheek, allowing the searing pain to clear the fog of annoyance. Denial is a stage of grief, I suppose. Is it possible that she’s still grieving her relationship with Dad after all this time? Before, I would’ve said it’s unlikely. But maybe my absence has brought it all back into focus. “Right. But was something going on that you guys didn’t tell me? Were you two fighting?”
“Why can’t you believe that your father did something bad without accusing me of causing it, huh? You’ve always worshipped him, but he’s not perfect either, Delilah.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Mom.” I force my tone to remain level, my version of crouching low to approach a cornered animal. “I’m simply trying to understand.”
She mutters unintelligibly—something unholy, I’m sure—then bites out, “What lies is he filling your head with?”
“None, Mom. It’s not like Dad and I are taking a deep dive into our family trauma given his condition.”
She pauses. In the silence, the sound of families enjoying the beautiful day rushes in. I envy them with such intensity that it knocks the breath out of me. I want to stagger from this car, from this conversation, and sink into the cool river below. Build sandcastles and throw Frisbees and just enjoy life for once. I can’t remember the last time I did.
I picture a different part of the river and a shirtless, blond- headed man with water spilling over the contours of his abdomen. A shiver unspools down my spine.
When Mom speaks again, all her guards are up. “So why the third degree then?”
I let loose a captive breath. It stretches my cheeks, and I feel the pull of sticky skin where my tears have dried. “I just asked if there was more to the story, that’s all. Hardly a third degree.”
“Seems to me like the more time you spend there, the more you allow yourself to be manipulated into believing your dad was the victim in all this, when I was the one humiliated in front of the whole town.”
I’m so tired. Tired of being torn between the two of them, never able to decide for myself how I feel or what I want to believe. My bones ache from the weight of her expectations. Her need for absolute loyalty, when Dad has never once tried to convince me of his innocence. If anything, in that first year when he still called, his words were laced with guilt. Shame. When Mom sent him my letter, that must’ve confirmed every deeply held fear he had. That he was unforgivable. And for a long time, I was sure he was. But now?
“I’m not being manipulated. No one is trying to sway me to one side or the other, Mom.” Except you. “Me being here to help care for my sick father is not some jab at you.” My next inhale stings my lungs. Fuels my fire. “Maybe I’m just finally out from under your umbrella of control and you hate that because then you can’t influence my perception of you or Dad. Like you have the past nine years, trying to convince me that he was the villain.” She gasps, but I push on. “And maybe no one was really the villain in the first place. Or everyone was, at least a little bit. Hard to say when you refuse to even discuss things with me. It was my life, too, you know.”
Her choppy sobs fill the speaker. “I gave up everything for you, Delilah. I don’t understand how you could be so cruel to me, saying things like that.”
Just as quickly as anger filled me, it dissipates, leaving me rotten and empty. My chest caves in from the weight of the guilt. “I’m sorry, okay?” I open my eyes. Even with sunglasses, the light is blinding. “I’m under a lot of stress, and I’m just trying to make sense of everything. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
Her cries die on a whimper. A self-soothing hum meant to ease the ache. It’s her signature epilogue. The way she’s ended her crying fits for my entire life. “Delilah, I just don’t think being there is the best thing for you.” Another hum. This time low, contemplative. “Maybe it’s time you come home.”
I exhale, deflating entirely. My shoulders sag. The seat cushions embrace me as I sink in.
I don’t know how to tell her that when I hear that word, I don’t picture the sprawling house the two of us shared. There’s no grand staircase or arched doorways or vaulted ceilings. Home whispers through my ears, and I see live oaks blown by a summer breeze. The heady scent of spring blooms mixed with the earthy aroma of hay and cattle. I’m on a front porch, with Dad’s black Converse kicked off by the door and an old, rusted chain squeaking in tune with the lazy sway of the porch swing it supports.
Despite all the pain, all the uncertainty, when she says come home, I look around at the dark river, and the tall pines, and the bright blue sky, and I think to myself, I’m already here.
I picture Dad playing guitar in his window seat. I feel worn hardwood beneath my bare feet. I see him scanning the kitchen cabinets for cat food he’ll never find. That ache in my chest turns to agony. My home is changing, and I am too, right alongside it. That’s not my mother’s fault. But that doesn’t mean she’s spared from the repercussions .
Rather than try to explain it all, I just sigh and say, “He needs me here, Mom.”
“And I don’t?”
My head meets the headrest with a muffled thud. “Why does it have to be a competition?”
I didn’t mean to say it aloud, and by the hiss of breath coming from her end, I should’ve bitten my tongue.
When she finally speaks, her voice is dripping with indignation. “It’s not, but I certainly know where I’d fall if it was. I’ve got to go, Delilah.”
“Mom—” I start to say, but the call is already cut off. “ Fuck. ”
I tear my gaze from the river, the trees, the sky. The steering wheel is warm beneath my palms as I back out of my spot, shift into drive, and head toward home.