Chapter 27 Just Like You
JUST LIKE YOU
“Idon’t know how I feel about this being the first birthday we don’t go fishing.” Dad scrunches his face into a troubled look that has Mom laughing sympathetically.
“We’ll go next weekend, Doug.”
Dad shakes his head. “I don’t know. This isn’t right.”
“She’s growing up.” I’ve never had a cheerleader like Mom, and I’ll never have one like her again. She’s the best of the best.
“We’re growing up, too.” Dad sips from his coffee cup with a man-pout. “Soon we’re going to be too old to fish.”
“You’re being dramatic,” Mom accuses, side-eyeing Dad before she slides those eyes to me so that she can roll them.
“I’ve earned the right to be dramatic. I’ve donated years of my life to the little leach and now she won’t even fish with me on our birthday.”
Biting back the urge to laugh, I move across the kitchen to where Dad sits at the table. He’s making a show of hunting for the next piece of Mom’s puzzle. This one is a mountainous landscape that makes me think of Rubble Ridge. Of home.
Draping my arm across his shoulders, I hug Dad tightly. He mock-wheezes, like he doesn’t love the attention. I press a kiss to his head and promise, “We’ll go fishing next Saturday for the whole Saturday.”
He murmurs something that sounds like agreement.
I press, “Deal?”
“Throw in a box of them glazed croissants and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
I look over my shoulder at the tap on my door to see Mom leaning against the frame. “Hey.” I toss a second swimsuit in my bag, because I can’t decide which is better. Then I throw in a stack of shorts.
“You’ve got your toothbrush?” Mom asks.
“Yep.” I pat the side of my bag where my toiletries are tucked.
Mom moves to sit on my bed, watching as I pile the rest of my clothes into my bag. We’re only going for three nights, but I want to be prepared for anything. I don’t want to ruin the weekend by forgetting something like underwear.
Oh, underwear! I palm my forehead. “I forgot underwear.”
Mom laughs as I dart to my dresser, scooping a stack of panties, socks, and a couple bras from inside. I drop them into the bag.
“Did you pack a couple pairs of sweats? Mornings are cold.”
“Sweats.” I snap my fingers as I nod, pivoting back to the dresser.
It’s as I’m tucking the sweats into the bag that Mom asks, “Have you been taking your pills?”
“Yes.” I’ve forgotten a few here and there, but I’ve been taking them.
“Good.” Mom shifts and pulls something from her pocket. When I realize it’s a little stack of condoms, my face turns apple red.
“Mom!”
She says nothing as she tucks them into the section with my toiletries. “Safety first.”
“We’re not doing that.” I don’t know why I have to keep telling her this. And I don’t know why it never gets less embarrassing.
She frowns. “There’s always a first time, Faye. It’s best to be prepared.”
“I’m sharing a tent with Andy and Shy.”
Mom gives me a smile that feels knowing. “I was seventeen once, too.”
“I’m not seventeen,” I mumble.
“Your birthday is tomorrow.”
I give her a wry smile. “Don’t you mean our birthday?”
She laughs softly. “I’m not trying to make you feel pressured not to do something. If you choose to do that with Holt, to give that piece of yourself to him, then I support you. All I am asking of you, Faye, is that you are safe.”
“Okay, Mom.” I return her soft smile.
She stands, moves close, and pulls me in for a hug. “I love you, baby girl.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
Her arms pulse around me, like she just can’t help herself. Like the emotion is too much to be contained inside her. She makes a noise. A sigh of relief tinged in grief.
I tip my head back to see misty eyes. “Mom?”
“Watching you grow up has been the greatest gift God could have ever given me.” She sniffs. “But it hurts, baby. In the sweetest, most painful way. It just happens so fast. So clearly, I can remember the day you were born. I blinked, and now you’re a young woman.”
“Mom…”
“Sometimes I feel like I feel your life more intimately than you do, Faye. Your fears keep me up at night. Your hopes and dreams are my hopes and dreams. I’m watching your journey to happiness, knowing that there will be times when it’s dark with heartache.
I want to shield you from it all, and yet I can do nothing but watch as you step into life.
As you live it. All the beautiful, ugly parts of it.
One day you’ll understand. When you hold your baby in your arms—when you blink, and they’re all grown up. You’ll understand.”
“I hope I’m a mom just like you one day.”
“Oh, baby.” She presses her lips to my hair, inhaling. There’s a tremble to her hug. Emotion bleeds from her into me. “I love you so much.”