Chapter 5 Present
A quiet day on the water sounded pretty good about now. Back then, the worst we had to worry about were sunburns and mosquito bites. I’d gladly trade that for the weight of what was waiting for me.
Anxiety sat heavy on my chest, and my grip on the wheel tightened. I used to pedal these streets with the wind in my hair, no worries beyond how far my bike could take me. Now, every turn had me on edge, and passing the curious glances left me regretting ever coming back.
I decided it was best to take the long way around, circling wide of Founder’s Court — Shay’s version of Main Street.
No sense in drawing attention. The watchful eyes of Shay were always prepared to spread the word.
And I doubt when I left, I took the town’s habit of gossip with me.
I wouldn’t be surprised if “The Wall” still stood, with space waiting for the next headline:
“The Ghost of Shay’s Past Has Returned.”
With every passing mile, it didn’t matter how far out of the way I went to dodge the bloodsuckers — and no, I’m not referring to the mosquitoes.
I knew, sooner or later, I was going to have to turn down that road — the one I’d once thought was the epitome of Southern charm and beauty.
The Spanish moss still hung thick from the oak limbs, but it no longer reminded me of curtains drifting in a summer breeze.
Now, it felt more like a torn veil draped over a forgotten portrait — something meant to hide what was lost.
As I inched closer to Sweetbriar Road, I kept my eyes forward, unwilling to glance at the places where so much of that summer still lingered.
With an unexpected — but welcome — sense of relief, I finally pulled into my parents’ driveway.
I guess the crackle of gravel beneath my tires betrayed any hope of slipping in unnoticed.
Mom, sitting on the porch swing as she often did — got to her feet.
I was a little impressed she was still so steady, so alert, after all those years of drug abuse.
She’s better now. She survived the ’70s and got the help she needed.
As an adult, I understand now what she was hiding from, what she was masking — though back then, no one called it what it was.
Postpartum depression wasn’t something people talked about in the ’50s.
There wasn’t much understanding, no real help.
Just doctors handing out prescriptions — little yellow pills to keep the housewives quiet.
As I stepped out into the summer heat, the familiar scent of strawberries and honeysuckle hung thick in the air — like the humidity after a storm.
Unlike me, Mom couldn’t help but look happy — and maybe a little relieved.
I suppose seeing me here for the first time in years would do that.
"Hey there, honey." Her Northern accent was long gone; the Southern drawl much stronger now.
I forced a smile. I didn’t want her thinking I wasn’t happy to see her, too — though the dread of being home still gripped me.
I popped the trunk and grabbed what I needed for the next few days.
By the time I reached the porch, I set my bags and typewriter case down to free my hands.
For all my hesitation about coming back, I really had missed her.
When I was a kid, her smile and soft voice could always settle my nerves.
Her hug came quickly, like she didn’t want to give me time to rethink all of my decisions about coming back.
And for the first time since driving into Shay, the knot of anxiety in my chest began to loosen.
Her hug was familiar. But different. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. A lot had happened over the years.
When Mom felt sure enough that I wasn’t about to make a run for it, she stepped back, releasing a quiet sigh — maybe not even aware she’d been holding her breath.
The screen door creaked behind us, and the air seemed to thicken as Dad stepped onto the porch.
His steps were slow and labored. He looked tired — worn in a way that went deeper than a long day’s work.
Unlike with Mom, I found it hard to meet his eyes.
Too much had been left unsaid for too long.
I glanced down instead — the paint on the porch had long since faded.
Everything about this house seemed a little more tired these days.
With a halfhearted smile that still reeked of shame, he gathered the bags without saying a word.
If Mom noticed the tension, she didn’t show it—"I’ve got you in your old bedroom. Hope that’s okay."
I held back a sigh. "Yeah, Mom. That’s fine."
The exchange still felt forced — but I was tired, and I had work to do.
I didn’t plan on spending any more time in Shay than I absolutely had to.
I stepped into my old room and stopped cold — transported straight back to a place I wasn’t sure I was ready to face.
The girl I used to be. Nothing had changed.
The furniture sat in the same place. That god-awful pink wallpaper still clung to the walls like it was holding its breath — suffocating.
I knew that feeling better than I cared to admit.
I couldn’t help but wonder if Mom had left it that way on purpose.
Maybe she wasn’t ready to let go of the daughter she once knew.
Maybe she still hoped that version of me might somehow come back.
Like those easy summer days at the lake, that daughter was long gone.