3. Dottie
3
DOTTIE
There are so many expressions, idioms, human-isms–whatever you want to call them–that a person can't truly appreciate until they've experienced them.
'Youth is wasted on the young', for example. When I was a preteen, all I wanted was to be a grown up. Twenty-five, specifically. It sounded so fabulous, being twenty-five. I'd be independent, beautiful and have a husband who loved me and two kids and a golden retriever. I'd wear red lipstick and black dresses every day and do Pilates with other hot moms on the weekends.
I turned twenty-five in a two-bedroom apartment that I shared with three girls in Glendale. I had a killer hangover from too many Washington Apple shots the night before, and found myself wishing I was a preteen looking forward to the boxed yellow cake with fudge frosting and eleven pink candles stuck on top made by Mrs. Hudson .
Another one of those expressions that you can't appreciate until you do?
'Time stood still.'
Sure, I understood it in a theoretical sense. The way everything seems to slow down when some says, 'Can I ask you a question?', or that charged, thick, buzzing second right before a first kiss that seems to last for an eternity.
But I never quite saw it in real life. Not until a moment ago when Kira drove right over the city limits, past the rotting, wooden 'Welcome to Be utiful Fox Hole' sign. The painted 'a' in beautiful has chipped off since before I can remember, and from what I can tell, the rest of the vowels are not far behind. Surrounded by lush green mountains, the view would almost be picturesque if I wasn't so determined to dislike it.
Driving down Main Street feels like entering some sort of Doctor Who -esque wormhole to the past. Miss Pattie's Precious Pies & Sweet Treats still sits on the corner of Main Street and Raspberry Lane, conveniently located right next door to The Wheel Medic, the only mechanic shop within fifty miles of this place.
There's something sickly soothing about the smell of fresh croissants mixing with car grease that I forgot about. No wonder I always crave baked goods when I get my oil changed.
We drive past Share Shop Market, the one and only grocer in town, a cooperative that sells goods from local farmers, distillers and artisans, as well as the normal grocery store fare. I always thought it was kind of funny to see the yellow, family-sized bags of potato chips stocked right next to the forty-ounce bottles of Old Man Shoehorn's Tennessee Delight Pale Ale.
I suppose the folks of Fox Hole have always been a little less 'milk and cookies' and a little more 'pretzels and beer'.
For all intents and purposes, this place is the same as it always was. There's something weirdly comforting about that.
Kira somehow gets away with driving thirty-five miles per hour down the main drag of town without nabbing the attention of one of the three cops that suit up here, even though I'm pretty sure the speed limit in town is still a measly fifteen. She turns at the end of Main Street onto Lilac Loop, and five minutes later we're heading up the private drive that loops around the secluded mountain property owned by her fathers. Despite the Fox Hole address, McKenna Mountain–as it has been so nicknamed by the town since the McKenna men bought the property in the early aughts–could have its own zip code. The house itself looks modest enough from the outside, but it's gorgeous, nonetheless. Sitting on the edge of a sparkling blue man-made lake and surrounded by trees that seem to reach the sky, the four-bedroom cabin-esque home is wrapped in wood and stones. There's a large fire pit perfect for late summer nights roasting marshmallows and a dock made for cannonballing off on hot and humid August afternoons. The lush greenery makes the entire property feel like a forest oasis, and sometime in the last few years, Kira's dads have supposedly added an outdoor, wood-burning sauna that I'd really like to give a try.
With the sun low in the sky, the water of the lake sparkles with a purplish hue. I can't help the smile that creeps across my face looking at the familiar body of water where so many of my best moments were spent as a kid. Kira, Stephen and I would spend all day swimming, canoeing, chasing each other through the woods, sometimes accompanied by Dean when he felt like shedding his 'too cool for school older brother' attitude and slum it with us. I spot the far wooden dock, the one with the motorboat tied to its post, and think about the last time I sat at the edge. Stephen and I ditching Kira's graduation after party for a midnight stroll that ended with him on his back and my hands in his hair. An orange flannel blanket. Fingers intertwined, limbs tangled together in knots. Soft sighs, curled toes, and of course, the boy who might have been the love of my life whispering promises into my ear while his body moved in tandem with mine under the bright white June moon.
And the note I scribbled on an old receipt and stuck in his pocket as the sun rose and he slept soundly.
I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the nostalgia sitting heavy in my stomach.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
I repeat the simple mantra to myself as Kira pulls up to the front of the house and two of my favorite men burst through the front door, two dachshunds and a corgi yipping at their feet.
"Well, if it isn't our favorite daughter," Jay calls out as Kira throws open the door to the SUV and launches herself towards her parents.
"I'm your only daughter, IronDad," she says, jumping into his waiting arms and letting him lift her off her feet and spin her in a warm embrace. Even in his fifties, Jay McKenna has the unmistakable physique of an athlete. His sculpted quads peek out from his black running shorts, and his forearms, half hidden under rolled up hoodie sleeves, flex as he spins his kid around. His husband and Kira's other dad, Keith, takes his turn at a hug with Kira. Keith looks just as young and fit as his counterpart, but he's got more of a slender, yoga bod, not a 'I used to take hits from three-hundred-pound linebackers and probably still could' body like Jay.
Jay unexpectedly sweeps me up next, spinning me around the same as he did with Kira a moment before.
"Dottie Lynn Hart, how the hell are ya?" He asks as we twirl.
"I'm doing good, IronDad, how the hell are you?" I shoot back, calling him by the nickname his kids gave to him. I don't know the whole story, but I think the reason has both to do with his muscles and his obsession with Robert Downey Jr.
Keith hugs me next, rubbing my back in a loving, paternal way that soothes me.
"Hey, Pops," I say as we embrace, and Keith squeezes me a little tighter.
"It's good to have you back, kid," he mutters quietly. So quiet that I almost miss it. I feel a swirl of emotions building in my chest. Gratitude that these men care about me. Guilt that I haven't been back to see them. Hunger, because I can smell sautéed garlic wafting from the kitchen.
The dads chatter on as they grab our bags and haul them through the mudroom, something about a new paella recipe they recently tried that they're dying to make for us, and the HGTV shows they have saved up on their DVR for afterward. Domestic bliss at its finest.
Jay mentions that Dean will be here soon, too. We all lean around the kitchen island, suitcases discarded in the living room to be dealt with later.
"Perfect, just enough time for a Cosmopolitan and some charcuterie before my dearest older brother shows up and ruins the vibe!" Kira says, motioning towards the untouched board loaded with cheeses and cured meats.
"Uh, I didn't get any vodka," Keith says with a wince. "I thought you'd want a nice Sauvignon Blanc with the paella, sweetie." Kira grabs her chest with a dramatic gasp.
"Pops! What the hell? We don't do homecomings without Cosmos! You're telling me there is no vodka anywhere in this house?" She throws her hands up with indignance as her dads shake their heads.
"What kind of self-respecting, middle-aged gay couple doesn't keep a bottle of Tito's on hand?" she mutters, and I pat her back.
"Give me the keys, Keeks. I'll head to the liquor store and pick up a few bottles. "
She digs in her bag for the FOB as Keith tries to take my place and make the trip himself. I brush him off, saying he should be here when his son arrives. It doesn't stop him from slipping some cash for the provisions into my tote bag as I swing it over my shoulder.
Besides volunteering just plain being the polite thing to do, I feel like I should take the opportunity to let all four McKenna's reunite without me intruding on their family time. As welcome as I've always been here, I'm not their child or their sister. I don't really belong here with them, and they deserve at least a moment of pure family time alone.
I drive down McKenna Mountain and in to town with the windows down, enjoying the crisp feeling of the sixty-degree December air whipping through my hair. I parallel park in a spot right in front of Liquor World, searching my purse for quarters to pay the meter before I remember that this is Fox Hole and there are no parking meters to pay here.
Much like the rest of what I've seen so far, Liquor World hasn't changed at all over the years. Mrs. Johnson still stands behind the register, a brown apron tied around her neck and a crossword puzzle book in hand. A bowl of Dum Dums Lollipops sits on the counter, and it reminds me of my mom. One of the few times she'd allow me candy is when we'd make our weekly trip here to pick up a few bottles of gin and Mrs. Johnson would sneak me a sucker while Mom pretended not to notice as she paid.
The whole place still smells slightly like cardboard and tequila, and it's a weird mix of nauseating and comforting. I take a basket and carry it down to the vodka aisle, pulling a few bottles off the shelf before detouring down the wine aisle for a box of white zinfandel.
A box, not because I’m cheap but because I'm practical.
I go to stand, but I feel it before I can move my legs. A proverbial shadow casts itself over me.
Like an icy prickle crawling up my spine, the feeling of being watched creeps through me. My breathing slows. The soft country music playing through the overhead speakers fades to a dull roar that echoes between my ears. My stomach flips, my skin tingles, every nerve in my body fires on all cylinders.
I should have known better. I should have prepared. I should have stayed in LA, or fuck, run away to Timbuktu.
But it's too late. I'm here. I've been spotted, and if the lingering presence behind me in the aisle is any indication, I'm not getting out of this unscathed. That realization is punctuated by a pointed clearing of a throat.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, inadvertently inhaling the heady scent of pine and sage. The scent that imprinted itself on my soul a million little times, that haunted my heart as I watched this small town disappear in my rearview mirror.
After all this time, Stephen Hudson smells exactly the way I remember him .
I straighten my spine, lift my chin, and plaster on my best brave face.
When I turn around, I'm faced with six feet of solid man. Flannel stretched across a broad chest, short beard, long dark hair tied into a knot near the top of his head, flyways framing his grown-up face. He's bigger than I remember, all man now, but his face still hosts those boyish features. The dimple on his left cheek, his sparkling caramel eyes, it's like I stepped into a time machine. My body goes taut, and I know my mouth has dropped open because it suddenly feels extra dry. I try to allow my brain to catch up with my body so that I can form words–or maybe break into a run and never look back–when a half smile teases at the corner of his lips.
Ten years, two simple words, and I melt into a puddle of want and grief.
"Hey, Dorothea."