Chapter 7 #2
“I’m going to need more info on this.” I offer him the half eaten plate of fries as I finally dig into my burger. It’s delicious, with all its beefy goodness, cheese, and bacon, and is that avocado? Doesn’t matter, I’m in love.
Arlo grabs a fry, and with a chuckle, says, “It isn’t anything secretive. It’s just that Christmas is such a big event that Thanksgiving gets overlooked.” His jaw ticks. He may not be lying to me, but he’s not giving me the whole truth.
“That was anticlimactic.” I pout.
“You haven’t seen Wonderland.” Arlo glances at me with a wistful expression that throws me for a moment. Right then, his grumpy demeanor vanishes, and in its place is a man dreaming like a child.
Some part of me wants to see more of that look on him. I have no say in the matter when it comes to Arlo, though. Right now, we are still just strangers swiftly moving toward becoming acquaintances, but it doesn’t change the fact I want to see more of it.
I also want to experience whatever emotion that could give me that look. Have I ever spent a time in my life where I felt what he’s feeling right now? Aside from the day the doctors laid Lark in my arms, no. It’s a cold slap of reality.
“What’s a wonderland?” I glance away, finding that dopey-eyed look almost too much to handle.
“Christmas in Silent Springs.” He steals another fry, choosing to speak as he chews. “It’s a month-long event that takes a month to set up. Now that it’s November, it’s only a matter of time before you see the ladders come out and the lights go up.”
“Christmas lights? So that’s what makes it so spectacular?”
“No,” he replies. “It’s just one of those things you have to see to believe.”
“Like Santa?”
With a teasing wink, he stands, putting his chair back.
“He visits too. Not even Santa can resist the lure of Silent Springs.” With that parting statement, he grabs a bag off the counter and leaves the little diner.
I shamelessly watch him cross the street through the giant windows, my fingers drumming on the countertop.
“Hmm.” Lark pokes my cheek with a fry, snapping me out of it.
“Human.” I go back to my burger, dismissing that entire conversation.
“You like him.”
“As a mechanic? Yes, I need him to fix up the bug so we can drive right to Maine.” I realize my mistake as the words fly out of my mouth.
Lark deflates. Her entire body slumps, and I know I just messed up.
It’s hard, really, as a parent. You want what’s best for your kid, but at the same time, I’m the adult and the one making adult decisions.
It doesn’t matter how much I tell myself I’m doing the right thing, she might not see it that way.
And that’s where life slaps me in the face. Her hurt over my words twists my guts into a knot, and if I’m not careful, that knot will never unwind and only tighten further.
This small human taught me some of the best life lessons I’ve learned over the years.
Like patience. I worried and worried for years that she just wasn’t hitting all those milestones the doctors and nurses said she needed to hit.
Anxiety was my bedfellow for years, until one day, she woke up not just talking in full sentences, but with such power that I realized that she just had nothing important to say before.
Until the day she did.
Patience came in many lessons over the years.
From her taking her time to smell the proverbial roses, to the chatter that meant so much to her.
I may not care that a teacher wasn’t on time to grade a paper, but it mattered to her, and I needed the patience to sit and listen to her and help her work through those emotions.
As a parent, that’s my job, a job I just failed at by putting my foot in my mouth.
“You like it here?” I say instead of all the knee-jerk reaction things I could say. I know she likes it here. That magic Saffron spoke of embedded itself into her brain, and she fell in love right away, then she felt that magical pull of the town.
I admit I see the value and the intrigue of something we’ve never experienced. It’s also exactly why I’ve balked at the idea of staying here. I can see myself falling in love with the town as well.
Lark drags a fry through her milkshake, her chocolate brown eyes sad as they glance up at me. “It doesn’t matter.”
I reach out and grip her hand. “It matters to you, and I want to hear what you have to say.”
“It’s just that.” She licks her lips as she hesitates. “I like it here because it’s like having a big family.”
My throat clogs, tears rise in my eyes, and my heart skips a few beats. I glance to the ceiling to keep the tears from spilling down my face.
“Mom, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, little bird.” I still can’t look at her. It isn’t because I don’t want to, but I didn’t realize how much she needed a family until just this moment. “Never apologize for the feelings inside you, and never hold back from telling me just how you feel.” My heart shreds.
“Everyone here is kind, like an entire village of aunts.” She smiles at me as I look at her through blurry eyes. “I enjoy having a lot of aunts.”
“If Uncle Robin ever—”
“Mom, Uncle Robin has lived out of state almost my entire life.”
She isn’t wrong, though he’s always made it a point to be in her life in some way, from phone calls to visits during the holidays.
But it isn’t the same as having a family member down the street that she can run to if she gets sick of me.
After Gram died and Robin left, it was just us and then Eric, who played the part of an uncle.
“I like it. It’s not like Atlanta. I can walk down the street and go to school on my own and there’s someone watching me.”
“We’ve only been here twenty-four hours. How can you be so sure?” This time, a sliver of vulnerability slips into my voice. We don’t know these people, and trust doesn’t come easily to me.
“Let them show you, Mom.” My little spawn reaches out to me, and with knowledge far beyond her twelve years, she speaks the words that I just know will haunt me for the next few months. “Let them teach you.”
Let them teach you.
Allow an entire town of strangers to teach me how to trust?
I nod, because if I delve too far into that, I know I’ll feel so much more than I’m willing to feel in this moment.
If I allow these strangers in and I end up trusting them, I’ll feel so much more, and that’s something I haven’t felt in a long time.
“What movie are they screening tonight?” I ask, opting for neutral ground.
“It’s November, so until the end of January, they only show Christmas movies.” Once again, she beams at me. “Home Alone.”
“Which one?”
“The first one.”
“All right. Better eat up so we can see just what this drive-in is like,” I tell her, but a small part of me is curious as well.