Chapter 31
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, but no words came.
“Just. Be. Honest,” she whispered through gritted teeth. “And don’t go on and on too much.”
Easier said than done, of course, but she’d try it.
Dear Michael,
(Wow, how old-school was she? Ah, well, she couldn’t start a letter without it. It just felt wrong. And maybe it would give him a laugh.) Okay, so she had:
Dear Michael,
A riveting start. Good. She began a first sentence and deleted it multiple times.
Come on, come on . . . She really wanted to send it before Cal arrived.
Not to impress him, and not because she felt pressured by him—but because if she didn’t finish it, she’d be tempted to cancel on Cal.
She wanted Michael to have this letter before he got too busy with Christmas Eve or Christmas Day plans, though who knew? He was probably busy tonight too.
The peanut gallery in her brain wouldn’t shut up, of course, so in addition to trying to write a letter that wouldn’t make him roll his eyes or instantly move it to Trash, she had to listen to its commentary.
Dear Michael, (Take fifteen.)
I miss you very much. (True.) I’ve been thinking a lot lately, about the past (Yeah, gag, so much thinking, so little doing.), about choices I made, about regrets that I have, and about so many things I wish I could do over.
But there are no do-overs in life, unfortunately—yet a person can start again.
There is only one regret I’ll bore you with (for now): I regret we’re not closer. I know
Vic stared at what she had so far. What a mess. Delete, delete, delete. Finally she wrote:
Dear Michael,
I miss you very much and wish we were closer. I would love for us to have conversations from time to time. (I also know you’re busy and will always respect that.)
There are some things I need to apologize for, and I would like to do that in person, either face-to-face or by phone, but no pressure. Whenever it works for you is good, but please do let me know a time.
Wishing you a wonderful Christmas and New Year’s.
All my love,
Mom
P.S. My invitation for you to come for a visit is open anytime, and if you have someone you want to bring with you, she is very welcome too.
It wasn’t a great letter, and it barely scraped the surface of what she wanted to say, but she also didn’t want to indulge her own wants by dumping everything she was thinking and going through on him. It said the important things. She hoped.
Vic hit Send before she could overthink anymore and possibly talk herself out of it. Then she glanced at her watch. Cal would be there soon, but she had a few minutes.
She took out her sketchbook, and her fingers flew as she laid down a memory of Michael at four years old in sky-blue flannel pajamas with little firetrucks all over them. How he had loved her then.
*
“There’s a rat! It keeps coming onto the porch. I’m telling you. I’ve seen its glowing beady eyes from my window twice now.”
Vic managed not to roll her eyes. Barely. Greenridge didn’t even have rats, did it? Mice, yes. Rats, no.
And with typical perfect timing, Audra would choose this moment, minutes before Cal was due to arrive, to have a freakout about imaginary rats.
“Okay, I’ll keep an eye out, Mom. And after Christmas, if it’s still being a nuisance, we can get one of those live traps or whatever.”
Audra’s eyes glittered and her lips tightened into a thin, rage-filled line.
Vic recognized the look and was suddenly eight again.
She flinched and shrank back, but the fridge blocked her retreat.
She waited, resigned, but the blow never came.
She blinked. What was wrong with her? Like her mom would hit her now, at this age?
But she would, happily. Vic knew it. And something cold and hard filled her gut.
It was one thing to be yelled and screamed at and the rest .
. . If Audra hit her, though? She wasn’t a school kid anymore.
She would call the RCMP and an ambulance and have her evaluated.
It occurred to her then that that might be a great way to force Audra to get help.
The doorbell rang. Cal.
“I’m going, I’m going. Don’t want to interrupt you and lover boy,” Audra sneered.
“He’s not—” Vic exhaled. “You don’t have to leave the room every time he comes over.” Then something else occurred to her. “Is Cal coming over too often? Does it bother you?”
“How else is he going to do the repairs if he doesn’t come over?” Audra glared at Vic like she was a moron, then turned and shuffled off down the hall, her progress interrupted once by a wheezing, hacking fit.
Vic opened the door, a bit breathless herself. “Hey there! Hi!” she said, then gave herself an inner headshake and managed to sound a little less maniacal. “Come on in.”
“Hey yourself.” Cal’s voice was soft, and he was smiling, but there was a little groove between his eyebrows. “Everything okay?”
Ah, so he’d possibly been in earshot of Audra’s last brouhaha.
“Not really, no.” Vic shrugged and laughed. “But that’s life, right?”
His lips—she was always noticing his mouth—parted in a way that made Vic think he wanted to say something else. Instead, he lowered his toolbox to the floor and hung his coat on a hook. He was bent over, unlacing his boots when he looked up at her. “Ready to get this party started?”