1. Grant #2
"I'm just saying it happened." Mom picks at her sandwich. "She said she had a work thing. In Arizona. A work thing, Grant, in February, when her only daughter's family was staring down a cancer diagnosis."
"She's fine, Patty." Sophie's voice has gone smooth and even, the same tone I imagine she uses on scared parents in an exam room. "It's fine. She's got her own life."
"It's not fine. I just think it's a shame is all." Mom sets her fork down with more force than the sandwich requires. "You drove me to six appointments that month. Six. Your own mother couldn't manage one phone call."
"Patty." Sharper now, like closing a door. "Can we talk about something else?"
It's really not a question.
Mom lets it go, the way she lets very few things go, and turns her attention to her tea.
But I'm still sitting with it — the way Sophie shut that conversation down in under four seconds flat, practiced, like she's had a lot of reps closing that particular door before anyone gets a good look at what's behind it.
A mother who couldn't manage one phone call. Sophie Guilligan driving another woman's family to chemo because, apparently, showing up for people is just something she does, with or without anyone showing up for her first.
I don't say anything. It fills the same place I filed the sagging porch and the weeds where Dad's flowerbeds used to be — a thing I've noticed and am not equipped, yet, to do anything about.
I follow along and ask the right questions about pill schedules and tell myself I'm not watching the way her ponytail swings when she turns her head.
When lunch is done, Sophie stands. "I really do need to go."
"Of course, honey." Mom sets down her plate. "Thank you for staying."
"Anytime." Sophie leans down and kisses Mom's cheek with the careful tenderness of someone who's been doing this for months. "Text me if you need anything."
"I've got Grant now. I'll be fine."
Sophie picks up her purse. Glances at me. "It was good to see you, Grant."
"You too."
She heads for the door.
I should let her go. Should stay on this couch and not do anything stupid.
I stand up anyway.
"I'll walk you out."
Sophie pauses, hand on the doorknob. "You don't have to."
"I know."
Mom makes a small curious sound.
Sophie's car is parked behind my rental. Small blue Honda Civic with a crack in the windshield and a rattle in the engine that suggests it's overdue for attention. I make a note to offer to look at it, then make a note not to make that note. None of my business.
"I know you've been doing a lot for Mom," I say, not entirely sure where I'm going with this. "I'm not trying to push you out or step on what you've built. I just want to help carry some of it."
"I don't feel pushed out."
"Good. Because I figure we can coordinate. Share the load."
She looks up at me. The late afternoon sun catches her eyes, turns them more blue than grey. "I'm used to doing things alone."
There's a story in there. Something about Chris. Something about a mother in Arizona. Something about five years of being the one who shows up instead of the one who gets shown up for.
"You don't have to be. Not with this."
"Grant—" She stops and her shoulders rise and slump. "I'm not going to disappear because you're back. Patty matters to me."
"I know. I'm asking you to let me help. That's all."
"With your mom."
"Yes. With my mom."
"Right." She shifts her purse. "Okay. We can coordinate."
"Good."
We stand there. A UPS truck drives past. She says she should go. I tell her to sleep. She heads down the porch steps, then stops halfway to her car and turns back.
"Grant?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you're here. Really. Patty needs you." A pause. "She missed you. Even if she won't say it."
"I missed her too."
Sophie nods, gets in her car. The engine starts with a rattle. I watch her drive away, then go back inside.
Mom's in her recliner, home improvement show playing, looking like she didn't just orchestrate an entire lunch to study us in close proximity.
"She's good people, Grant," she says without looking up from the TV. "Best thing that ever happened to this family, even if Chris couldn't see it."
"Ma—"
"I'm not starting anything. I'm stating a fact." She settles back into her cushions. "Sophie's been more family to me this past year than my own flesh and blood, some days. I'm grateful for her. And I'm grateful you're finally here."
"You brought up her mother on purpose."
Mom doesn't even have the decency to look sheepish. "I stated a fact about a phone call that didn't happen."
"You embarrassed her."
"I made a point." She finally looks at me, and there's nothing apologetic in it.
"That girl has spent her whole life being the one who stays, Grant, and not one person in it has ever bothered staying for her.
Not even her own mother. I wanted you to see that plainly, on day one, before you get any ideas about how easy she is to walk away from. "
She turns back to her show like she hasn't just handed me something I'm going to be turning over in my head for the next several hours. "Guest room needs dusting. Lawn needs mowing. And there's a porch railing that's been loose since last winter."
"I'll take care of it."
"I know you will." She finds her show again. "It's good to have you home, son."
I head upstairs.
My old room is exactly what you'd expect — neutral walls, quilted bedspread, window looking out over the backyard where the fence leans and the grass is overdue.
I unpack methodically. Clothes in the dresser.
Toiletries in the bathroom. Laptop on the desk.
Passport in the top drawer under a stack of t-shirts, force of habit from too many countries where you don't leave documents lying around.
When everything's squared away, I stand in the middle of the room and face the thing I've been not-facing since I booked the ticket.
I'm back in Copper Falls. The town I swore I'd never return to. The woman who just drove away in a rattling Honda, who apparently laminates other people's medical schedules and gets abandoned by her own mother in the same February she's driving somebody else's mother to chemo six times.
I'm not ready for this. But here I am anyway.
I head back downstairs.
I have three months of approved leave. Three months. That's the plan. Then I'm gone.
That has to be the plan.
Because this time, Sophie Guilligan is here. And apparently no one has ever made staying look easy for her — which means if I'm not careful, if I'm not exactly as clean and exactly as honest as I know how to be, I'm going to end up being one more person who didn't.
I already know I'm going to have to work very hard at the plan.
I already suspect I'm going to lose.