Chapter 11
I stop at Lawson’s for some groceries for dinner. No one asked, of course, but as the resident chef, it makes the most sense that I should make it, and I find myself eager to impress them, which embarasses me to admit, even to myself.
It’s been a long time since I’ve cooked anywhere but the restaurant, especially for other people, and I’m weirdly nervous.
I think I’m just agitated and don’t know what to do with the energy.
It’s one of the worst things about me. All feelings, all vulnerabilities are sent first through the irritability filter.
You should see the bitch face I pull right before I cry. Unbelievable.
Lawson’s is a small shop, with aisles created by mismatched wooden bookshelves stacked with everything from Jiffy mix to locally pickled vegetables.
When people need to do big shops they usually go into town on the mainland, but this is exactly the kind of place I like to buy ingredients.
For one thing, because it limits the options, which prevents me from decision paralysis.
But today the limitations aren’t working.
I walk in circles, up and down the aisles, over and over.
I land on the idea of making homemade pasta, hoping and assuming that Babe still has—had—her KitchenAid with the pasta attachment.
I’ll do a tomato confit on bucatini, with a side Caesar salad made from scratch, homemade croutons, etc. Everybody likes pasta and salad, right?
It takes me almost an hour to get everything and then pay, feeling a little dizzy at the cost.
It’s so frustrating to live this way. I worked so hard, I’m successful even, and yet I still can’t open my banking app without covering one eye.
It’s only once I finish shopping and get outside with all three bags of groceries that I realize the huge mistake I’ve made.
I got here on a bike. How exactly did I think I was going to get all these heavy bags back to the house?
I stand there, in awe of how clueless I’d been, for a full minute. I could go back inside, ask them to hang on to everything while I go get the car, but then I’d wind up worrying about the tomatoes in the cold, or the cheese out of it—
“Need a hand?”
I squint up in the sunshine and see Austin, window of his truck down, sandy hair still damp from either sweat or a shower.
“No, I’m … I’ve got it.”
He laughs and nods, then takes off.
Even though I told him to go, I have the gall to be shocked that he went, but then I realize he’s just turning around.
A light sprinkling of rain starts despite the still-bright sunshine, as Austin rolls into the small parking lot, puts the truck in park, and leaves it running as he gets out and shuts his door behind him.
He smirks at the bags weighing me down. “What were you gonna do?”
Do not be charmed by him. Do not laugh it off like everything didn’t happen. Don’t pretend you’re fine.
“I had a plan,” I lie.
“Uh-huh. You all right changing your plan? I could use some company for that last hundred heartbeats.”
It makes me ache to hear him quoting my mother, and this softens me to him even further. “Sure, fine. Thank you.”
He takes the groceries out of my hands and puts them in the back seat, before picking up my bike with one hand and placing it in the bed of his truck.
“Get on in there,” he says, cocking his head at the passenger seat.
I take a deep breath and then climb in.
A flash of memories hits me. My feet up on the dash, driving west at sunset, Patsy Cline on the radio. Criminally, a beer in the cup holder. Windows open and skies bigger than I’d ever seen.
He pulls back out onto the main road.
“So, how was tennis?”
He readjusts the brim of his hat. “Pretty good. Hot out there.”
I can tell now that he hasn’t yet showered, and yet again, miraculously, he smells good.
“Did you win?”
“It was just practice. No winners.”
I let out a small breathy laugh. Very Austin to not admit to having won. “Right.”
He bends toward his steering wheel and looks up through the windshield. “Think it’s gonna be a bad one.”
For, I guess, the sake of being contrary, I cross my arms and say, “I don’t think so.”
We pull up at the house and Sammie comes outside onto the front porch. She looks so much like Babe in that moment that it gives me a start. My brain is able to weave an instant story about this all being an elaborate practical joke on Babe’s part, a surprise reunion.
As quickly as it happens, I understand that it’s not our mother. Only Sammie, whose blond hair gets curly in the salty humidity, making her resemble her more. Mine does the same thing, though my scarlet locks prevent anyone from mistaking us.
When I climb out, Sammie saunters down the last few steps and asks, “Well, well, well, where have you two been?”
“We weren’t together. He gave me a ride back from the grocery store.”
“Did you take a bike?” she asks, seeing Austin remove it from the bed of the truck.
“Yes, I took a bike.”
“Did you almost pass out again and need to be rescued?” she teases.
“Oh my god, that was literally one time and it was like one hundred entire degrees outside in like ninety-eight percent humidity. It was a heat wave, we weren’t even supposed to be outside.”
She chuckles and my claws retract a little. It’s been a while since I was around someone who knew me well enough to give me shit. People don’t talk about it much, but it really, really sucks being around a bunch of yes-people. I hate seeing the eggshells everyone walks on at Baccarat.
“Grab a bag,” I say.
Once we’re in the kitchen with everything, she starts unloading. “Why did you buy tomatoes? And basil and—you know Mom grows all this stuff out there.”
There’s a moment where I think we both mentally correct grows to grew, but neither of us says it aloud.
“I shouldn’t have, I guess, I wasn’t thinking about it.”
She nods. “It’s cool. Maybe next time.”
Another pause. There won’t be another meal. Maybe a snack or something in the morning, but this is probably the last meal we’ll all have together like this.
“Oh, by the way,” Sammie remembers. “Look what I found!”
She produces the cold key lime MoonPie from the garage.
“Yeah, I saw that,” I say.
This inspires shock in both her and Austin. Their incredulous replies come at the exact same time.
“And you didn’t tell me?” from Sammie.
“And you didn’t eat it?” from Austin.
We all laugh, and for a second it feels good. Almost easy.
“Well,” Sammie says, “I’m eating it then. Early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.”
“Is the first mouse me? Isn’t the first mouse dead in that expression?” I ask.
“Oh, whatever.” She starts eating and leans on the counter. “Can I help you at all?” she asks, gesturing toward the food, her mouth full.
“No, that’s okay, I’ve got it.”
“Need anything from me?” asks Austin.
“No, really, I’m good, you guys can all go do whatever. I’ve got this.”
“All right, then. I’m going to go shower,” he says. “If anyone wants me.”
Our eyes catch briefly.
It used to be code. Code for meet me in the bathroom.
There’s no question we both remember this vividly.
I clear my throat and turn around, folding the paper grocery bags and putting them under the sink in the used-paper-bags spot.
I stand and then scream as I look out the kitchen sink window.
“What—” Sammie comes over. “Oh my god! Migla?”
“Is it her?” I lean closer.
The slim black cat stares at us with her bright green eyes, as startled as we are.
Sammie runs outside and down the steps until she’s in the patch of lawn beneath the sill. “Come here, Migla, come here.”
She reaches up for the cat. “No, Sam, you shouldn’t—”
But the cat steps gingerly down onto her shoulder and into her cradled arms.
I walk outside to see them more clearly, and Sammie beams up at me. “It’s her, it’s Migla. She looks as young as she ever did.”
Migla is an outdoor cat who sometimes visited Birdsong.
Babe would put out water and sometimes other little cat-friendly snacks.
She wasn’t our cat, exactly. No one knew where she came from or where she went.
But every once in a while, I’d come downstairs or home from being out and she’d be here.
I can conjure a distinct image now, of Babe sitting in one of the chairs outside, tan legs propped up on the table, reading a paperback book and absently stroking Migla, who faced the same direction, her tail slowly furling and unfurling.
We go back inside, and Migla—or the cat who looks an awful lot like her—is calm and unresisting in Sammie’s arms. I feel them both look at me.
“Yes? Do the spooky girls in the kitchen have something to say?”
Sammie smiles. “You two are so flirty still.”
“Who, me and the ghost of Migla?”
She gives me a look and I let out a tight puff of air. “No, we definitely are not.”
She tries to arch an eyebrow, but she’s never been able to do it as well as Babe and I could. It only makes her look more like a cartoon princess.
“Trust me, there’s nothing there.”
She makes a doubtful sound. Then, testing the waters, she says, “By the way, you’ll never guess who came by earlier.”
I’m distracted now, thinking what I need to do first. “Who?”
“Harrison.”
The name doesn’t register. I repeat the question. “Who?”
“Oh, come on, you remember him. Taylor Rae’s brother? Or did you really block out everything about life here?”
I draw back at her jab. “I didn’t block it all out.”
She stiffens and says, “Somehow that almost makes it worse. That you could—”
“I need to get started on this food.”
The almost-nice moment we’d been having crashes down around us.
“Yeah. You’re right. Don’t even know why I tried.”
She goes toward the back door and I try desperately to come up with something to say that will heal things again. Not all the way, but back to the way we were only a few seconds before.
I don’t come up with anything, and as she steps outside, she says, possibly to me or just to herself, “Oh, I think it might really rain.”