38. Daisy
38
Daisy
I t’s a four-hour ride from the city to my parents’ house in Hartford, Connecticut, and at least five times I almost get off the bus.
But each time I gather my things to leave, something stops me. I haven’t felt the need to return home in seven years, but for reasons I don’t understand, I’m propelled there now. It’s not until the bus pulls into the station in downtown Hartford that I wonder if it’s because Jess left, if some part of me subconsciously identifies with him. I walked out on my parents, too. Jess is hurt, but I know Wes still cares about him deeply, even if he can’t see that. Maybe part of me hopes for the same with my parents.
I get an Uber from the bus station out to West Hartford because it’s fast, and I’m worried if I wait too long I might lose my nerve. I don’t know how my parents will respond to me showing up unannounced. We didn’t end on great terms, much like Jess and Weston. I never forgave them for the way they responded to the death of the Walkers, to them taking my camera away. And when I finished high school, and I announced that I wanted to move to New York, we argued about why I wasn’t going to college. They couldn’t understand that I was still grieving the loss of my friends, that I didn’t want to study to become an accountant like my father and brother. I left for the city three days later, and haven’t spoken to them since. They haven’t so much as sent a birthday card, and while that was hard the first year, in the years that followed, it was a relief. It meant I was free from any obligation to them. Free to get on with my life.
It wasn’t until the morning that Dave handed me my celebration cupcake and praised me for seven straight years at Joe’s that I realized I hadn’t gotten on with my life at all. I’d gotten stuck.
And it wasn’t until I got close to Weston that I finally became unstuck.
But I can’t think about that now.
I step from the car and thank the driver, turning to look up at my parents’ house, set back from the pretty, tree-lined street. It looks the same as it did when I left; a two-story colonial style house with white siding, much like every other house on the block. Every other house, apart from the Walkers’. Their house had been painted in a faint lilac color with dark lavender trim, but as I glance to my left now, I see those colors have long since been replaced with the same boring white. My throat tightens as I look away, forcing my feet up the front path.
My parents could barely afford this house when they bought it, but more important than the practical aspects of living within our means was convincing everyone we were doing well as a family. My parents have always been about keeping up appearances, despite what might go on behind closed doors.
It takes three attempts for me to ring the doorbell because my hands tremble so much. When it finally trills there’s no answer, and I hike my duffel bag further onto my shoulder, wondering whether I should feel relieved. I’m turning to leave when the door opens, and my mother blinks at me.
“Dahlia.”
There’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. It hits me like a punch to the stomach, and I suck in a breath.
What am I doing here?
“Er, hi… Mom.” I consider correcting her—telling her that’s no longer my name—but I can’t get the words out.
She blinks again, fussing with the collar of her shirt. My mother has always worn immaculate button-down shirts, despite never having a job. In the seven years I’ve been away, she hasn’t changed. Her shoulder-length hair is still dyed a dark brown—it started going gray years ago, but she’d never admit that to anyone—and her brown eyes have a few more creases around them, but she’s the same woman I remember.
The same woman who could never be the mom I needed her to be.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, clearly flummoxed.
That’s understandable. I’m a little flummoxed myself.
“I, uh, I’ve taken a few days off work. Thought I’d… visit.”
“Right.” She glances over her shoulder, then back at me. “Your father isn’t home from work yet.”
I nod. Of course—it’s late afternoon on a Monday. He’ll be home in an hour or so.
“That’s okay,” I say, shifting the weight of my bag. “I can see him later.”
Her thin brows snap together in a frown. “You’re not wanting to stay for dinner, are you? I wasn’t expecting guests, and I have book club tonight.”
Guests .
I press my eyes shut in frustration.
Seven years. It’s been seven years since I’ve said two words to this woman, and all she can think about is whether I’m going to mess with her evening plans.
“I’m not hungry,” I mumble, wondering if it’s too late to get a bus back to the city. What was I thinking, coming here? Did I really believe things would be different?
“Well…” Mom wrings her hands, as if someone’s put her in a difficult position. “I guess you’d better come in.”
I follow her inside, noting how the interior of the house hasn’t changed at all. The wallpaper looks tired and dated, but as we enter the kitchen, I notice they’ve redone the countertops. My mother glances around the kitchen, hands fluttering anxiously as if she doesn’t know what to do with them, then she snatches her cellphone from the counter.
“I have to make a quick call,” she tells me, pulling her lips into a tight smile. She waves vaguely at nothing in particular. “Make yourself at home.”
I try not to laugh at the irony of this as she heads out of the room.
Dumping my bag on the counter, I sink onto a stool. I glance at my own phone and notice a missed call from Weston, but shove it back into my pocket with a sigh. Mom’s voice drifts down the hall and I lean closer to the door, trying to catch her words.
“…completely out of the blue… no idea what she… home… yes, now please…”
My head drops into my hands and I blow out a long breath. I don’t know what I was expecting from my mother. A smile, maybe? Some pleasure at seeing me? Would it be so ridiculous as to go so far as to expect a hug, even?
Clearly.
“That was your father,” Mom says, breezing back into the kitchen. “He’s on his way.”
“Oh.” I shift my weight. “You didn’t have to…”
“Nonsense.” She waves a hand. “I didn’t know how long you were staying, and he’d hate to miss you.”
I find that hard to believe.
Mom sets her phone down, eying me. “How long are you staying?” she asks casually.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m not sure. Maybe a few days.”
“Right. Okay. I’ll make up your bed.” And with that, she’s off again, as if she can’t bear to be alone in a room with me for five minutes.
I push up from the stool and go to the fridge, hesitating before pulling out a soda. This might be the house where I grew up, but it doesn’t feel like home. I feel more at home in Weston’s house.
I shake the thought off and take a long pull of cola, studying the photos pinned to the fridge door. My parents on a cruise. My parents in Florida. My brother, Brad, and some woman I assume to be his girlfriend, Anne. I’ve never met her, but on the rare occasion we’ve emailed, Brad has mentioned her.
I turn and wander through the living room, looking out at the backyard. It’s weird being back here. So much has changed for me, not in the years since I left, but in the time that I’ve been with Weston. That’s why I have the courage to be here right now. If you’d told me a few months ago I’d be coming back here voluntarily, I’d have laughed, and not in a funny way. But with the inner strength Wes has given me, I know I can face this. I can face them .
My heart slumps thinking about Wes, and my eyes sting. I don’t want to give him up. I don’t want to think about what will happen if he can’t make it right with Jess.
“Dahlia.”
My father’s voice interrupts my thoughts, and I turn around, blinking from my reverie. I must have stood there for some time, because the shadows have moved across the yard, and the half-drunk soda is warm in my hand.
“Hi, Dad.”
He sets his briefcase on the coffee table and gives me a once-over that makes me break out in a cold sweat.
“How’s big city life treating you?”
My grip tightens on the soda can. “Good.”
He grunts as he loosens his tie. His mustache is almost entirely white now, and his dark eyes are beady as they appraise me. I forgot how intimidating my father can be, and just like that, I’m right back to feeling like a kid in trouble.
“How’s the career?”
I swallow, shrinking into myself. “It’s… coming along.”
I’m almost relieved when my mom enters the room again.
“Oh, good. I see you two are getting reacquainted.”
Dad nods, saying nothing, his eyes still assessing me, and somewhere inside, a small voice reminds me that I’m not the same kid they let down all those years ago. I’m an adult now.
I think of all the times Weston tried to talk to Jess, all the times he wished his son would sit down and work through the things that stand between them. And while it should probably come from my parents first, I know that’s not going to happen. It’s up to me to repair things.
In that moment, the childlike, hopeful part of me truly believes it’s possible.
I take a deep breath, facing my parents squarely. “I was hoping we could talk.”
They exchange a frown.
“About what?” Mom asks, issuing a nervous laugh.
Is that a joke?
“About… everything. The Walkers. The fight we had after I graduated. My life since I left—”
“Dahlia.” My father pinches the bridge of his nose, releasing a long-suffering sigh. “Is that why you’ve come here? To dredge up the past?”
The balloon of hope inside my chest bursts.
I glance between my parents, fighting the sting in the back of my throat as reality settles back in. As much as I want what Wes has with Jess—what he desperately wants with Jess—I can’t have that. It’s not the same, and it never will be.
“I…” I shake my head, the notion of having a healthy, healing conversation with these people suddenly striking me as preposterous. “No,” I mumble. “Never mind.”
“Anyway, your mother has her book club tonight,” my father says, apropos of nothing.
A weary sigh gusts out of me. “I know.”
“And as for dinner—”
“It’s fine.” I set my soda can down, wanting nothing more than to get away from the people in front of me. “I’m actually quite tired,” I say, despite it being no later than 5 p.m. “I might head up to bed.”
Dad just grunts again, and Mom looks relieved.
I direct a tight smile their way and scoop my duffel bag from the floor, turning to go. “Goodnight.”
“Night,” Mom calls, and as I begin up the stairs, I hear her mutter to Dad, “I don’t know what she’s doing here. It’s very odd.”
I pass my brother’s room, untouched since high school, like a time capsule designed to preserve every aspect of my brother’s life, but when I come to my room, they’re cleared it completely; my photo wall has been taken down, my bed moved to a different corner, with a different comforter. My desk is gone, my dresser replaced with an elliptical machine. My books, my clothes, my knick-knacks… Every trace of my existence erased, as if I’d never lived here at all.
As if they couldn’t wait for me to be gone.
I know I’m the one who left. I know we fought. But they’ve kept every scrap of Brad’s room intact. I might not be perfect, but I’m still their child .
Except, it never really felt like that, did it? I always felt like I belonged more with the Walkers; that’s why it hit me so hard when they died. And maybe my parents knew that. Maybe they resented it and wanted to punish me for it.
I shove the door closed and collapse onto the guest bed as tears flood my cheeks. If I’ve ever had any doubt about my decision to cut off contact with my parents and move to the city all those years ago, it’s gone now. They can’t even muster the pretense of enthusiasm at my being here. And while I’m not surprised, I can’t say it doesn’t hurt.
It doesn’t matter how old you get, how independent, every child wants their parents to love them. To care about them. To be happy to see them.
My mind flashes on Weston, on the way his face lit up when he talked about how great it was to reconnect with Jess. What must it be like, I wonder, to have a father who is that delighted to have you in his life? A mother who would do almost anything for you?
I don’t know. But I do know that I can’t be the thing that comes between Jess and his father. I can’t live with the guilt that eats away at me, knowing I’m what drove them apart.
I curl into the mattress, letting the tears fall freely, suddenly exhausted after the confrontation with Jess last night, after hardly sleeping since, after spending hours on the bus. Then that cold reception from my parents…
I’m so worn down, so disheartened by the unfairness of my life. Finally, I find a man who makes me feel loved in ways I could never have thought possible, a man who helps me reconnect with the thing that brings me more joy than anything.
And what happens? I fuck it all up. Jess finds my photos and my life implodes. What was I thinking, even developing those photos?
Hell, what was I thinking even picking up a camera again? Photography has done nothing but get me into trouble, every single time. I should have known better than to chase that dream again.
And when I think about that, my mind returns to the Walkers, to the people who believed in me and encouraged me. To the family I had, for such a short time, and lost.
I wriggle under the comforter and pull it over my head, letting the pillow soak up my tears. I’m not welcome in this house, and yet I can’t imagine going back to my life in the city; my job at Joe’s, my shitty bedroom in Denise’s apartment.
A life without the man I love.
All I can do is cry, and hope I sleep through the night.
It’s early when I wake. My head hurts, my eyes puffy and sore from my crying jag last night. I peel myself from the bed, tiptoe along the hall to the bathroom, and splash water on my face. I can’t bring myself to look at my reflection.
In the kitchen, I switch on the coffee machine and listen to it drip while looking out over the backyard. The sun peeks through the hedge that borders what used to be the Walkers’ yard and ours, and after pouring my coffee, I take my cup and step into the cool morning air. The leaves of the red maple tree glow burgundy in the early morning light, and I pick one up from the grass, twirling it in my hand. When I look up at the branches, the sun pours through in beautiful shafts of light, and the photographer in me aches to pick up my camera and capture it.
I shove the thought away, looking into the dark steaming liquid in my mug. I don’t know what I’m doing here, why I was drawn back here. What did I possibly hope to achieve?
But when I glance up and spy the Walkers’ old backyard through the fence, realization dawns inside me like the sun rising through the trees.
I didn’t come back here to see my parents. I came back to reconnect with the Walkers. With the person I was back then.
With Daisy .
I peek over the hedge into their old yard. It’s early enough that whoever lives there is probably still asleep, and I push through an opening in the hedge to their side. The garden is nothing like I remember; the wildflowers that Willow had so lovingly nurtured are gone. In their place sit neatly boxed rows of roses, tulips, and other flowers that are far too fancy for themselves. They’ve even taken down the huge oak tree that Beth and I used to climb.
My heart falls and I turn to go, when my gaze snags on a profusion of large daisies clustered along the back fence. The very same ones that Willow named me for. They’re far enough back from the house that the new owners probably don’t bother taming them, and I couldn’t be more glad. I set my coffee down and kneel among them, my heart brimming with joy.
“Hi, guys,” I whisper, gathering their smiling faces in my hands, but I’m not talking to the flowers, I’m talking to the Walkers, and I swear, on the whisper of the wind, I hear them say hello back.
My eyes well with tears as I press my nose into the flowers, wishing with all my heart that I could see Beth and Willow and Sebastian again. That they were here to help me figure this whole mess out, to encourage me to keep going.
Keep going .
The words ring through my head, as if someone else has said them. As if Willow herself is kneeling beside me, her curls sneaking out from her colorful headscarf as she smiles, telling me to keep going.
Keep going .
I dash my hand across my cheek, letting myself believe it’s her. Letting myself believe that’s what she’d say.
Because it is, isn’t it? She’d tell me that I’ve come so far, that I can’t possibly give up now. She’d tell me that she’s always believed in me, that she’s proud of me, that I deserve all the good things in my life.
And I would believe her.
I do believe her.
I tug a daisy from the soil and rise to my feet, clasping it in my hands. It reminds me of the meadow at Sullivan’s Cove, the first time I picked up that camera and raised it to my eye, and how damn right it felt. I think of how proud Weston was to see me shoot again, and resolve hardens my spine.
I’m not giving up.
Picking up my coffee mug, I head back into the house. Then I go up to my room—to what was once my room, but is now no more than a guest room—and grab my things. I dash off a quick note to my parents to say goodbye, letting myself cry as I do, because this time it really is goodbye. There is nothing for me here, with them, and I know for certain that moving on is the right thing for me.
I need to go back to the city. Back to my life. I’m not sure what will happen with Weston, but I owe it to him to keep shooting.
And I owe it to us to try to fix things.