Chapter 23
ELLIOTT
Mom
Call your grandma and wish her a happy birthday.
If August’s family didn’t live right next door, I wouldn’t have realized how messy life was allowed to be. That your bed didn’t need to be made every morning. That some days it’s okay to wake up and spend all day in your pajamas. That sometimes cereal is the perfect dinner.
That parents don’t always know best.
I cut the engine and step out into the driveway, still looking as freshly paved as the day last summer the crew came to tar it. “Hey, Ma.”
“Elliott. So good of you to finally call.”
What does she mean “finally?” I was here four days ago.
She holds out the glass, her smile as tight as the bun in her hair. “Would you like a drink?”
“Sure. Thanks. You know you don’t have to wait outside for me, right?”
“Watching you pull into the driveway is one of my favorite sights. If only it happened more often.”
Man, she’s laying it on thick today. Should be a fun visit.
“Come on inside so you don’t catch a cold.”
Says the woman standing on the porch without a coat in the middle of January.
The house is as warm and cozy as a Thomas Kinkade painting—my mother’s favorite artist as evidenced by the sheer number of his prints she has hanging around the place.
The foyer hasn’t changed in all the years we’ve lived here.
Still the same maroon walls that feel as if they’re closing in on you.
The same welcome mat where everyone is expected to leave their shoes the moment they arrive.
Same silver hooks for our coats. The round mirror she inherited from my great-grandmother when she passed.
My mother waits with her arms folded until my shoes are next to Dad’s boots. As if I would forget the rules. “How’s life at the bar?”
There’s always a tiny sneer curling her lips when she mentions my job. A hint of disdain. I bet she tells her friends this is a phase or that I’m taking some time off before heading back to Spencer Jones Investments.
“Work is great.” January hasn’t been very busy overall but giving her anything less than glowing news only invites more problems.
Ammunition for her guilt gun.
“Where’s Dad?”
“Out with Gerry’s husband.”
Gerry being August’s mother. Aunt Gerry is three years younger than my mom, but I swear they were raised in two different families. Where my mom keeps the house tidy, Aunt Gerry thinks life is too short for cleaning. August’s house always looked like a pack of wild apes lived there.
Having grown up with just my parents in the house, I found it difficult to adjust to all the noise.
Now, I’d rather go there for dinner than here.
If Dad is with my uncle, that can only mean one thing. “Is the feud finally over?”
The feud being my father losing his mind when August’s dad had the audacity to hang a Kentucky Wildcats flag on his front porch. Never mind the fact that August’s youngest sister just got into school there. That was obviously completely irrelevant.
Dad insisted Uncle Chip only did it to piss him off.
My mother didn’t help the situation, saying she wouldn’t be surprised if one of my cousins stole our Tennessee pennant that’s been hanging from the back deck since I got my acceptance letter, which of course led to Dad buying the biggest, most obnoxious Vols banner, which is currently stretched across our front lawn.
It's ridiculous, but I know better than to add my two cents to family matters.
Mother turns and starts down the hall, past just about every photo of me growing up tacked to the wall in matching oak frames.
August calls this “Elliott Alley.”
I get that my parents are proud of me and I appreciate their support, but does everyone who visits really need to see a picture of me in the bathtub? It’s like my mother has never heard of photo albums.
“They agreed to a tentative truce,” she says. “At least until playoffs.”
I make a mental note to avoid this place in March.
“So how’s life outside the bar? Are you seeing anyone?”
Ohhhh no. I’m not making this mistake again. “Did you need me to get something from the attic or…?”
She whips around, her narrowed eyes freezing me in place. “What is it with your aversion to small talk? This is why you’re single.”
She knows exactly why I’m single, which is part of the problem. If anyone is ever wondering whether they should discuss their love life with their mother, allow me to advise against it.
Knowing she was once privy to such private information only makes that particular door even harder to close.
Why are you shutting me out?
I only want what’s best for you.
You used to talk to me about everything.
That last one was because I didn’t have any brothers or sisters to lean on instead. At least now I have August—not that I tell him shit. But I could. And I definitely would talk to him over my mother.
“The attic?”
She spins on her heel, huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf all the way to the living room. “The Christmas tree and those boxes over there need to go up in the attic. While you’re up there, I hope you find some manners.”
I doubt she has manners in one of her many plastic tubs, but if she did, it wouldn’t be hard to find because it’d be perfectly labeled.
The tree’s prickly branches scrape my arms as I drag the largest piece into the hallway.
My mother stomps in behind me, lugging a box almost as large as she is.
Has she lost her damn mind? “Put that down or you’re going to throw out your back.”
“I know how anxious you are to get out of here and wanted to expedite the process for you.”
I am anxious, but if she hurts her back again, that won’t happen.
“Put the box down. Please?”
She sets it down and stalks back down the hallway, toward the kitchen.
I reach up and tug the string dangling from the ceiling. The spring on the stairs groans as I open the hatch and unfold them.
Fifteen minutes later, I have everything tucked away until next November, and the furniture that had been relocated to make room for my mother’s twelve-foot, pre-lit spruce is all back where it belongs.
When I head into the kitchen to make sure there isn’t anything else on her to-do list, I find her furiously scooping mashed potatoes into a Tupperware container.
She means well, I remind myself. The problem is that, for eighteen years, I was her job.
Now she doesn’t know what to do with herself.
Dad has a few years before he retires from the bank, so he’s gone Monday through Friday from eight until six.
She runs a craft group at church and volunteers for just about every fundraiser in town, but that’s not enough to keep her occupied.
I do feel bad for her, but I have my own life to figure out.
I refuse to be another one of her projects.
“That’s all done.”
She snaps on the lid with quick, efficient movements. “Thank you, Elliott. I appreciate you coming all this way to help us.”
“It was no problem.” Maybe if I hadn’t disappointed her by shirking corporate life, things would be different.
But after everything that happened, I needed a change.
Something completely different and out of my comfort zone that required all my focus and attention.
Something that didn’t come easily, so my mind couldn’t wander.
Thanks to August, I found that.
I’m proud of what we’ve built together.
If only she could be proud of me too.
“I’m proud of you, Elliott.”
Loren’s words from last night come soaring back.
“It’s important to do what makes you happy, even if the people you love think you’re wrong.”
She’s right. It’s so incredibly important, because at the end of the day, you’re the one who has to live with yourself.