Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Now
Raine
M y spirit feels stirred today after such a powerful message at church. I was nervous at first, but as soon as the music started playing, the buzzing within my veins settled, and I finally was able to breathe. I closed my eyes, exhaled, and imagined myself releasing all the bad that was pent up within my heart. Oddly enough, the preacher’s message today was about forgiveness.
God likes to talk to us within the quiet moments, and other times, like today, I hear him loud and clear. He knows exactly what I’m going to be facing today and sent the words that I’ll need to carry with me to get through. I’m so thankful.
I’m picking at the skin on my thumb as Papaw drives us to my old childhood home. I’m thankful he agreed to come with me. I need the comfort his presence brings. I haven’t seen this house since the day I left, and I’m not sure what to expect.
As we pull into the driveway, my jaw drops. What was once an old brick home, littered with junk on the porch and under the carport, is now bright and updated, complete with an added garage .
My Papaw looks over at me with a large smile on his face, the kind that always seems to soften my heart. “Doesn’t look the same, does it, Little Duck?” he states and points at the house.
I’m speechless. The brick has been cleaned up and painted a dark gray. The cracks on the edge of the home, right where my bedroom used to be, have been repaired. The shutters have been restored and painted white. The broken-down wooden porch with missing steps is newer. I close the truck door and take the three white steps that lead up to a closed porch with matching rocking chairs to the left of the door.
There’s nothing here that reminds me of my childhood, and I’m thankful for it. However, I still feel the whirl of nerves in the pit of my stomach. Just because the outside of the home is different doesn’t mean the inside will be too. The same goes for the people.
I bite my tongue the moment Preston, my mother’s husband, opens the door and reveals a completely redone living room behind him. My eyes return to the man standing greeting us with a smile so big I’m pretty sure I can see all his teeth. “Hey, guys! Come on in!”
Preston’s baby-blue eyes stay on me as I enter the house. Papaw and I take our shoes off at the door, and I reach over to wrap my arm through his, keeping him close for support. He gives my hand an encouraging pat before we make our way through the living room.
“Shannon is in the kitchen, getting dinner ready. Everything should be done in just a few minutes.”
Papaw and Preston move into an easy conversation, but their words are tuned out as I scan the living room. The walls aren’t an old yellow color any longer. The light-gray paint gives the room a modern feel along with the black leather couch, wall of bookshelves, and refinished wood furniture. What happened to the old coffee table that I spun around and accidentally broke when I was eight? The small bookshelf we turned over to make a TV stand?
There’s nothing left from my childhood. Yet, memories start to flash behind my eyes nonetheless. Memories of Mom lying on the couch, passed out with an empty bottle nearby. Davis tossing an empty beer can at my head. Mom staring at me with blank eyes. I shake my head, willing the memories away.
The past cannot be healed if I choose to stay there. I can only heal if I stay living fully in the present. I need to accept that my mom has changed and that Davis is no longer a threat to me. I cling to my Papaw a little tighter when I see Mom enter the room. She takes me in from my head to my toes, and her expression softens on her face.
“I’m so glad you came,” she whispers, placing her hand onto Preston’s arm.
“Thanks for having us,” Papaw replies. “Dinner smells good.”
“We made homemade chicken and dumplings,” she announces, her eyes finding mine, a smile crinkling the edges.
Chicken and dumplings was a childhood favorite of mine. Before Davis’ and Mom’s drinking became uncontrollable, she used to cook chicken and dumplings every Saturday for me. The memory stings my heart, especially seeing her like this. Healthy and happy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so lively. Not even back when things were at their best.
I try to give her a smile, but it's a weak one. My nerves having found me once again. Papaw and I follow them through the hallway and into the dining room and take our seats at a beautiful wooden table. This room used to house Davis’ boxes of junk. It was never used for hosting dinners. My eyes roam the room and take a peek into the kitchen.
“We completely redid the whole house several years ago,” Mom says as she sets a basket of rolls in the middle of the table. “Right before Preston and I got married, we knew we wanted to keep this home, but it needed a lot of updates. ”
“I lived in a tiny apartment two towns away, and Shannon wanted to stay in Covewood,” Preston adds with a grin. “She always hoped you’d come back, Raine. We’re happy to have you here.”
She always hoped I would come back?
“You all did a fantastic job. Johanna and I loved seeing life being brought back into this old home,” Papaw says, and I catch the sadness within his voice at the mention of Mamaw.
I turn to him and take his hand into mine. I don’t know why I feel so clingy to him, but knowing he’s here is helping to keep me grounded instead of spiraling. He gives me a small smile and another encouraging squeeze. I bow my head, close my eyes, and say a silent prayer for God to bring me strength to get through this dinner.
As I exhale and look up, I see Preston studying me. He’s quick to smile, but I catch the worry in his eyes. Am I making him as uncomfortable as I feel being here?
I can already tell that Preston is nothing like Davis. He’s the complete opposite, actually. His body is slim, and his thinning hair is a sandy blond mixed with gray. He’s wearing a sweater vest and black round glasses on the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t look anything like my mother’s typical “men.”
I’ve only spoken to him a few times since I returned to town—once at the hospital, once at the viewing, and once at the funeral. But I’ve kept my distance since then. I haven’t really given Preston a chance. However, I can tell he’s safe to be around and that he truly loves my mother with the way his eyes seem to twinkle when he looks at her.
She looks happy and joyful during dinner, sharing stories about how Preston and her met and how they made things work long distance for a while until he finally proposed. It seems like Preston was her saving grace, and it brings me a sense of reassurance seeing her like this.
After we finish eating, Preston goes to help Mom clean up the dishes, and Papaw takes that opportunity to whisper in my ear, “Talk with her, will you?”
“I will.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I can feel the weight of what’s to come pressing onto my shoulders.
“It’ll all be okay. I promise. I’ll go and distract Preston to give you some time to hash things out. This will be good for you, Little Duck. Remember what was said in church today. Use those words to guide you. I want to see you healed from this, and we both know it won't happen until you confront it. I’ll be right outside if you need me.”
I give him a nod as Preston and my mother enter the room. I need a moment to breathe and prepare myself for this conversation. Excusing myself, I make my way to the bathroom down the hall.
Inside, once the door is shut and locked, I brace against the sink and take in a few deep breaths. I spent a lot of my time growing up locked in this bathroom, mainly because the lock to my bedroom had been damaged and no longer worked. However, the bathroom was the only place I felt safe in this house, and somehow, it still brings a sense of comfort to me.
I wash my face in the sink and dry it with a hand towel. As I pat my skin, my eyes find my reflection in the mirror, and I remind myself that I’m not that same scared little girl who used to live here. I moved on with my life. I made something of myself. I proved to them that I’m not worthless. I am strong. I am capable. I am worthy of happiness. And this will all be okay.
As if sensing that I need him, my phone dings with an incoming text from Ryland.
Ryland
How is everything going?
It’s going. We finished dinner and now I’m about to talk with my mom.
Ryland
I’m praying over you. It will be okay, I promise. I’m proud of you for pushing past your fears and working towards a better relationship with your mom. Maybe we can celebrate later with some ice cream?
Only if you’ll have mint chocolate chip?
Ryland
Only if you’ll have the best flavor that was ever invented!
Which is cookie dough by the way unless you forgot?
Oh I didn’t forget. We can settle this debate once and for all.
Ryland
It’s a date.
I grin at my phone, thankful for the little distraction, and don’t miss how a cluster of butterflies begin to take flight in my stomach at the mention of Ryland and I going on a date. I fix my hair and pat down my light-blue maxi dress. With a quick inhale, I feel much better as I open the door. But as my eyes drift toward the door to my old bedroom, my body seems to take over, and I find myself pushing the door open.
My eyes widen at the sight of the white walls littered with my grandmother’s paintings, some that were from my own collection that I left behind in this room. Everything else is different, yet the memories still seize me.
I stop in my tracks just outside the door. My eyes studying the wall next to a queen-sized bed, right where my dresser once was, and see that the hole is no longer there. However, the memory fights its way to the surface, and I’m reliving that night all over again.
It still haunts me, no matter how many times I try to push it out of my mind—the thoughts, the touch, the smell. Everything still feels alive. Being here in this room brings it all back. My throat feels the ghost of Davis’ tight grip, and I reach a hand up to my neck to make sure he’s not really there. I back away from the room and bump into something warm.
“Raine?” I hear my mother say behind me. I turn around and see her–her from before–staring at me blankly and walking away from me as I cried out for her to help. Crying for her to finally choose me . I blink away the hot tears that pool in my eyes, and the old version of my mother is gone, replaced with a stranger. “Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry. I, uh…” I croak and cough to clear my throat. “It’s hard. Being back here.”
Guilt takes over the worry in her eyes. She takes a step back, as if my words have physically pushed her away. I wonder if she even remembers the night I left. I feel every cell in my body screaming at me to run, to get far away from this place and to avoid this whole situation, but I fight it.
Instead, I inhale and blink away the tears. I might have chosen to run away ten years ago and leave her behind, but I’ve always wanted her to be a part of my life. I’ll always love her.
I desperately want my life back. I want myself back. I can’t achieve this without healing.
“I’ll be okay,” I assure her, swallowing away my discomfort, and I motion to the living room.
She turns, and I follow her down the hallway that’s now covered with picture frames. A lot of them hold photographs of Preston with groups of people I assume are his friends and family members. There are a few that contain photos from my childhood, all before Davis came into our lives. At the very end, sits an image of my mother and father.
They look to be in their early twenties in this photo. Their faces pressed close together, cheek to cheek, a suit and tie on my father and a white wedding dress on my mother. They had wide joyful smiles, their eyes squinting slightly because of it, but within them, I can see pure love and happiness.
The sight of it has me halting in my place. I didn’t even know my mom had a picture of him. I look like him. I have his eyes, dirty-blonde hair, and wide toothy smile. My grandparents always told me that I acted like him too. I carried a matching big heart and wanted to rescue any and all animals like he did as a child. I even have his laugh, they’ve said.
I saw home videos during my weekend visits at the farm, which helped me to feel connected to him even though he was no longer with us. Stories from his childhood are all that I truly knew of my father. How he met my mom and the years after were stories my grandparents always said should come from her.
However, she never wanted to talk about him, and I learned quickly that when I did bring him up, she would reach for a bottle to drown away the pain. I knew she loved him. She loved him so much that the grief of losing him consumed her.
She must sense what’s on my mind, because once I turn to face her, I see the frown deepen on her face. “I know I never spoke much about your father.”
“Can you talk about him now?”
She gestures to the black leather couch, and as I take a seat, she walks over to a nearby table and grabs a tray of snickerdoodle cookies and two cups of milk. As she places the tray onto the coffee table, I notice the slight tremor in her hands. That’s something I inherited from her.
“I remember these used to be your favorite,” she rambles and takes a seat on the couch, making sure to leave some space between us. She seems as uncomfortable and nervous as I am, and in a way, it helps to ease my own discomfort—just a bit.
“I’ll never say no to a cookie.” I grab a snickerdoodle and inhale the scent, instantly thrown back into a memory from my childhood—thankfully a good one this time. After I take a bite, I add, “It’s delicious. Thank you.”
She shifts in her seat, rubbing her hands together before releasing a breath and turning to face me. Here we go, Raine. Hold it together. You can get through this.
“Losing your father was something I wasn’t prepared for. The bottom of a bottle was my only escape from the grief he left behind,” she begins, wetness beginning to build within her eyes. “Our love story was like a dream. We met in high school, separated during college for a few years, only to find our way back to each other, and then marrying shortly after. We bought this home, and then we became pregnant with you.”
Her eyes glaze over as she shifts through her memories, almost like she drifts off to another place. Her complexion pales, and the shaking in her hands picks up slightly as her fingers fidget with the throw pillow beside her. She keeps her eyes on the coffee table, exhaling as she moves on with the story.
“We had big hopes and dreams for our little family. I treasure those memories with him. He was excited to be a father, and I was more than ready to witness him with you. The day we found out that you were a girl, we were driving home through a rainstorm, and I remember him looking over at me with so much love in his eyes—the same eyes I see on you.” Her eyes shoot to mine, but just as quickly, she is looking back down at the floor.
“And he told me that he wanted to name you Rain but spell it with an E on the end. And before I could even respond, the tires hit a pothole in the road, and the car lost control. An oncoming car crashed into our vehicle, killing him on impact.” My fingers lift toward my mouth. I knew my father died in a car crash, but I never knew the depth of the story. I never knew that not only was my mother in the vehicle but so was I. I want to ask questions, but all I can do is nod. I’m worried that if I try to speak, the words will tumble out and not make any sense.
She reaches for her glass and chugs the rest of her milk before she continues, “That car literally wrecked my whole world. I blinked, and suddenly, I was a widowed single mother. Back then, I couldn’t see the miracle that it was that you and I walked away from that crash alive. It was a miracle, Raine. However, I saw it as a death sentence. The postpartum depression that I experienced after your birth only made my grief worse.”
I have the urge to reach out and hold her hand, to let her know how sorry I am that she had to go through that. But I stay quiet because I know what happens next in the story. I lost my mother the same day I lost my father.
“You became this constant reminder of him. Even saying your name would instantly send me back to that day. I barely made it those first few years after his death. I think the continuous task of caring for a newborn distracted me, but on the third anniversary of his death, something in me snapped. I needed a break, and while you stayed with your grandparents one night, I went to a bar a few towns away and found a way to numb the pain.
“I didn’t know that alcohol would consume me or that I would develop an addiction to fading away from the world. I drank in order to make it day to day without him here. I’m telling you this because I want you to understand where I was mentally. But it wasn’t okay, Raine, the way I chose to mother you. I regret it every single day,” her voice breaks, and I feel mine burning from my own tears.
“And I know that when I met Davis, he only caused more tension to build between us. He created even more problems that I couldn’t fix. He had me fooled into thinking he could help take care of us, help take care of you since I was incapable of being the parent that you deserved. I was blinded by that hope, but he showed his true colors the moment I let him move in with us.
“When you were able to leave, I was so relieved. I knew you would be better off living far away from him— and from me . Once I found the opportunity to leave him, I hid away in the nearest rehab facility for as long as I could. Davis was gone once I was released. I was able to work on rebuilding my life again, and I didn’t want to contact you until I felt worthy of having a relationship with you. But the thing is, I never felt worthy. I still don’t.”
Hearing this story from her perspective and learning more about my dad…it’s breaking my heart all over again. I can’t imagine what she had to go through. My hands start to shake from the emotions I’m keeping at bay.
She wipes her eyes and inhales a breath as she fights to regain her composure. The woman who sits before me is a broken one. Broken from so many different versions of grief, and I feel just as broken.
She reaches across the coffee table and grabs a tissue before speaking again. “My heart has ached with the thought of never seeing you again, Raine. But it also pains me to see you, knowing I can’t change the past or will never be able to forgive myself for the choices I made. Knowing I’ll never be worthy of your forgiveness. How can I even begin to fix our relationship?”
She looks fragile, a silent plea in her eyes, and compassion replaces all the hurt I have in my heart for her. Having a relationship with Jesus will do that to a person. He brings you strength right when you need it the most and helps you let go of the hurt. I’m ready for us to move past this with His help.
“Since I’ve been back home, I’ve felt God working on my heart. He’s slowly healing my old wounds. It helps that you were brave and opened up to me. Thank you for sharing your story and the reasoning behind your actions. I’m proud of you for what you’ve overcome and for working on your own heart. Together, I think we can move forward . ”
She crumbles in front of me and places her face into the palms of her hands. Her shoulders shake as she sobs, and I move over to sit next to her. I place an arm around her and put my forehead against the side of her face. My hand rubs circles against her back, trying my best to comfort her and whisper that things are going to be okay. After a few moments, she starts to calm down.
I hand her a few tissues and wait for her to dry her eyes before I lean over and give her a hug. We stay there, wrapped in each other's arms for a long moment, and for the first time, I feel the heaviness lift away from my shoulders. I hope she feels it too.
When we pull back, she reaches out and touches my cheek, her thumb rubbing against my skin, and she gives me a look that only a mother can. That look alone is everything I’ve prayed for and more. “Can you tell me what I’ve missed over the last decade?”
A soft laugh escapes me, relief that we can move past the hurt and actually have a normal conversation. “Where do I even begin?”