Chapter 5
“What brings you to Grand Trees?” the innkeeper asks as she pours coffee and hands me the menu.
Her black hair is threaded with silver and woven into a thick braid draped over one shoulder.
She’s wearing a gingham apron over a gray cotton dress, with a collection of bangles roping up her forearm, and a name tag that says Carmela.
“Just visiting for the weekend.” I don’t feel like getting into this conversation with a stranger, who probably isn’t a stranger to Mom. I don’t need those dots connected before breakfast.
She cranes her neck out the window, following my gaze to the square. “It’s not much of an attraction for out-of-towners, but there will be ice cream later.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“An emergency preparedness festival.”
Are they selling hand-crank radios and fire extinguishers? “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of an emergency preparedness festival.”
“Well, this town is perched on a restless earthquake fault, and we’ve dodged fires that have destroyed sister towns.
We fret about landslides during heavy rains and cross our fingers that the levee holds.
Somehow, it’s sprinkled with fairy dust. But who knows how long that’ll last.” She glances at my face and cackles.
“Oh goodness, I’ve scared you. I’m like an anti-tourist commercial.
” She puts on her best impression of a movie trailer voice.
“Come to Grand Trees for the magnificent redwoods. Stay for the mortal danger.” She grabs her stomach as she breaks into more laughter.
But I know all about the town’s vulnerability and providence. Sonny would weave the town’s unique history and geology into campfire stories. He was the town’s protector, and I wonder who’s looking out for it now.
“Forget I said all that,” she continues. “You should check out the hiking trails along the lake. Dog Ear Hollow is gorgeous this time of year. And Maxine’s across the way there has a sommelier that’ll introduce you to the best wine you’ve ever tasted.”
After I polish off a plate of pancakes and three cups of coffee, I don’t have a choice but to head to the town square.
At its center is a verdant park punctuated by a white gazebo with spring flowers blooming in planter boxes.
Three sides of the park are lined with shops built at the turn of the last century, displaying character and disrepair in equal measure.
But the fourth side is a slab of concrete buildings so plain it stands out like a redacted line of text on an antique scroll, a scar on the otherwise picturesque scene.
As Sonny once told me, an earthquake rattled the town in the seventies.
The original brick buildings were built on the fault and fell like dominoes.
They were replaced with retrofitted buildings that may withstand the next big one but won’t win any design awards.
It’s still brisk even though spring is waking from this prolonged winter. I forgot how the cold lingers in the mountains. I zip my green fleece to my chin and bury my hands in my pockets. As I reach the first booth, a familiar face greets me with a wide grin.
“Eden,” Abby says. “Oops, can I call you that? Or do you prefer ‘Ms.’?” She chews her bottom lip. “I don’t know your last name, though.”
“It’s Hawthorne, but please call me Eden.” One benefit to my divorce is Jeff can no longer guilt-trip me about keeping my maiden name.
Abby relaxes into her metal folding chair. “Okay, good. My dad tells me it’s respectful to call adults by their last names, but my mom hates it when people call her ‘ma’am’ or ‘Mrs.’ because it makes her feel old.”
“What’s this booth about?” I ask so I don’t drill her about her parents’ relationship.
“Oh.” Abby sits up straight and takes on a practiced tone. “This is one of the kids’ booths. We have cartoon maps of Grand Trees”—she spins one toward me—“and crayons. The little kids color them in to show where to meet in case of fire, flood, earthquake—that sort of thing.”
I study the map, which is designed like a kids’ place mat from a chain restaurant.
Abby continues, “But the older kids are supposed to make an evacuation plan and sign up for alerts on their phones.”
“Alerts?” I ask.
“There are warning systems for disasters, and everybody with a cell phone can subscribe. I can help you.” She reaches for my phone.
“That’s okay. I’m just staying the weekend.”
“But you’re going to visit again, right? And your mom lives here. Maybe you want to know if something happens to her when you’re not here?”
Abby’s a tough sell and makes a good point. I hand her my phone.
She waves it over my face to unlock it. “There are earthquake, fire, and flood warnings.” Her thumbs move over my phone with the skill of a digital native. “The earthquake alarm will only trigger if there’s a big one. Like over 5.0, I think.”
“Whose idea was this festival?” It’s distressing and apocalyptic, but resourceful, I suppose.
“My dad.” She sighs as she types a few more keystrokes and hands me my phone. “I begged him to do a music festival instead, but he was like, ‘No, let’s scare all the little kids and make them think the world is ending.’ That’s much better than live music.”
“I told you, Larry Styles isn’t coming to Grand Trees.” I turn to the sound of Caleb’s voice, which trails over my skin like fingertips. Today he’s in a heather-gray T-shirt and frayed jeans, with gooseflesh pebbling his forearms. And he’s looking everywhere but at me.
“It’s Harry Styles,” Abby says, as if this dad joke is as old as she is.
“He ain’t coming here either, kid. So we may as well do something useful.” He leans in and straightens the coloring pages until the edges are aligned. “Your mom’s looking for you.”
“Not very hard, obviously. I told her I was volunteering at this booth.”
Caleb gestures over his shoulder toward the far corner of the square. “She’s chasing your brother and sister around by the Paper Horse. Go. I’ll watch the booth.”
Brother and sister? How many kids does Caleb have? How many surrogate grandchildren does my mother love?
Caleb looks about my age. Early thirties? Thirty-five tops. There isn’t a single silver thread in his dark-brown hair. The faint lines around his eyes appear to be a product of sun exposure rather than age.
He must have started his family young. And kept going.
I wish I were a better person and didn’t feel a pang of envy—jealousy, if I’m being honest—when I meet people my age with babies, toddlers, tykes, and teens.
I even covet Abby’s mild attitude, eye rolls, and impatience for her dad’s gentle ribbing.
I realize my feelings are misplaced. I recognize my jealousy of strangers is really anger at Jeff for asking me to sacrifice my opportunity to have children and for being unworthy of the sacrifice. But mostly, it’s disappointment in myself for agreeing to that bargain in the first place.
Abby stands, pushing the chair back. “Okay. But did you talk to Mom?”
“She’s thinking about it,” Caleb says.
“Thanks, Daddy.” Abby steps out from behind the booth and wraps her arms around his waist. Caleb kisses the top of her head.
“No guarantees, kid.” He presses the words into her hair.
“See you later, Eden.” Abby scurries away, skipping every few steps like a much younger child.
As Sabrina Carpenter’s voice drifts over the speakers, Caleb shifts his focus to me. The cheery pop is an ironic background to his sour expression.
“Your mom is helping assemble the emergency packs in the gazebo.” Caleb nudges his head in that direction as if he hopes I might skip away like his daughter. Instead, I face him.
“How long has she been sick?” I whisper, although we’re alone over here.
“Who?”
Now I understand why Abby rolls her eyes at him. “My mother.”
“What do you mean?” He shoves his hands in his pockets. This man is infuriating.
“The shaking, lack of balance. How long ago was she diagnosed?” I’d researched Parkinson’s disease after I spoke to Adelaide, but I still don’t know enough.
“You should talk to your mom, Eden. If she didn’t tell you, I’m sure she had her reasons.”
I don’t appreciate his insinuation that her reasons were valid. “I will talk to her. But she’s evasive, and I can’t take her word for it.”
Caleb assesses me, staring for several moments before he relents. “The movement issues have been going on awhile.”
“What’s awhile?”
“I don’t remember when we first noticed symptoms, but she didn’t get diagnosed until three years ago, right before Sonny . . .” He trails off.
“Three years ago?” I raise my voice, grasping the corner of the table for support.
Caleb nods slowly, managing to make the gesture accusatory. “Why’d you come finally?”
“Adelaide. She said my mom’s refusing treatment, and she thought I could convince her.”
Caleb sighs. “Of course she did. Well, we’ve all tried to reason with her. But there’s no cure. You know that, right?”
He delivers the news like he’s telling a child there’s no Santa Claus, like I’m naive and he’s mature and pragmatic. And it’s every bit as cruel as those sanctimonious parents who think they’re doing their kids a favor by ruining the little bit of magic they have.
“I know. But she can’t go on like this, living all alone in a tree house in the woods with stairs she can’t climb in a town she can’t escape in the next disaster.”
Caleb folds his arms across his chest. “She’s not alone.”
“Right. She’s with her new family now. She’s got a nephew I didn’t know about and grandchildren I didn’t give her. I noticed all that even though none of it makes any goddamn sense.”
Caleb’s eye twitches as he stares me down. He does a good job of giving me time to replay what I’ve just said. I’ve revealed too much about all the confusing baggage I’ve lugged here.
“I’m sure you’ve talked to her. But I’m her daughter. I have to try,” I say, calmer.
“Eden?” I turn my head at the sound of Mom’s voice, yelling from somewhere behind me. I spot her at the top of the gazebo and wave, but Caleb speaks again before I can go to her.
“Knock yourself out.” His voice is dry as dust. “But before you go riding in on your white horse, remember we’ll be the ones taking care of her when you ride back out.”
I glare at him, affronted by his accusation but also reeling from the potential truth of it, before I hear Mom’s voice again. When I spin around, she’s on the stairs of the gazebo, making her way to me, her grin warm and eager.
I ignore Caleb behind me, keeping my focus on Mom as I approach, so I have a clear view when her hand slips from the handrail, her foot skips a stair, and her body crumbles down the final steps to land on the bricks with a sickening crunch.