Chapter Thirty-Three
Thirty-Three
A Pearl of Wisdom
from Vera Ingleby
“In my opinion, a balanced diet is found by holding a cupcake in each hand.”
Juliet
Mom was an early riser, which meant she was up super early Saturday morning, since her inner clock was still running on Michigan time. She’d texted me before sunrise, asking if I was up for a walk.
Because the replacement coffeepot Tenn ordered hadn’t yet arrived, I texted back: If there’s coffee involved, I’m in.
Mom: I will go to the ends of the earth to find it. See you in ten?
Me: Maybe fifteen
I took a moment to stretch my arms and rub the sleep out of my eyes.
It was a little past five. Outside, the birds were just waking, and I glanced at the nightstand, missing my small pile of feathers.
I didn’t regret for even a moment using them for Katy’s dream catcher but wished I were still finding them.
Though I supposed there was no need for them anymore. Now that my missing memories had returned.
Still. Finding a feather would mean the robin was nearby. I hadn’t seen it in over a week, and I missed it.
Missed it desperately.
The air conditioner rattled to life, and I sat up, feeling slightly woozy.
I was still working through the shock of my memory returning, physically and emotionally.
My head was fuzzy, foggy. As if my brain had been overwhelmed by the influx of information and decided to take a little rest. A wee snooze.
Emotionally, I’d found myself welling up with tears many times yesterday.
At the memory of Jordan daring Hunter to put gum in my hair. And the resulting pixie haircut that was needed to fix the situation.
When Eric had brought me a bouquet of balloons when I had my tonsils out in high school.
When Amy took me prom dress shopping.
When my mom kissed my head every morning before heading off to work, even though she thought I was asleep.
When my dad made waffles on Sundays, always adding extra whipped cream on mine.
And my grandpa.
He’d been more than my grandparent, my caregiver. He’d been my closest friend. Fresh waves of grief crashed over me each time I recalled all the moments we’d spent together. Each remembrance knocking me down. It almost felt like he’d passed away for a second time.
I blew out a breath, threw back the quilt, and made my way downstairs.
On the second-floor landing, I paused, listening at Katy’s door.
All was quiet.
Her dream catcher hung in the window next to her bed, where the beads captured any bad dreams, knitting them along the web of delicate threads.
Or at least I liked to think so.
Yesterday she’d been thrilled to see Scott. Over-the-moon excited. Bouncy and chatty and absolutely grinning ear to ear as she raced into his arms. When I was introduced to him, I smiled, trying not to judge him for not being more present in his daughters’ lives, but I was finding it difficult.
Because yesterday had been a bit of a blur, I hadn’t had the chance to ask Tallulah how she felt about his visit. And I couldn’t tell by looking at her, either. Her emotions were locked up tight behind thin smiles and tired eyes.
Downstairs, I was surprised to find the dining room light on and Tenn sitting at the table, fussing with a frame. He was fully dressed, his hair damp. His beard was coming in nicely.
“Morning,” I said quietly.
“Morning, early bird,” he replied. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“My mom texted. She wants to go for a walk. And she has coffee.”
He chuckled. “New coffee maker should be arriving today. Gotta keep my girls happy.”
I smiled again, thinking about how strange life could be. Just a few weeks ago, he didn’t even know me. Now he was including me as one of his girls. The designation made my heart sing.
“What’re you working on so early?” I asked.
“Gettin’ this here print framed.”
I walked over and felt my heart skip a beat. The print he’d been working on all this time was of a robin. I swallowed hard, looking at the bird, which seemed to be watching me with kind eyes from its perch on a gnarled branch.
“It’s not perfect,” he said, “but it’ll do.”
“It looks perfect to me.”
Grinning, he pushed his glasses up his nose. “That’s because you’re kind. I messed up right here,” he said, pointing to a spot along the bird’s neck. “Looks like he done lost some chest feathers. I’ll just say he’s molting and leave it at that.”
My skin prickled. A robin that had lost feathers. A bare white spot at its neck.
I tried for casual when I added, “What inspired you to make a robin?”
He carefully set the print on a mat, aligning it just so. “Renny asked. Figured it was the least I could do. That’s why I’m wrestling with this frame. I’m planning on visitin’ with him for a spell this morning before heading off to the festival.”
“He’ll like that,” I murmured.
He tapped the frame. “I’m planning to make a print for you, too.”
“Of the robin?” I asked.
He nodded. “Special request from Katy. She told me you’d want one because she read in her new symbolism book that the robin is a protector from storms and lightning—and is also a sign that you’re never alone.”
Happiness and grief tangled up, twisting together, as I thought of my grandfather, making my voice thick as I said, “She’s right—I’d love a print.”
We chatted for a few more minutes; then I was out the door, heading down the street, thinking about robins. About storms. About Renny. I was kicking myself for not telling him about the feathers I’d found because I suddenly had the feeling that he wouldn’t have thought me bonkers at all.
Morning light was glowing softly on the horizon, coloring the sky in dim shades of grays and pinks. My eyes adjusted quickly, and I saw that Mom was waiting for me at the end of Vera’s driveway, where Amy’s SUV was parked in the spot where Jake’s truck should be.
Foolish, stubborn man.
When I reached Mom, she said, “I saw Vera’s kitchen light on, and she hooked us up with some coffee. She’s a treasure, that woman.”
Vera had welcomed her new guests into the garage apartment without even batting an eye. “Agreed.”
Mom’s dirty-blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail.
A stub, really. When her bob was worn loose, it barely hit her chin.
She had on a loose tank top, capri pants, and Birkenstocks.
She’d be turning sixty-one at the end of the year and glowed with good health.
She held two ceramic mugs, both steaming.
She passed one over—it had scissors, a comb, and the words Great hair doesn’t happen by chance, it happens by appointment printed on it—and gave me a kiss on my cheek.
I took a sip of coffee, sighed happily.
In companionable silence, we started walking toward the sun garden, and I was once again reminded of my grandfather. Our walks. With him, though, there was rarely silence. He was a talker.
Mom was a talker, too, which tipped me off that she was working up to what had brought her down here, to Forget-Me-Not.
Mom had explained that she and Amy had come for the Flour Festival.
But I knew that wasn’t the real reason.
Amy had already told me why, with the text she’d sent last week: Mom wanted me home.
Amy hadn’t told me, however, about this rescue mission, other than her cryptic rearrange-her-whole-life snippiness during one of our phone calls. Which told me that some part of her believed in Mom’s campaign.
According to my sister, they planned to leave on Monday morning and make the eleven-hour trip back to Michigan in one day instead of breaking it up like they had on the way down here. I think they—Mom—expected I’d follow them back. A two-car Nightingale caravan.
Which wasn’t going to happen.
“It’s a beautiful little town,” Mom said, stopping to admire the garden.
Dew glistened on petals, each small drop perfect and beautiful.
I took a sip of coffee. It was quickly growing cold. “It is.”
She faced me, her green eyes looking darker than usual in the muted light. “I can see you’re happy here.”
I waited for the but.
“But—”
And there it was.
“—I worry.”
I thought about what I’d told Katy once, about moms worrying. Mine was no exception.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” I said, noticing the spray of freckles on her shoulders.
My shoulders were the same. Just like my eyes were the same velvety green as hers.
I pulled a new-old memory out of foggy depths.
Of me at six years old. It had been Halloween, and I’d dressed as a nurse.
And as Mom and Grandpa had walked us younger kids around the neighborhood, I’d heard over and over again people telling my mom, “She’s your mini-me!
” She’d been thrilled. I remembered, too, that when I was asked if I planned to follow in my mom’s footsteps when I grew up, I’d looked at her hopeful, proud eyes and said yes, even though I hadn’t really understood what it meant.
Later, when Grandpa and I were sorting candy, he’d said to me, real quietly, that I didn’t have to be a nurse when I grew up if I didn’t want to. That I could be anything I wanted. That my life was mine to live.
But I’d been basking in the glow of my mother’s happiness, of her pride, and I knew what I had to do. I was going to be just like her.
It was an unsettling memory.
Would I have chosen another career if I hadn’t longed for her attention, her approval?
I wasn’t sure, but I suspected no. I loved being a nurse. However, I most certainly didn’t want to get a postdoctoral degree.
I had to draw the line.
As Grandpa had once so wisely said, my life was mine to live.
It wasn’t going to matter to my mother what I did for a living—as long as I was happy, healthy. I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t understood this before, then realized that maybe I’d needed the distance between us to see it clearly.
“You’re still healing,” Mom said, sitting on a bench nearby. She patted the spot next to her. “You should come home, pick up where you left off with therapy. If you still want to come back here in six months, a year, then by all means, do. But take care of you first.”