Chapter Thirty-Three #2
I sat. “I’m fine. Really. I didn’t even check the forecast today.”
Only, now that I said it, I itched to pull my phone out of the pocket of my leggings and start swiping.
She tipped her head. “Then you don’t mind at all that there’s a chance of storms this afternoon?”
This afternoon? When we’d be at the Flour Festival? Outside?
My chest squeezed. My pulse quickened. “No,” I squeaked.
“Ignoring your trauma isn’t going to help anything, Juliet. You can’t run away from it.”
“I’m not. You can’t run away from something that lives in your bones, your soul.”
She drew in a deep breath, blew it out. “I blame this whole trip on your grandfather, you know. This is his doing. He was always filling your head with travel talk.”
He was. I couldn’t even deny it.
I cracked a smile, hearing his voice in my head, saying, If you travel, Jules, you’ll discover new places, meet new people, and there’s a good chance you’ll find yourself along the way.
If you don’t want to go alone, we can go together.
I’d love to show you the special places I visited when I did my big trip in my twenties.
I knew now that it hadn’t been my idea at all to retrace the path he’d taken through the South. He’d planted the seeds. And even though I’d forgotten, his encouragement to travel the same route, make the same stops, had been at work in my subconscious.
Maybe I was losing my grip on reality, but I now fully believed, without a single doubt, that the chubby robin with the white patch at its throat had been my grandfather joining me on the journey. We’d taken the trip together after all.
Mom suddenly set her mug down on the bench and jumped up. She tucked her hands close to her armpits and started flapping her arms. Then she lifted her knees high, one at a time, running around, zagging left, then right.
I thought maybe she’d spiked her coffee until she said, mimicking Grandpa, “It’s time for you to spread your wings and leave the nest, Jules.”
I pulled out my phone, started filming, and laughed. “You look like a deranged chicken.”
“Make like a bird and fly, Jules!” she said, still in that deep, manly voice, fully committed to the bit. “The nest will be here when you get back, Jules!”
She continued flapping and zigging and zagging, and I laughed so hard I had tears in my eyes.
Finally, she stopped, sat down again, and picked up her mug as though she hadn’t just made a spectacle of herself in front of me and the birds and the dewdrops.
I wiped my eyes, and she glanced at me tenderly. “There was a time not too long ago when I thought I might never hear you laugh again.”
There was a time not too long ago when I’d thought I never would. “I’m telling you, I’m doing fine. Good, even.”
“Great?”
“That’s an awful high standard. Is anyone great?”
“I’m great.” She took a sip of coffee. On her mug was the image of a whisk and the words Baking is a work of heart. “All my kids think so.”
“No need to brag,” I joked.
She bumped my arm with hers. “I want you to be great.”
“Being here has helped,” I said.
“Mm. Being home would be best.”
It was time to rip the Band-Aid off. “I sent in my resignation a couple of days ago.”
She sighed heavily. It’s where Amy learned it from. “I know,” she said. “I still have friends at the school. They were concerned.”
I gritted my teeth that someone had ratted me out even though it came from a place of goodness, kindness, care.
“It fueled my suspicions that you weren’t planning on coming home.” She faced me, lifting an eyebrow, challenging me to deny it.
“I’m happy here,” I said simply, meeting her gaze, hoping she could see that it was true.
A long moment passed before she sighed again. “You really have your heart set on staying, don’t you?”
I nodded.
“I’m not going to change your mind, am I?”
I shook my head.
“And what about grad school?”
I winced and tried to be brave. “I’m not sure that’s the right path for me after all. I don’t want to do research. I want to nurture. Since I’ve been here, I’ve been volunteering at a hospice respite house, and my heart is leading me in that direction.”
Her eyes widened; then, slowly, she nodded. “I can see you fitting in that field quite well.”
I wanted to collapse in relief that she understood.
She put her mug down and placed her hands on my cheeks.
“I love you, Juliet. It might take me a while to accept you living down here, but I will if it truly makes you happy. Please remember that if you ever need anything, I’m not that far.
I will fly, drive, bike, walk, crawl if I must, to get to you.
And you can always come home, to your nest. Anytime. Day or night.”
Only my mom would think Michigan wasn’t that far. I hugged her, resting my head on her freckled shoulder. “Thanks, Mom. For everything. Always.”
“Are you sure I can’t change your mind about coming home?” she said into my hair.
“Mom.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll probably keep trying, though.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything else from you.”
She pulled back and said, “Ready for more coffee?”
“Definitely.”
We took our time walking back to Vera’s and found Amy sitting on the front porch, looking quite at home in her pajamas on the swing. Her auburn hair was pulled up in a sloppy bun, and she was barefoot.
As we climbed the steps, she held up a mug and a plate. Her hazel eyes danced as she said to me, “I went looking for Mom, and next thing I knew, Vera had me tucked up on this swing. Then she brought me out some coffee and a cinnamon-swirl cupcake. Are all the people around here this nice?”
“Everyone I’ve met, yes.”
“Well,” she said, taking a bite of the cupcake, “no wonder you don’t want to come home.”