Page 40 of When We Had Forever
“Hi.” She releases a breath. “You scared me.”
“Sorry. I know we...haven’t talked in a while.”
I don’t state the obvious—that even though she and my dad live two miles away, we always maintain radio silence at this time of year. Even after nearly four decades, even after I’ve lost a husband, apparently, the anniversary month of my brother’s death still throws my mother into a tailspin. Under normal circumstances, I’d honor her withdrawal and hold off calling until September.
These, however, are not normal circumstances.
“It’s not your fault.” Her tone softens. “I’m... Well. We both know how I get.”
I close my eyes and clutch the phone until the plastic creaks, tethering myself to the timbre of her voice as if it has the power to coax something other than a gutting betrayal from what I’ve just seen.
“And I’ve been thinking about you.” She sounds tentative, fumbling. “I’ve actually wondered if...maybe you...did something special last week?”
My eyes shoot open. For my mother, Jasper’s death has forever marred the day I came into this world, a stain that no amount of time or distance has ever washed out. Back in my childhood, we never celebrated. While my friends all turned six, nine, thirteen, I got cake and balloons on my half birthday. I turned six and a half. Nine and a half. And, in a horrendous, fateful twist, thirty-six and a half on the day Michael died, ultimately leaving me with two cursed dates on opposite sides of the year.
Now this is the closest my mother’s ever come to acknowledging my birthday. My real one, that is.
And so, because I feel compelled to reward her in some way, I lie. “Yeah, Kate took me out for drinks. Then we got massages. It was great.”
“Massages! How wonderful. At Woodhouse Day Spa?”
“Yeah, Woodhouse.”
“Oh, I love it there. Jackie’s my favorite. Such tiny hands, but so strong. Who was your therapist?”
“Um...Lance?” I say, then clamp my teeth around a curled forefinger, becauseLancesounds more like a guitar-wielding YouTube star than a Seagrove masseuse who kneads out soreness while Tibetan chants waft in the background.
Clearly, my mother has the same thought, or maybe she knows all the therapists at Woodhouse by name, because her tone goes flat as roadkill. “You didn’t go anywhere, did you?”
“Um...no. But I don’t want you to worry. I’m fine, Mom, really.”
“Are you?”
I fist a hand against my temple. I’m not fine. I am so much the exact fucking opposite of fine that I want to scream, but that would only terrify her.
“When’s the last time you left the house?” she presses.
“I don’t know, when’s the last timeyouleft the house?” I shoot back, then immediately regret it. “I’m sorry, that was shitty of me. I’m just...on edge. Which is actually why I called. Kate suggested I take a vacation, and I think she’s right. I want to give myself a chance to heal, somewhere away from here.”
My mother draws a sharp breath. “By yourself? But where would you go?”
Into the woods, I think, because I can’t stand another second in this house. I no longer care if leaving betrays the man I loved so wholeheartedly. Because clearly, he betrayed me, too. By withdrawing. By sinking into his work.
By dying at thirty-nine after signing divorce papers he hadn’t mustered the courage to use.
I swallow, hoping my tone won’t give me away. “Don’t worry, nowhere crazy. I was hoping I could use the cabin. Being out in nature...helped me a lot the summer Margo died.”
“Oh, the cabin. Well, it’s wonderful that you want to go, but...”
My gut clenches. “But?”
“We sold it.”
My stomach drops. “Sold it? When? Why didn’t I know?”
“Dad and I just accepted the offer last week. We hadn’t been there in a year, and I didn’t think you had any interest anymore.”
I stem a breath, but I can’t argue. The cabin lies northeast of Seattle, in the wilderness near Skykomish—a long enough drive that I’ve only made the effort a handful of times in the past twenty years.
