Page 8 of A Lot Like Lavender

“You’re too thin. I’m going to cook for you.” He graspsmy shoulders in his hands, holding me in place. “We are so glad to have you home, buddy.”

“Yes we are. And we also have a full house,” Mom announces, looking at the waiting room filled with patients of every breed and their pet parents, as she refers to them. She turns to a woman that looks to be about her same age and puts on her Dr. Rafferty voice—a much less nonsensical version of the one who, only moments before, was kissing Gus fully on the mouth in a private examination room. “Mrs. Remillard, I have a few concerns about Gus’ bowel movements.”

The woman’s tight lipped smile quivers. “He’s been stopped up for days.”

A man beside her, presumably her husband, takes her hand in his as if preparing for the worst.

Resting a hand on her shoulder, Mom nods empathetically. “Well, we know Gus Gus is a complex case, but that elderly gentleman back there has a few of his lives left yet, so I won’t have you worrying. I’m going to run some tests this afternoon and a quick ultrasound before you can take him home and spoil him some more. But… I need him to be on a strict diet.”

Mrs. Remillard’s fingers clutch imaginary pearls. “But…”

“No buts.” Mom puts her pointer finger in the air. What I know to mean, she must not be interrupted. “Healthy fats, whole foods, and only two small meals a day.”

Mr. Remillard chuckles and stretches out his hand to shake my mother’s. “Will do, Doc. Thanks for taking care of her—” His wife elbows him. “I meanourboy.”

Mom simply nods before turning her attention back to me. “Now, are you jet-lagged? Do you need to settle in? Getsome food?” She narrows her dark brown eyes on the ink peeking out from the neckline of my T-shirt. “Or maybe a new tattoo? I think I see some empty skin under that scruff of yours.”

She’s all bark and no bite, though, reaching up and cupping her hand around my jaw, giving me a proper inspection. “You’re too thin, sweetheart. Bill will feed you tonight.”

“I’m fine.” I settle my hand against hers. “And my next tattoo appointment isn’t until after working hours, so I’ve got time to kill. Plenty, in fact. Put me to work.”

“Great.” She pats my cheeks harder than necessary and links our arms as she drags me to the door. “I’ve got a house call for you over at Purple Pastures.”

Purple Pastures. The announcement has me digging my heels into the linoleum. “No. Mama, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Oh?” She raises her eyebrows and places a hand on her jutted-out hip. “That’s funny. Because I thought you said you didn’t have jet lag. That you were ready to go. No impediments pending.”

“I did, but?—”

“And,” Mom continues, placing her finger in the air exactly like she did with Mrs. Remillard, “it’s your name we’re putting on the building outside, right? You came all this way to practice medicine? To partner with Bill and me and eventually take over the practice?”

“Yes, but?—”

“There’s a patient in need, and you can help her, Jordan.” She kisses my cheek and shoves me towards the door. “It’s a Band-Aid, Son. The sooner you rip it off, the better. Emory is expectin’ ya in an hour. She’s got a med kit in thebarn office, but you should probably shower first. You smell like the airplane.”

“And maybe a shave, too. To make a good first impression,” Mrs. Remillard adds with a smile so charming, I can’t bring myself to tell her making a good first impression is the furthest thing from my mind.

“You’ve got this, kid,” Bill cheers me on from the front desk, always the optimist. “We’ll see ya later. I’m making tofu fried chicken and waffles.” He waves as Mom retreats, settling comfortably into the crook of his arm. They look like a Norman Rockwell painting calledSmall-Town Doctors Send Their Son Off to War.Only, my parents shove me out the door with a, “Say hey to the girls for us,” as the door closes behind me.

“I amnotshowering,” I say under my breath, like I’m not a grown man with a healthy fear of his mama hearing him backtalk.

Grabbing my helmet, throwing it on, and straddling my motorcycle in one fell swoop, I kick the engine on and take a deep breath. The sound of the bike coming to life does little to settle me. In fact, what’s usually a source of comfort is suddenly producing a current of memories I’d like to forget.

Though I passed the farm earlier, now on this mission, my body thrums with old anxieties twisting my insides as the path turns. Because every inch of the road that brings me closer to Purple Pastures—a piece of land I know like the back of my hand—is an inch closer to my regret. To life-changing mistakes and grief I’ve managed to avoid for almost ten years.

Ten years too long.

The raccoon at the final turn is exactly where it was earlier, though his balloon and his body seem a bitmore deflated.

Me too, buddy.

I make a mental note to swing by on my way out and give him a proper burial. That is, if I make it through this house call in one piece.

In many ways, the farm looks exactly like it’s portrayed online. Much like the photos I’ve studied in my deepest moments of homesickness, the property is all rolling hills covered in fields of grass and lavender and a winding, well-worn dirt road that I know will lead me to the main house. But there are signs of the passage of time as well. Things that haven’t been updated on Purple Pasture’s website or on the old land listing that I may—or may not—have bookmarked on my laptop.

The lavender is overgrown in many of the fields farther out from the house, not in the clean rows you’d expect of a farm this size. Even at a cursory glance, it’s evident the fences haven’t been tended to in a while, and the barn I helped raise over ten years ago has certainly seen better days. And the ridiculous, purple-painted silo, though fading, still stands out like a sore thumb against the clear blue sky.

I didn’t expect to drive here, or along a dirt path on my bike, for that matter, so I’m covered in a fine layer of dust and grime by the time I park beside an SUV that waits just outside the main house. The large rancher overlooks the primary pasture, something I remember being a sticking point in the building plans, but I have to say, I can see the appeal now. A herd of alpacas roam freely together, just under an overhanging window off the front of the home.