Page 24 of Memories of the Lost

“I think so?” She took a breath. “It’s complicated. My mother was not always in the here and now, if you know what I mean.”

“I do.” He brushed his hand over her cheek. “I’m sorry about that.”

“I hate saying that, honestly. She was so good to me. It was always just us, you know? Arlette and Tillie against the world. She felt safe at the farm, and I think having those boundaries really helped her stay relatively okay.”

“My dad died when I was seven,” he said. His hair shone in the streetlight, his nose casting a shadow over a cheekbone. “My mother was on the floor. She took us all to England, and we spent the summer with her best friend, on a farm. I had a bunch of cousins, and there were all these rescue animals, like a goat with three legs and dogs who couldn’t walk very well.”

Tillie smiled up at him. “That sounds beautiful.”

“It was. The thing is, it really did heal my mum. She was always a farmer, but after that was when she got down with the bees and honey and all that.”

“Nature heals?”

“Maybe.” They were standing face-to-face, close to the wall. From somewhere came the sound of a band, and Tillie smelled the cigarettes of people smoking outside a bar. A triangle of light fell across the part of his hair, touched his lower lip, and it was all she could see. “Maybe it’s just the thing of having things that have to be done. Simple things. Repetitive things.”

“Mm.” A honeyed sense of longing spilled through her. “Maybe I do believe in fate.”

“Maybe I do, too.” He leaned in to kiss her. The wall braced them, and the kiss went deep. His body was a million degrees, burning her at all the connection points, the palm of his hand on her neck, his fingers in her hair, her arm reaching up to pull him closer, their chests, their thighs. As if they’d rehearsed, their bodies slid into perfect alignment.

He lifted his head. Looked at her.

She looked back.

At some signal they both felt, they tangled hands and kept walking, not speaking.

After they walked for a little while, he stopped. “Close your eyes.”

It said something about her trust of him that she did exactly as he asked.

“Do you smell it?”

She took a breath and grinned, keeping her eyes closed. Vitamins, patchouli, dried ginger, yeast. “Health food store.”

He squeezed her fingers. “Let’s go in.”

They skipped down the steps to the basement store. It was well lit, with well-organized shelves, and a tidy row of bulk bins, half–Whole Foods, half–seventies co-op. The scent wrapped Tillie in a cozy hug, and from Liam’s cheerful expression as he looked around, it was the same for him. He lifted a bar of soap, smelled it, offered it to her—honey and lanolin, studded with lavender, probably very nourishing, but not the greatest way to smell. She coughed a little.

He chuckled, bringing the soap back to his nose. “My mum made soap from goat’s milk.”

Tillie shook her head. “Not even gonna say it.”

“Yours, too?”

“Of course. What was your mom’s specialty?”

“Everything honey. Honey soap, honey balm, honey butter, bee pollen. All of it.” They eased down the very slim aisles, past the Dr. Bronner’s soaps and more modern Green Day products, through thelentils and beans and pastas and bulk dried fruit. She had a sudden yen for granola with raisins. “Hang on. I need some of this.”

There used to be plastic bags on rolls, but of course, now they had paper bags of various sizes. Tillie filled a medium-size one, and suddenly thought of her mom, her sleeves and hair swaying, her jewelry clattering, earrings and a multitude of bracelets. Grief rose, wild and emphatic, and tears stung her eyes. She blinked hurriedly, trying to hide her sudden swell of emotion, but Liam noticed. Of course he would.

Instead of words, he handed her a handkerchief. “It’s clean.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“My mom died not long ago. This place is making me think of her.”

“I’m sorry.”