Page 87 of Back for Seconds
The cabin I’d bought, not as a safe harbor, but as a rebellion. A desperate, final act.
I parked my car on the muddy lawn and stared at the house—the house I’d bought when I desperately needed to know what my future looked like. It had fallen into my lap.
Perfectly in budget. Perfectly move-in ready. With a ramp off the back deck.
“You did this,” I said out loud. “You brought me this house. You brought me June. You’re pushing me forward, pushing me to keep growing.”
The car air remained completely still. My headlights stayed steady, pointed at my front door. Through the parted curtains, I could see the twinkle of my Christmas tree.
Otherwise, I felt nothing.
“It’s ok if you don’t want to talk. Maybe you’re mad at me? I don’t know—but I need you right now. I need to know everything’s going to be ok. And even if it’s a version of ok without June, I just need to know that…”
I leaned my head back against the seat, letting my eyes fall shut.
What the fuck was I doing?
This wasn’t real. She was gone.
“I know, I need to grow up and move on. But if you could just let me know everything is going to be ok, I promise I’ll stop all of this—I’ll stop tonight—”
Turn on the radio.
Her voice, as clear as day, in my head.
Turn on the damn radio. There was even a hint of her raspy laughter in the words.
I sat up ramrod straight, reached for the radio, turned it on.
The screen stayed blank—but music began playing. A song…
A song my grandmother would sing all the time. While she cooked, while she cleaned, while she smoked a cigarette out of the open window. Whistled, hummed under her breath. With words, without words.
The floating, growing operatic voice crescendoed into a chorus I’d heard so many times.
Oje vita, oje vita mia…
oje core ‘e chistu core…
From: [email protected]
Subject Line: Reflections (After 2.5 Wines)
December 27, 3:15 p.m.
Cher said it best, Junebug.
Did I ever think this kind of life was possible after love?
The last few days I’ve been left to wonder what I missed out on all these years. It’s a hard thought, since I would never ever want to change a single thing about you kids. But what if I had stayed in college? Or had taken that job at Macy’s when your father said I shouldn’t, that he needed me at the pizza shop? What if I had left when you turned eighteen? It would have taken a lot of courage from me when I didn’t have much to give.
The more of the world I see, the stronger this feeling gets.
I hung onto your father for so long because that was the right thing to do. That was the good thing to do. You make it work. That’s what I was taught. You know, my mother was miserable and she took it out on everyone around her. I used to hate her—now, I just feel sad for her. My mother was sixty-five when she passed away. That’s how old I’ll be next year.
This is what I was thinking about around midnight on Christmas Eve, after two and a half glasses of Pinot Grigio, laying on one of the deck chairs, watching the stars. Tears had started to leak from my eyes. I finally understood that word—bittersweet. My belly was full of delicious food and my feet ached from dancing all evening and yet I missed you and your brothers and I couldn’t stop thinking about what your dad was doing. Not with hate or anger, just…wondering. We’d spent this night together for more than half my life. Breading smelts; stuffing calamari; baking trays of pasta. We had a rhythm in the kitchen that we didn’t have anywhere else.
