by Kari Ganske
Mercilessly, he pried my fingers off his clothing and clucked his tongue. "Alex, Alex, Alex. Look at you. In your thirties and still scared of your mother."
"Alexandretta Harriet Lightwood!" my mother bellowed. I cringed. Heck, half of Maryland cringed. Linc tried to step aside, but I scooted over so he still blocked me. That worked for all of two seconds.
My mother, Constance Lightwood, was a five-foot-five whirling dervish of strong emotions and fierce convictions. Her morals were as strong as her bowling arm and her voice as loud as her clothing. Currently, she wore a bright yellow housedress with large green and purple flowers. Her hair was in rollers under a babushka. Matching bright yellow Crocs slap-slap-slapped the pavement as she barreled toward us.
"Mom," I whined when we made eye contact. "I'm so glad you're here. I always need my mama when I'm hurt." I pointed to the Band-Aid on my head and tried to drum up some tears.
"Oh no you don't," my mother scolded, wagging her pointer finger at me. "Look what you did!" She turned that finger toward the sign.
I hung my head, wishing Linc hadn't whistled for Fang and disappeared around the truck. I could use a buffer. Even Colleen skedaddled, the chicken.
"I didn't mean it."
"I'm going to forever be the mother of the Sign Killer. I better not get kicked out of our book club for this," she said, arms gesticulating wildly as she spoke. "It's all over the police scanner already. And now I'm on the side of the road in my curlers and housecoat."
She grabbed my face in her hands and lifted it so our eyes met again. The hard edges of my mother's expression softened; she kissed my forehead.
"Ah, po ptakach," she said, using the Polish for it's all over now. "I am glad you're here, Peanut. But next time, a simple phone call will suffice."
"I think my car is undrivable," I said, wrapping my arms around my mother's middle. As indiscreetly as I could, I savored her smell like an addict. No matter the circumstance, she always smelled the same—a little bit of lemon, a dash of vanilla, a pinch of dough, and all of home. Every time I was even in the vicinity of a lemon danish, images of my mother in the kitchen with Nana K, making pierogis from scratch or homemade cookies for one of her many clubs, popped immediately into my mind.
"Undrivable isn't a word, Peanut," Mom said absently, stroking my hair. "We'll transfer all your stuff into my car. Doesn't look like it'll take too long."
Leave it to my mother to notice my lack of belongings. And point it out to everyone.
"Tow truck is on the way, Connie," Chief Duncan said. He ripped a ticket from his pad and handed it to me. "Don't miss your court date."
I jumped off the fender and walked with my mom toward my car to begin unloading my stuff. Linc stuck his head out the window of the fire truck.
"Hey, Alex," he called. I glanced up at him. "Welcome back to Piney Ridge. You know, in case you didn't see the sign."
Chapter 3
My mother kept a running commentary as we drove through town toward my childhood home. No going back now, I thought, sighing heavily through my nose. It made a little fog print on the window glass. I adjusted Lash's bowl in my lap so I could wipe it away with my sleeve.
Piney Ridge rolled by as we drove, pretty much the same as I remembered it. Some of the storefronts on Main Street had changed ownership over the years as businesses came and went, but overall, the façades remained the same. Same color palette, same light posts, same crack in the sidewalk in front of the cigar shop.
We turned off Main and onto Brightview, where the dogwoods lining the streets had grown exponentially since I'd been here last. In the waning spring, the once burgeoning flowers were beginning to lose their petals, creating a mosaic of pink and white polka dots on the sidewalk and parked cars. The small petals fluttered about the air in the slight breeze. My fingers itched to photograph the flower shower.
But I'd never squeeze a word in edgewise with my mom in time to ask her to stop. Anyway, my camera gear bag was stowed somewhere in the back of the car. I glanced into the rearview mirror at the meager pile of belongings in the back seat. What was once a source of pride—living sparse with a small footprint—was now another reminder of my current pathetic life. What other thirty-two-year-old could pack all of their worldly belongings into the back seat of a Fiat?
I tried to shake myself out of my funk. I'd had more possessions a few weeks ago, I told myself. I'd sold a bunch of furniture before leaving the city. And by a bunch, I meant the bed frame and the couch—two things I knew my conniving ex-boyfriend, Rick, would miss the most. Picturing him entering the apartment to an empty living room brought a hint of color to my otherwise drab life of late. Just wait until he noticed the hot sauce in his mouthwash. I was almost sorry I wouldn't be there to see the smug smile drop from his serpentine face.
Almost.
Despite my best efforts to the contrary, Wreck-it Rick kept creeping back into my thoughts. To be expected, I supposed, after living and working together for almost a year, but frustrating nonetheless, since I absolutely promised myself I would never waste another brain cell on him. He may have caused my life to take a swift turn south, but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of dwelling on it. I'd worked too hard to overcome the inherent prejudice people had against my gender and age in the photojournalism community to let a man ruin it.
When I first broke into the scene, I felt like Peter Parker, sans Spiderman, peddling human interest stories to the Daily Prophet as a freelancer. Sometimes newspapers or magazines would commission me to do a specific shoot, but I realized quickly these tended to be light and fluffy events—high-society weddings, gala openings, candids of the dog park. All of which I could have easily photographed back in Piney Ridge. The male photographers were sent to riots and political events and even overseas on location.
So, I did what any other self-respecting young woman would do in a patriarchal profession—I lied. No, not lied exactly, but blurred the truth. I took advantage of my gender-neutral nickname, Alex, on résumés and job applications to get my foot in the door. By the time magazines and news outlets realized I was actually a young, petite woman, my photographs had already spoken for themselves. It wasn't my fault people jumped to conclusions. When I became the go-to photographer for Nature magazine, the ends absolutely justified the means.
Then Rick had wrecked it all out of spite. And now I was back at square one—unemployed and alone.
Well, not entirely alone; I had Lashatelle on my lap. And anyone who claimed fish didn't have personalities were full of bologna Traveling on location to photograph news and nature didn't allow for pets of the furry or feathered varieties, so a fish was the perfect companion. Low maintenance, quiet, and a little judgy—kinda like me.
"Alex, are you listening to me?" my mother's shrill voice cut into my sulk, reminding me that I had her and my father on my side as well.
"Yes, Mom," I said. I had been half listening. I grasped at the last thing I heard clearly. "I think I should get settled in first before joining your clubs, okay?"
"Sure, Peanut. I understand. We need to let this sign debacle blow over first anyway."
I would have chuckled at the double meaning of the sign blowing over, but I knew she didn't say the pun on purpose. I turned my attention out the window as she rambled through choices for dinner.
Ms. Granger, my fourth-grade teacher, sat on her porch in her rocker, waving at all the cars driving by. I lifted my hand in return, as I did every time I passed her house since she retired a few decades ago.
A little way down the street, Ms. Walker struggled with a large golden retriever who bounded after a squirrel. The dog's name, I knew, was Rocket. They'd had a Rocket since I was in middle school. Their first Rocket, a beautiful, docile golden had been the fabric of the family. When she got sick, we all thought Robbie Walker would die right along with the dog, they were so devoted. But when Rocket made a full recovery a few weeks later, the whole town rejoiced in Robbie's joy. In fact, her recovery was so complete,
she seemed like a totally different dog.
Come to find out later, it was a different dog. The original Rocket sadly passed away from her illness, but instead of telling Robbie, they'd simply replaced her with a new Rocket and led Robbie to believe she'd made a complete recovery. The cycle had repeated until Robbie went to college and found out the truth. Now, no matter what they tried to name their dogs, everyone called them Rocket. The Walkers finally stopped trying to fight it.
I smiled—part rueful, part amused—as memories rolled through me as swiftly as we rolled through the streets. The old pear tree, perfect for climbing, in the lot beside the elementary school that Linc and I fought over for ownership during recess. The community book drop on the corner where Colleen and I snatched bodice-rippers left by anonymous housewives. The duck pond, aptly named because of all the wild ducks and geese that made their homes there, where all three of us had grown up—first riding our bikes along the paths, then picnicking under the pavilion, finally talking for hours while we threw bread to the fowl.
I'd left all of this and more when I hightailed it to New York. Before I could let the emotions wash over me completely, I shut the floodgates of my memories. I didn't regret my choice then; my career and my mental health needed the move. But I did wish I would've thought about these small, happy moments more often instead of focusing on all the reasons why I left.
My father, George Lightwood, stood on the front porch of my childhood home as we pulled into the driveway. Without even looking too closely, I knew he'd be wearing a pair of brown pants, a button-down shirt, and a sweater vest in some ridiculous pattern my mother had picked out. He'd have today's paper tucked under one arm with his hand in his pocket and the other resting on his belly. I had an exact picture like this hanging in the New York apartment.
I swear the only thing that really changed in Piney Ridge was the level of the reservoir during a heavy rain.
I got out of the car with Lash in my hands.
"Hey, Princess," my father called, raising his hand. Of the two nicknames from my parents, Princess was by far my favorite. My mother only called me Peanut because I was so short as a child. Truthfully, I was still short, but a thirty-two-year-old Peanut wasn't quite as cute. Or womanly.
"Hi, Dad," I said. I paused beside him so he could kiss my cheek. I'd have hugged him if I wasn't holding Lash's bowl.
"I heard you had a little run-in on the way here." He tried to hide his smile, unsuccessfully.
"I see the dad jokes are still going strong," I quipped lightly.
"The phone has already started ringing with concerned neighbors," he said. And as if on cue, I heard the shrill ring of the house phone reminding me that everyone in Piney Ridge likely already knew the entire story.
Chapter 4
My picture was front page news. Above the fold. And not even a recent picture, like the professional headshot I use for my byline. Nope. My high school senior picture graced the page with the headline: "Local Woman Returns With a Bang." The main reason I left Piney Ridge was because I didn't want my pictures confined to the local paper. At least it was a picture of me, not one I had taken. Which actually made me feel a little better in a twisted sort of way. I still retained integrity in my art.
For now, anyway. I may need to amend my convictions depending on how much my car and the sign cost to fix.
My mother would rather I not be part of the news in any way. She'd been fielding phone calls for days from concerned friends and citizens. She'd dutifully supported me out loud to whomever would listen—that old, decrepit sign needed to be fixed anyway; Alex was forced off the road; we are so thankful she's okay—all the while giving me death stares and sharp head shakes.
"Concerned, my big Polish dupa," Mom muttered after a particularly long string of calls one afternoon. "They just want to gossip."
"Sorry, Mom," I said for the bazillionth time. I focused on the soggy Cheerios floating around my bowl to avoid the evil eye.
The phone rang again. Mom huffed and took it off the receiver. Yes, my parents still had a house phone. The same yellow landline with the same long, yellow cord that I used to stretch from the kitchen to my bedroom in high school. Cell phones, apparently, were for emergencies only. And heaven forbid Mom would actually text someone. Nana K, on the other hand, had a substantial following on several social media platforms. Go figure.
"This is ridiculous," Mom exclaimed. "You haven't been out of the house since you've been home."
She narrowed her eyes at me—a clear sign she was about to make an outrageous suggestion. I narrowed my eyes right back at her. I had learned from the best after all.
"What is going through that meddling mind of yours?" I asked.
"We are going out," Mom said definitively. "No more hiding."
"I'm not hiding!" I lied. I was totally hiding. I hadn't even seen Colleen since that first disastrous moment.
"I'm making you an appointment at Missy K's Hair Salon," Mom said.
I rolled my eyes. Mom ignored me and snapped the phone back on the hook long enough for a dial tone, then punched in numbers.
"There is no more public place than the hair salon to show we are holding our heads high. Plus, Kelly will be able to make you look more like an adult and less like you spent months in the desert."
"I did spend months in the desert!"
My mother knew this; I always provided my travel itinerary and sent plenty of pictures when I was on location. Before returning to Piney Ridge, I'd traveled to the Sahara for a spread in Nature magazine with my douche-canoe, journalist ex-boyfriend, Wreck-it Rick. It was after that trip that he ran out on me faster than our camels on hot sand. And took my career, and my pride, with him.
But there was no reminding my mother that hair salons were hard to come by in the middle of the actual, literal desert.
I looked at my father for support. He sat at the table with the local paper and a half-empty cup of coffee he'd let go cold on him. Same as he did every morning. Harrison made him that mug for Father's Day one year, the childish Sharpie drawings were almost worn away from age and use. He glanced at me over the top of the paper and shrugged.
"'You're meddling with powers you cannot possibly comprehend,'" he said with a smirk, quoting Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.
I furrowed my brow at him. I'd come to terms with my father's obsession with the Indiana Jones movies—how could I not with a name like Alexandretta—but I didn't have to like it. Still, I knew arguing was futile: once my mother made up her mind about something, not even a hurricane could budge her. A fact my father had learned long ago, so he chose to exert his efforts elsewhere.
Two hours later, I sat begrudgingly in a salon chair getting my head massaged by a girl that looked young enough to be my offspring. Truth be told, it actually felt kinda good to have someone else wash my mess of long, brownish-blonde hair.
At one point, I thought I heard the girl ask, "Is that sand?"
"Yes. Yes, it is," I muttered. I'd be finding sand everywhere forever. Yet another lovely, long-lasting reminder of my final trip as a respected member of the photojournalism community.
"Okay. We're almost done here. Then Kelly is going to see to you personally," the shampoo girl said in monotone. Clearly, she'd rather be anywhere but at work. "Kelly is one of the owners."
I transitioned to the salon chair and waited for co-owner Kelly. A shadow appeared behind me as I scrolled through my phone. I looked up to see Kelly Kirkwood, a girl I knew in high school. A girl I didn't especially like in high school.
"Alex. Long time no see," Kelly said cheerfully.
"I didn't realize you were the Kelly that worked here."
I tried to get up, but Kelly planted her hand heavily on my shoulder. My mother gave me a fierce "you'd better not cause another scene" glare from where she sat getting her nails done. I stayed put but couldn't quite fix the scowl on my face. I missed the anonymity of New York where I didn't run into someone I knew every time I blinked.
; "What did you have in mind today?" Kelly asked, running her fingers through my long, thin hair.
"I guess a trim. Nothing fancy," I said. The sooner I left this chair, the better. This was the problem with small towns—everyone knew everyone and had a history with each other. So even though Kelly graduated a few years ahead of me, we crossed paths enough to make an impact. Not a good one. I willed Kelly not to bring up anything from high school.
"No color?"
I shook my head.
Kelly tsked and frowned. "Okay. It's your head."
She started combing, being none too gentle, in my opinion. The bell jingled over the door as more patrons entered.
"She just ran right into the sign! Can you imagine? Hasn't been back in years, and this is how she announces her return. So typical. One time in high school she knocked over an entire cart of beakers in science. Glass everywhere. Can you imagine?" I heard a female voice say.
"Oh, shhhh. There's her mother right there," another voice commented. I squeezed my eyes shut hoping it made me invisible.
Kelly said, "Alex is right here too, ladies. I'm sure she already heard you. We all heard you."
I peeked an eye open to give her one of Mom's death stares in the mirror, but Kelly kept her attention focused on my hair.
"Oh, hi, Alex!" the voice singsonged, coming closer.
In the mirror I caught the reflection of the face attached to the sugary-sweet voice and cringed before I could fix my face. I was looking into the face of the high school mean girl, Missy Poledark. Missy, the self-appointed leader of the "Snob Blob," as my small but close-knit group of misfit friends called them, was to Piney Ridge as Regina George was to North Shore High School in Mean Girls. Not only did Missy make my introverted, artistic life a living horror show, but she also dated Linc and pulled him even further away from me. Then subsequently rubbed it in my face every chance she got. My once close friendship with Linc didn't quite come out the other side of the "Missy months" as strong as it went in—another lesser-known reason I left Piney Ridge as soon as humanly possible.
