Leaving Scarlet

by J. Lynn Bailey

  “What people?”

  Clyda is appalled. “What do you mean, what people? Us.”

  Carl wipes his mouth with his cloth napkin and places it back on his lap, placing his elbows on the table—something Borges would be flipping over in his grave for. “With all due respect, dear, you’re not her family. Her mother is her family.”

  “Oh, her mother who wasn’t really present for her most of her life?” Clyda laughs a sarcastic laugh. “Her?”

  “A mother is always a mother, dear. That love, no matter what happens, is far too strong for any bond.”

  Clyda’s mouth falls open. “What is this about anyway, Carl?”

  “Truth, dear. While your opinion is your opinion, it doesn’t mean it’s the right thing for Scarlet.”

  While Clyda has swallowed a lot of truth throughout her seventy-something years, she also has a knack for knowing. Cash and Scarlet have always had a special bond since they were little children. But maybe there is some truth to what Carl is saying, but if so, Clyda won’t admit it.

  So, she wipes the surprise from her face and says, “We are her family—have been since she was a baby. And just because Erla is gone”—her voice catches on emotion—“doesn’t mean that we’re not in it for the long haul.” Clyda hastily adjusts her napkin in her lap and flags Libby down for the check.

  “Yes, dear.”

  Clyda throws a one-hundred-dollar bill down for dinner.

  “Clyda, please, allow me to pay.”

  “You know, Carl, I’ve been doing things on my own for an awfully long time. I will never assume to know what your daughter needs, so please don’t assume you know what my family needs.”

  And with that, Clyda finds her way out, only to realize that Carl drove. So, instead of asking for a ride, she begins the walk home. Two blocks down Main Street and a right on Ocean Street.

  She hears a car behind her.

  “Come on, dear. Please. Get in the car. It’s cold outside. It’s December.”

  Clyda sees the Christmas tree up ahead and stares at it as she matches the car step for step. “Go home, Carl.”

  But she knows Carl is too much of a gentleman to drive away.

  Carl knows that Clyda is far too hard-headed to get in the car, so he follows her home, and every few steps, he asks her to get into the car even though he knows she won’t.

  Once Clyda is inside, Carl drives home and wonders how he fell in love with such a stubborn woman. After his marriage, he didn’t feel he’d ever love a woman like he loved Millie, but he also thought Clyda would have bars on her heart forever.

  He knows she cringes when he slurps his soup.

  And maybe he does it to see if she’s willing to go to any length to stay with him.

  But what does he know? He’s just an old blacksmith without a high school diploma.

  It’s after nine in the evening. With aching feet from walking two blocks in heels, Clyda calls Mabe back.

  “I was an asshole to Carl, and I doubt he’ll call me again,” Clyda says, putting her feet up in her recliner.

  “Why were you an asshole?”

  “He tried to tell me that Scarlet is better off in Boston—without us.”

  “And?”

  “And I proceeded to tell him not to tell me how to think about family and that I would never intrude on his relationship with his own daughter.”

  “And?”

  Clyda rolls her eyes. “And I walked home from The Whiskey Barrel as he followed me in his car, all the way home.”

  Silence.

  “But it’s not about Scarlet,” Mabe says.

  “What? It most certainly is.”

  “You don’t want to let go of Erla. And if you let go of Scarlet, you’ll feel like you’re letting go of Erla and her memory.”

  Clyda’s insides quiver as she feels her heart lurch forward and her body shake. Oh, good grief. What have I done?

  “Grief can be finicky and sneaky as hell, Clyda.”

  “Yeah,” Clyda whispers.

  “And please, do me a favor?” Mabe asks.

  “What’s that?”

  “Please don’t walk home and be so bullheaded. You’re liable to get hurt. You’re old, remember?”

  Clyda begins to laugh.

  Mabe begins to laugh.

  Clyda says, “I won’t.”

  19

  Scarlet

  Present Day 2020

  I can see Cash standing there, illuminated in my brake lights, and I can barely breathe as I drive away.

  You did the right thing, Scar.

  It’s better for everyone. The past should be left in the past.

  I knew this would happen. Old scars, hard memories would take up residence in my head and my heart.

  You knew this would happen. But you’re stronger than this, stronger than this moment.

  And when I take one long, lasting look in the rearview mirror, Cash is gone. But not because he walked away. Because I chose this this time. I am in control.

  “One day, you’ll learn that people will always let you down, no matter what. Every single last one of them. The sooner you learn that, the better. Your best bet in life is for you to rely on you and only you.” The best advice my mother ever gave me.

  If I’m being honest with myself, I’ve been afraid to remember, to feel all the important and insignificant moments with Cash.

  Sometimes, it’s just easier to run from your heart. But one day, I guess I knew it would catch up with me. I just didn’t expect it to be this soon. I thought I’d buried them so deep, hidden them within the confines of my heart so they’d never see the light of day, but here they are, slowly making their way out to see the light of day. My headlights meet the dugout, where Cash and I used to play, and it’s another crushing blow of how it all came to a shattering halt.

  Once inside, I turn on the lights and think of how lonely it was for Grandma after Granddad passed away. This big, old house for one person and all the years of memories tucked inside the walls.

  One lonely sticky note that I didn’t notice before is stuck under the light switch to the kitchen. It says, Don’t forget the memories.

  My breath stalls. Widening eyes and a slack mouth, I try to push the sticky note off as a coincidence. I laugh and take the sticky note and set it on the counter.

  The light from the message machine blinks. I hit Play.

  “Hey, Scarlet. It’s Mike at the Dillon Creek Echo. Listen, I’ve decided it’s better to do the right thing,” he sighs. “I can fit your ad in after the holidays, but that’s the best I can do in order to sleep at night. Let me know what you decide.”

  Rolling my eyes, I slump down in Granddad’s chair and contemplate my next steps. Really, I don’t need the Dillon Creek Echo to run the ad in print. Hell, most things are online anyway. But many Dillon Creek residents still read the paper. But maybe the buyer won’t be from Dillon Creek. A pang of guilt reaches my throat. It would be nice to sell it to a local though. They’d know what the home means; they’d remember my grandparents, my granddad’s flowers. It would mean more to them than it would to some out-of-towners.

  “You came to sell the house and leave, Scarlet. Not reminisce and find the right buyers. Who cares who buys the house? Close the deal and leave Dillon Creek forever,” I say to convince myself.

  Maybe I say it out loud to convince myself, the powers that be, that I’m making the right choice with this one. It’s easy to make the sound choices for others, loaded with facts and research, but I’ve never been good with matters of the heart. I’m not sure when I became so hardened to these things. Have I become a cynic who lives for Starbucks Nitros, fast cars, and multimillion-dollar deals? Have I gotten so far off track that I’ve lost sight of what’s important?

  What about family?

  What about tradition?

  What about others?

  A small intuitive thought comes to me. Have I become my mother?

  My cell phone alerts me of a text message. It’s Frank
Manchester.

  Frank: Come on, Scarlet. Please call me. I’m at the office. I’d like to work out a deal. Please. You’re the heartbeat of Manchester Enterprises.

  I remember all of the holidays I worked. Time avoided with my grandparents, family, here in Dillon Creek because it was just easier. It was easier to make money—a lot of money—than do what was right. And now, I have nothing to show for it, except two houses on both coasts, enough money that I couldn’t spend it all even if I tried, and my ego.

  It would be easier to go back to Boston.

  It would be easier to pay a professional organizer to go through the house and box it up.

  It would be easier to run and disappear back into Boston’s skyline.

  It would be easier.

  These thoughts give me the ability to shake off the guilt that’s started to brew.

  I think of the sticky note and start to text Frank back—but stop.

  Sleep on it. Make him wait it out. Did he think of you when he decided to give the company to his son? Did he think about your best interest or all the holidays you’d worked to finish up deals, making money for him?

  I put my phone back in my purse and get ready for bed.

  Grandma used to say, “Honey, give it all to God. He’ll sort it out by morning.”

  I smile, remembering the way she used to make everything feel okay. The way she made everything feel safe and right and normal.

  I fell in line, succumbing to the chaos and coping in new ways. Somehow, in that process, I lost sight of who I really was.

  So, tonight, before I fall asleep, I take a big breath in and say, “Hey, God. It’s me, Scarlet. I know it’s been a long time—this is so stupid.” I brush off the prayer and roll over in my childhood bed. I wonder how I ever slept on this mattress in the first place.

  But the nagging thought of prayer doesn’t go away, and I can’t go to sleep. Instead of giving in to the prayer, I get up and make some chamomile tea. I sit at the kitchen table and ponder all these thoughts that keep spinning out of control. The house. My career. Cash and his offer for dinner. Loss. Grief. Family. My ex-husband. Where my place is in life.

  When I finish the tea, which didn’t help, I rinse my cup, set it in the dishwasher, and go back to bed.

  Still, I toss and turn until almost one thirty in the morning.

  “Fine!” I shoot up out of bed. “Listen, God. I need your help. I’m feeling lost, and I’m not sure which way to turn or where to go or what to do, so”—I sigh—“I could use your help. Good night.”

  And with that, I roll over and fall right to sleep.

  I know in the morning, I’ll say it’s the tea that allowed me to sleep.

  The soft morning light pouring in through the pink curtains of my bedroom wakes me up. I feel alive, as if I reached a good number of hours of sleep. I haven’t slept this good or for this long for as far back as I can remember.

  I pad down the hallway and make some coffee, and as it brews, I grab my phone from my purse and realize it’s nine thirty. A button of fear starts in my stomach, as if I were missing something because I’d slept so long. But the aroma of coffee reminds me of a simple time when my granddad stood in the kitchen, cooking pancakes, and my grandma poured the coffee while the news played in the background. And all of a sudden, I realize it’s okay. I don’t have to report anywhere for anyone, and this is both freeing and terrifying at the same time.

  I open my e-mail to find twelve different e-mails from Zillow with interested buyers. I make my coffee with a little milk and a little sugar and spend the morning reaching out to the agents who contacted me.

  All offers are at full price, and one is ten thousand over the asking price. All twelve potential buyers are from the Bay Area or Southern California.

  I tell the agents that I will have a decision by tomorrow.

  A text comes in from an unknown number.

  Unknown: Just dinner.

  I try not to allow the corners of my mouth to turn upward. I try my best to control my rapidly beating heart. I’m almost one hundred percent certain it’s Cash.

  Just give it to God.

  Me: Is this the boy who told me that snakes were better left alone than dead?

  Cash: I said that king snakes were better left alone. :)

  With a fast pulse and an adrenaline rush, I text back.

  Me: Just dinner.

  Immediately, the bubbles appear.

  Cash: Tonight. I’ll pick you up.

  I won’t be in control. I won’t have a vehicle to allow me to leave if things get too intense—because they always got too intense for Cash and me.

  Another text comes in from him.

  Cash: Don’t worry, Scar. You can walk away if you want to leave. Everything in Dillon Creek is within walking distance. Remember?

  Cash: I’ll pick you up at 7 sharp.

  It’s just dinner. Just like I’d accept a dinner invitation from an old friend. Which is what I’ve done, right?

  Me: 7 sharp.

  Sometimes, it’s easier to go with the road of confidence. Besides, I’ll be gone soon, and Cash will become a memory again—if I’m being honest, a fantasy I’ve never been able to forget.

  After I’m showered and ready for the day, I plan to tackle the spare room today. And with all the sorting that needs to be done, I completely forgot about Frank’s text message.

  Mabe calls and asks if I’ll come over for porch tea. I tell her that I’ve had several offers on the house and that I have a lot of work today.

  Her response is simple. “Oh, honey! That’s great. See you in a bit.”

  Mabe has always had a magical way of getting through to people, quietly convincing them that it was their idea in the first place. And I’ve never been able to say no to Mabe. Besides my mother, she’s the only living relative I have—unless someone convinces my mother that I wasn’t born via immaculate conception and that I might have a father out there. Another family. I’m not sure it would make much difference though. I’ve made it all these years without a father, and my grandfather always filled the void.

  I throw a little mascara on my lashes and bronzer on my cheeks, and I put on my big green wool sweater with a pair of new jeans I just bought.

  It is good to drive my grandmother’s car. Her vehicle has always smelled like her—Red by Giorgio. I can’t help but wonder—and I know this sounds crazy—if she’s with me now.

  Remember what your counselor told you, Scar. Sometimes, we create things around us to help us cope.

  I find my eyes in the rearview mirror and drive to Mabe’s.

  I find Mabe sitting on her porch, even in the coolness of fall, looking out over her yard. Mabe has always had beautiful flowers, just like Granddad. I think that’s why they got along so well.

  “You still have the green thumb, I see,” I say as I walk up the stairs to her porch and take a seat next to her, two glasses of iced tea between us, one for me and one for Mabe.

  “That never goes away, honey. My body might not be able to keep up, but I’ll push this old machine for as far it will take me. Anyway, you know, I’ve been thinking about your grandmother’s house, and I think you should keep it. I don’t think you should sell it.”

  It doesn’t matter the time of year; Mabe always has iced tea and almost always takes time to sit on her porch.

  I sip mine. “I can’t keep the house, Mabe.”

  “Why not? Got to get back to that highfalutin big-city job of yours? And I don’t understand why you wear jeans with holes when you can afford jeans without the holes.”

  I laugh at Mabe’s honesty. Instead of explaining that’s how I buy them, I nod. “I’m not sure I have a job anymore.”

  Mabe sips her iced tea, the glass wrapped in a paper towel for the sake of condensation. Thinks on it. “Call me just a crazy old lady, but, honey, at my age, it isn’t money, or the house, or the job. It’s about time and memories. I wish I had taken more time.”

  “More time?”

&n
bsp; “I wish I had read a book to Francine every time she asked. I wish I had held my husband’s hand more. I wish I had slowed down long enough to see the miracles before me.”

  “What if I don’t have miracles, Mabe?”

  Mabe’s mouth falls open, and then she begins to howl in laughter. “It’s because you’re just not looking. The way I see it, you have miracles. You have a house that was gifted to you. You have family in Dillon Creek who have missed you so much. No matter what you say, blood doesn’t constitute family. You have people who love you—one man in particular.”

  I try to allow this to settle within me, but I can’t. “Cash doesn’t love me, Mabe. I’m a memory—maybe—that he’s hung on to, but we’ve both moved on.”

  “What are you trying to convince yourself of?”

  I don’t say anything.

  “I’ve never seen a man look at a woman the way he looks at you. You can tell yourself he doesn’t love you, but, honey, you’d be lying to yourself.” She shrugs. “Maybe you’re just trying to tell yourself things to protect your heart.”

  And this statement alone makes my skin prickle. Makes my muscles twitch. And the truth hits me between the eyes.

  I’ve recognized it in myself, but now that I’ve had to swallow hard truths about life lately, recognize myself for who I am, I think maybe Mabe is absolutely right. I quietly sit back with this and sip my iced tea.

  “Did you ever stop to think that maybe God’s plan for you isn’t in the skyline of ambition, but maybe it’s here, in Dillon Creek? Think about it, honey. I’m sure you have a beautiful home in Boston. But what do you have to show for it? Money, wealth. But who’s going to wipe your ass when you’re old, like me?”

  I laugh out loud.

  “Who’s going to tell you the truth when you really don’t want to hear it—even though you need to hear it?”

  Her words sink into my skin, and I absorb the loving truth behind them.

  “Who’s going to love you on the days you can’t love yourself? And let me tell you something, Scarlet: you are not your mother. Do you hear me? You are not your mother. You have so much of your grandparents in you that, sometimes, it’s awful hard to look at you because you remind me so much of your grandmother. Besides, I knew it was you with the monetary donations.”