My mom, given her lack of strenuous activity, stayed fair. I managed to build up a tan with all the time I spent outdoors either running, hiking, or surfing.
“I was not aware there was a first chance,” he says.
It’s an effort not to look away. “I screwed up.”
He’s the one who breaks our eye contact by turning his head to look at the closed French doors of the den before looking back at me. “This have something to do with Kacey Albright?”
“Yes.” I take a breath. “Sydney and I had something going before I asked Kacey to marry me. It took watching Kacey nearly lose Jake for me to recognize my mistake. This whole time I’ve been fighting it, refusing to admit I felt something for her.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I ask, “Do you think I should tell Mom about her?”
He closes his eyes. When he opens them, he answers my question with one of his own, “Why would you do that?”
My head gives a small jerk. “Why wouldn’t I tell Mom about the girl I care about?”
“Seeing as how she poured soda on your head, it seems your feelings are not returned. Why upset your mother now?”
Upset my mother?
“How would telling her I’m interested in Sydney Fairlane upset her?”
He crosses his arms over his chest. That move may have put the fear of God in me when I was little but not so much now.
“Your mother was very upset by what happened with Kacey and you. It hurt her that the both of you lied to her. She doesn’t need the stress of you bringing another woman around.”
He had a valid point so I nod. “Okay, Dad.”
His jaw tenses before he says, “She’s having a lousy day, pain wise.”
My jaw clenches. There is nothing worse than watching someone you love deal with pain and be powerless to stop it. It’s pointless to ask if he can give her anything more for it. My dad has been her primary caregiver for so long, he knows her dosing limits better than her doctor. If he could have upped her dose, he would have.
“I’ll go in now,” I murmur, my eyes on the doors.
He reaches up, his hand grasping my shoulder and squeezes it. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
When I visit on pleasant days, my dad or I will carry Mom out to their back deck. It makes her happy to sit in the sun. For her sake, I hope the weather clears up.
Too many days inside makes her restless. Dad follows me down the hall. He continues on his way to the kitchen once I’m in what was their old den.
There was a bay window, the back of the bed set to it so even if my mom was stuck in it, she’d get lots of natural light. She shifts as I cross the room, her face tipping in my direction.
“Hi, honey,” she softly greets. Her voice is weak but not awful considering what my dad said about her pain.
“Hey, Mom, how are you feeling?” I lean over to kiss her cheek.
“Can’t complain.”
As she speaks, I pull a chair closer to her bed and sit. “If there was one person who could complain . . .” I reach out to place my hand on hers.
Her lips tip up. Over the years, my dad and I have teased her about how little she complains. She is honest to God, the strongest person I know.
The last time, no maybe the time before that, that they replaced her pacemaker, they had to do it with minimal anesthesia because of one of her levels somewhere else being raised or falling too low. Hell, at this point, it’s hard to keep it all straight.
In the end, it meant that after the local anesthesia, she felt them slicing through all of the scar tissue and was awake while they did it. My dad lost his mind with her doctor when he found out since none of us were in there with her.
Her not arguing is the only hint she gives at today being a crap day.
“Would you like me to read to you?” I ask.
My mom has always been a reader. Her all-time favorite book, and the reason she talked my dad into naming me Heathcliff, is Wuthering Heights.
Out of curiosity about my namesake, I read it when I was in high school. On days when she’s up for it, I tease her for naming me after a dick.
“Yes, please.”
Lifting the book from her nightstand, I open it, setting aside the bookmark, and read. It isn’t Wuthering Heights. I’ve read parts of that book to her more than once. This one’s a fantasy book full of witches and wizards going on fantastic adventures.
Two chapters in, she falls asleep. Slipping her bookmark into place, I quietly close the book and return it to the table next to her bed.
Keeping my voice at the same tone as it was while I read to her, I say, “You’re the best mom anyone could have asked for. I love you and I will always love you, Mom.”
Awake or asleep, I never leave her without telling her I love her. No matter what happens, I need my love for her to be the last thing she ever hears from me.
Not wanting to wake her, I start to leave, pausing when I notice Dad standing in the doorway.
He tilts his head toward the kitchen, a silent invitation that I accept. She doesn’t stir as I leave the room, carefully closing the doors behind me.
Once I’m in the kitchen, Dad asks, “Cup of coffee?”
Nodding, I sit at the table and watch as he pours me a cup. He adds a splash of creamer and stirs it before setting it on the table in front of me. Then, he pours himself a cup, taking it black.
Once he’s done, he sits in the chair across from me. “She sleeps better when you read to her.”
This is true and part of the reason I offered to do it today. When her pain is bad, she has trouble getting comfortable enough to sleep. Anything that I can do to help her get some rest, I’ll do.
When I don’t reply, he keeps speaking, “You need to prepare yourself for the worst.”
We’ve been in worst case mode for the last couple of months so the fact that he’d make a point to say this is not great news.
“You think it’ll be soon?” I ask.
He holds my gaze, and nods.
I gulp. “How soon?”
At this he looks away, his eyes to the hall that leads toward the den. That in itself is an answer. Shit.
“I’ll pack a bag,” I reply.
Mom had one request for her final days, that Dad and I be close. Sure, my apartment isn’t far, but Dad and I decided that once it looked like the end was near, that I’d stay in my old room until she died.
Neither of us say anything after that. Conversation seems pointless.
My phone buzzes, breaking the silence. “Is it all right if I take this?” I ask, after glancing at the screen and seeing a number I don’t recognize there.
My dad nods but stays where he is.
I touch the green circle and lift my phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Heathcliff?”
I’d recognize that voice anywhere; it’s Gigi Fairlane, and she has never called me.
That isn’t the only reason the sound of her voice causes my heart to thump violently in my chest. No, it’s the fear I hear in her voice.
Coffee splashes over the rim of my mug as I forcefully push away from the table and stand. “Gigi, what’s wrong?”
“Sydney is at our cabin up in the canyon. There’s no cell service there and we haven’t been able to get a hold of her. With all the rain, they’re evacuating everyone because of mudslides. We can’t reach her. I should have told you where she was this morning but I didn’t want to upset her.”
My eyes move to the window over the sink and I stare unseeingly out at the rain. “What’s the address of your cabin?”
The rain lulled me to sleep. The taps of it off the roof were the perfect white noise as I slept. For the first day in a long time, I wake refreshed.
This cabin is magical like that; I’ve always had the best sleep here. It has to be all in my head, the effect unplugging has on my stress level.
The rain sounds heavier. I smile, imagining it’s washing all of my troubles away. Turning my head to look out the circular window
to watch it. If I could bottle up the Zen I’m feeling, I’d bring a case of it back to Ferncliff.
It’s not until my bladder demands emptying that I finally get up and climb down the ladder from the loft. Once I’m ready to face the day, I take a mug of coffee and sit on the porch.
Heath is still on my mind. What am I going to do about him?
Pros: My heart beats faster whenever he’s near; he made me laugh; we could talk about anything; his body is incredible and he knows exactly what to do with it; he knows what he wants out of life.
Cons: it wasn’t me; I’m into him more than he’s into me; I’m not his type; he’s probably just slumming with me, or maybe I’m a phase he wants to try; I thought we were on the same page when we were together, and most important, he is going to break my heart.
The smart thing would be to stay away from him. It sucks that he makes that so hard. You don’t see me hanging out at his job. If I could ban him from Lola’s, I’d consider it.
So, the choice seems obvious. Heath Mackey burned me once, I’d be an idiot if I went back for seconds.
It’s common sense. Why can’t I mentally commit to it?
My hopes and fears are pulling me in different directions.
There is so much potential in Heath Mackey. What I don’t know and can’t predict is if that potential is good or bad. Tennyson said it is “better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.” Problem is he gave zero guidance as to what you should do if the love you lost calls you up for another go. Nope, no help there.
Say Heath and I did hook up again, what would stop him from hurting me again? Only before, we were together all of a week and it hurt so bad. Say we were together a month before he left me. If a week crushed me, what would a month, two months do to me?
Pushing up out of the chair, I head back inside to eat something. After that, since there’s no place I need to go and no one I’m going to see, I climb back up into the loft. Sitting cross legged in the center of the bed, I meditate, or attempt to meditate. Cecil, tried to teach me when I crashed at his place. He is my most spiritual friend.
Try as I may, I tend to fail at meditating.
Like now, sitting comfortably, my back straight but also relaxed, my hands resting on the tops of my knees, I’m already screwing up.
The breathing I can handle. Inhale, feel the breath enter your body and expand your chest. Exhale the tension from your joints and you settle further into your thoughtful zone.
Thoughtful zone? Cecil calls it that but he also wanted me to clear my mind from all thoughts until my brain resembled an empty cup. That’s a contradiction. How can my thoughtful time involve no thoughts? This confuses me.
Then, while I should be clearing my mind of all thoughts, I’m instead making the argument on both sides of the whole thoughtful time but no thoughts allowed dilemma.
Then I mentally smack myself and lecture myself for wasting my thoughtful time arguing if that name works or not. After that, I do try to clear my mind. I get as far as admitting to myself meditating is boring as hell. Then I lie down and take a nap because failing at meditating is somehow exhausting.
As I start to drift, I tell myself it’s okay that I fail at meditating. Then, because I’m a masochist, I wonder if Kacey is good at meditating. This only makes me drift further from sleep when I have to remind myself that it doesn’t even matter what Kacey can and can’t do since she isn’t even with Heath anymore.
Further, it’s unhealthy to continue to compare myself to another woman that way. If we were held up, one next to the other, who would make the cut?
This is nothing more than self-inflicted torture since that’s a question I already know the answer to. So instead of meditating and instead of napping, I lie on the featherbed in my grandparents’ cabin, wondering for the millionth time, why I wasn’t good enough.
Sad thing is, if Heath were here to ask, would I truly want to hear his answer? Would knowing for sure do anything to ease the ache that comes from not feeling adequate?
That may be the thing that is holding me back from Heath Mackey most of all. Before him, I thought I was great. I thought any guy would be lucky to have me. He took that away from me.
Sure, I was single but at the time, that was more from choice than anything else. There were guys I thought were attractive but I wasn’t actively worried about having a boyfriend.
Before him.
If I could leash my train of thought I would. That, or I’d put the things that I don’t want to obsess about into a little safe, inside a vault, buried deep underground, guarded by a giant hairy spider.
Honestly, just a giant spider guarding my thoughts should do the trick, if I could figure a way to do that. Until then, I was stuck with Heath Mackey, all day, every fucking day.
I still want him. I just don’t want to want him. It’s funny how the nice guy turned out to be the one who messed up my self-esteem.
I spend the day puttering around the cabin, getting lost in physical reminders of all the time I’ve spent here. There’s a bookshelf full of board games and puzzles. I pull out a 500-piece puzzle of the statue of liberty.
The constant rain my only company as I put it together. I’m still working on it hours later when I hear a knock at the door. Startled, I drop the puzzle piece in my hand.
This cabin is remote, not once in the many times I’ve been here has someone unexpected shown. Could it be Gigi deciding I needed company whether I wanted it or not?
Rising from my seat at the table, I cross the room, stopping to look out the window. There’s a police SUV parked beside my bug.
That gets me moving faster.
Pulling open the door, I find a younger, extremely attractive man and an older woman, both in uniform.
“Can I help you?”
“Ma’am, due to the threat of mudslides, we are evacuating this area. It is in your best interest to get a move on, now.”
Pressing my hand to my chest, I look past them and out at the rain. “Oh God, is it that bad?”
The woman nods. “It’s been bad. We got most of the people out of the canyon two days ago. We were doing a spot check on some folks who refused to evacuate and noticed your car.”
I shake my head. “I got here yesterday, late.”
She nods. “Well,”—she looks over her shoulder—“we urge you to get a move on.”
“Of course, I’ll grab my things and hit the road right away. Are there any roads I should avoid?”
The male officer answers, “Which way are you headed?”
“To Ferncliff,” I reply.
He frowns. “As far as we know those roads are still clear but conditions can change rapidly. Do not attempt to cross any roads with standing or moving water.”
I nod again. “Thank you so much for letting me know.”
The man speaks again. “Stay safe, ma’am.”
I nod, pause once more to look at the rain that only moments ago was such a comfort. “I will.”
After I close the door, I whirl into action. I didn’t bring that much so there isn’t much to pack. Hurriedly, I turn off the power and the water before I lug my stuff out to Lady.
I’m soaked and going to be, the whole drive back to Ferncliff by the time I’m belted and ready to go.
It’s an effort to back out from where I parked, the mud making it hard to get going. It’s worse as I start to navigate the dirt road leading away from the cabin.
The rain is coming down so hard my windshield wipers can barely keep up.
“Come on, baby,” I whisper, my fingers gripping the steering wheel.
Somehow my pleas are heard and I lurch forward. My progress is slow, the rain a sheet of water pounding against the windshield. There goes my Zen weekend at the cabin to evaluate my life choices and what I should do going forward. No lazy afternoon in the cabin listening to the rain.
It’s not until I’m about halfway down the dirt road leading off of the cabin that I become stuck again.
Visibility is nil. The heavy rain is coming down hard. Messing with my side mirror controls, I shift it until I get a view of my wheel wells.
My tires are almost halfway buried. I’m screwed. Leaning forward, I rest my forehead on my steering wheel.
This is awful. Even if I get out of my car, I’m not sure what I could use to get unstuck. Reaching for my purse, I dig out my cell, praying I’m close enough to the main road to get a signal.
It’s dead. Since I can’t use it at the cabin, I didn’t think to charge it at all. Luckily, I have a car charger. Plugging it in, I have to wait until it’s charged enough for me to turn it on.
The rain continues to pour, each drop further fraying my nerves. Do I sit here and wait while conditions worsen around me, or do I do something?
It takes two minutes for me to give up on waiting and decide to act. With one last glance at my phone in the hopes it’s charged enough, I unfasten my belt.
Pushing my door open, the rain pelts me. My sneakers sink into the mud and I almost lose one of them to it when I take my first step.
Do I try to dig out my wheels, or find something to wedge under them for them to grip onto? Should I focus on the back tires or the front tires? It’s hitting me, painfully, that I have no idea what to do and could end up making my situation worse.
Starting with the simplest of potential fixes, I make my way to the back of my bug and push, and push, and push.
My feet slip and slide backwards into the mud but Lady does not budge. Rain flows down my face, flattening my bangs so I have to keep pushing them from my eyes.
Still I push, only giving up when my foot slides out from under me with enough force that my knee hits the ground. Then, I make my way to the front of my car and this time, try to pull. I give this up faster, my hands not finding anything to hold onto.
Straightening, I stare at my car, willing it to move with my mind.
When that doesn’t work, I huff and trudge over to the tree line. Once there, I search for kindling, small sticks hefty enough to give me traction but not too big to act as an obstacle.
Why Lie? (Love Riddles #2) Page 5
