Home at Last

by Shirlee McCoy

  It spilled over her knobby knees, covering the hole she’d torn in her sweatpants, the small splotch of blood still on her knee, the gnarly-looking scar that ran from her patella to mid-thigh.

  “Staring at cream-colored plaster again?” Flynn asked as he stepped into the room. A cowboy hat shadowed his eyes and hid his expression.

  Good. She didn’t want to see censure. She felt bad enough as it was.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, before he could bring up the lie. “I don’t know what got into me.”

  “You probably do. If you think about it long enough.”

  She looked up, realized he was digging through his suitcase. “I didn’t want to slow them down.”

  “The kids?” he asked, straightening, a baseball cap in his hand.

  “You heard what Heavenly said.”

  “I heard a teenager who was annoyed because she didn’t want to be bothered, but I’m not her parent. Maybe that changed my perception.” He put the cap on her head, tucked hair under it and bent so that they were eye to eye. “Jeans are better for the kind of work we’re going to do. Long sleeves, too. You know the drill.”

  “Drill?”

  “If we’re going to spend time outside, it’s better to be covered. It looks to be a sunny day, and the sun is already high. I’ll grab canteens and fill them. You get dressed. You do have canteens, right?”

  He was staring into her eyes, willing her to go along with whatever cockamamy plan he’d come up with.

  “We do, but—”

  “Where are they?”

  “In the coat closet. There’s a box on the top shelf, but—”

  “Any granola or jerky?”

  “In the pantry, but—”

  “Get changed. I’ll meet you out front in ten.”

  “But,” she tried again, but his long legs had already carried him out of the room.

  She thought about calling him back and asking him what the heck he had planned, but the hat was already on her head, and she had to change anyway. She couldn’t spend the day sitting in sweats and a tank top after she’d told the kids she was going to tour the farm.

  Ten minutes, though?

  It would take her that long to get up the stairs to her room!

  She managed it in three, rushing as fast as she dared on legs that still didn’t feel quite connected to her body. She’d used a walker for a while after she’d awoken. Then she’d limped with a cane. Now she was on her own, but still felt shaky and unsteady. A product of the brain injury, she’d been told. It was listed on the document she kept in the top dresser drawer. The one the doctor had written to keep her from panicking about lost memories and words, sluggish thoughts and hazy recall. She lost track of time and entire days passed with her doing nothing but staring at that darn cream-colored wall.

  That scared her.

  What scared her more was thinking that she was missing out on a million moments with her children.

  So at night, when it was quiet, she’d sometimes panic about life and about how it had changed. She’d take out the list that her therapist had suggested and read over the common symptoms of traumatic brain injury. Just to remind herself that she was doing okay. That she wasn’t failing. That she was trying her best.

  She didn’t have time to look at the list now. The clock was ticking and she wanted to prove to herself that she could get dressed as quickly as any able-bodied person.

  She pulled on a pair of jeans, buttoned it. It slid down her legs and puddled on the floor. The next pair did the same. And the next.

  She opened the closet, pulled out the plastic bin of her mother’s clothes. The top layer was a few things Sunday hadn’t been able to part with. Beneath those were outfits from her mother’s teenage years. Bell-bottom jeans. Tie-dyed shirts. A few maxi dresses made from synthetic fabrics.

  “Sunday?!” Flynn called from the bottom of the stairs. “Is everything okay?”

  She glanced at the bedside clock, but she had no idea how much time had passed. Either she hadn’t looked at it when she’d walked in the room or she’d forgotten what time she’d read.

  “I’m almost ready,” she called as she grabbed the first pair of jeans she saw. Her mother had been a tiny woman. Always. Five-foot-two. A hundred pounds sopping wet. And that was after she’d had a child.

  As a teen, she’d been like Heavenly. Skinny arms and legs, gangly body. Prior to the accident, Sunday had been a curvier version of her mother. She didn’t expect the jeans to slide on, and she was shocked when they did. She buttoned them without a struggle, the bell-bottoms swishing as she grabbed a long-sleeved T-shirt from the dresser.

  “Sunday?” Flynn knocked on the door as she pulled her arms through the sleeves.

  “Coming,” she replied breathlessly. She’d knocked the hat off in her hurry to change, and it was lying on the floor. She bent to retrieve it, straightened too quickly, fell into the bedpost and then the wall, her head meeting the old plaster with a hard thump that made her see stars.

  The door flew open.

  Flynn stepped into the room. Rushed in, really. Nearly flying to her side.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, crouching beside her.

  “I’ve told you at least a dozen times today that I’m fine,” she replied, embarrassed that he’d felt the need to burst into the room. Embarrassed that she hadn’t been able to manage the simple task of changing clothes quickly.

  Just plain embarrassed, because everything was so darn difficult.

  “You’re going to have a bruise.” He touched her forehead, and she winced away. Not because it hurt, but because she was tempted to let him prod at the bruise, offer ice, do all the things everyone always did when she lost her balance.

  “I bruise easily. And I fall a lot. I’m fine.” She stood, and his gaze dropped to her legs and the cuffs of the bell-bottoms.

  “I guess the seventies are back?”

  “I’ve heard they are.”

  “They’re cute, Sunday. But not practical.”

  “They were my mother’s and, currently, they’re the only jeans I have that fit.”

  “How about Heavenly?”

  “What about her?”

  “She probably has jeans that’ll work.”

  She laughed, the idea of squeezing into her itty-bitty daughter’s wardrobe almost as amusing as the fact that Flynn thought she could. “You do realize she’s tiny, right?”

  “You are, too,” he responded, walking into the hall and returning a few minutes later, a pair of dark blue jeans in hand. “I found these in her drawer. With a pile of things labeled ‘too ugly to wear unless the gift giver is coming for dinner.’”

  She laughed. “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m afraid not. Everything is labeled: ‘School appropriate. ’ ‘Won’t Make Sunday Blow a Gasket.’ ‘Sexy.’”

  “Sexy?”

  “That’s what it says. I figure I will empty that section out after we do a survey of the land. I’ll be in the hall. Everything else is ready.”

  He stepped out of the room and closed the door. She eyed the tiny pair of jeans, trying to figure out if he really thought she could fit into them.

  “Do you need help?” he called.

  “No!” she nearly yelled.

  God no!

  The last thing she wanted was one of Matt’s brothers seeing her in her skivvies. She yanked off the bell-bottoms, slid into the jeans. They were snug but not uncomfortable. She didn’t have time to think about how much weight she must have lost or how horrible she must look.

  She grabbed the ball cap. Again. Shoved it on her head and nearly ran into the hall.

  Flynn was leaning against the wall, a pair of work boots in his hand. “I grabbed these from the coat closet. They looked like your size.”

  “How, in the name of all that is holy, did you manage to go downstairs, find boots, and return in the time it took me to put on a pair of jeans?” She was panting, her brow beaded with sweat, her legs shaking. She managed to take t
he boots anyway, drop them on the floor, and shove her feet into them.

  They were hers.

  Just as he’d guessed.

  “I had them in my hand when I knocked on your door. I heard you fall and dropped them. It took about half a second to pick them up. That’s a pretty average response time, I think. Despite opinions to the contrary, I don’t have superpowers.”

  “I guess I’m relieved. I can’t keep up with average-bodied people. No way could I keep up with a superhero.” She smiled, reaching to tie the boots.

  “Let me.” He had them done before she could find the words to protest.

  That was the problem with life right now. By the time her brain put all the pieces of information together and formed a coherent thought, opportunities had passed or the desire to do something was lost. Or she forgot what she’d been trying to say. Or the person waiting for her response filled the silence with words that muddled her thinking even more.

  “I used to be fast,” she said, as Flynn straightened. “And I’m pretty sure Moisey thought I had superpowers.”

  “I’m pretty sure she still does,” he responded, straightening the cap and tucking hair beneath it again. “All right. Let’s get this done.”

  “You never did explain what we were doing,” she said as she followed him down the stairs.

  “Exactly what we planned: We’re going to survey the land, find some good locations for tents and tables, decide if we should invite local vendors—”

  “To the fall festival?”

  “That is what you were planning, right? To have local vendors? Put an ad in a few regional newspapers. Let people know we’re here.”

  “I hadn’t really been planning anything.”

  “Now you are. So what do you think? Vendors?” They’d reached the foyer, and he lifted two canteens and a small canvas carryall from the floor.

  “I . . .” She tried to formulate a response, tried to think of something intelligent to say. Something about money or finances or necessity. Something that wouldn’t make her sound as stupid as she suddenly felt. All those beautiful words, the ones she’d known her entire life. The ones that had to do with farming, crops, profits, margins, planting, harvesting. Life as she’d known it when her parents were alive.

  They were gone.

  Lost with so many of her memories.

  “It’s not a test, Sunday,” Flynn said as he opened the front door and ushered her outside. “You’re not going to fail. Outside vendors? Yes or no?”

  “Yes?”

  “Then let’s go see where we can set up tents. We could use the barn, but I think the kids were planning a petting zoo there.”

  “I didn’t realize they’d been planning anything.”

  “I’ve heard them a couple of times. At the breakfast table on the weekends. They’ve been planning next year’s festival this year. They are definitely your kids.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Matt wasn’t a planner. Not when he was a kid and”—he waved at the yard and the land beyond it—“certainly not as an adult, either.”

  “He planned plenty of things,” she argued, compelled for some reason to defend the man who’d betrayed her.

  “He dreamed plenty of things. You planned them.” He walked across the gravel driveway and around the side of the house. The garage was there, double doors closed. Her heart jumped when Flynn opened them. She wasn’t sure why. She knew the sporty Camaro wasn’t there.

  “I’m not sure how you came to that conclusion.” She approached the garage the way she would have a rattlesnake. Cautiously.

  “Observation.” He disappeared into the yawning gray space beyond the doors and returned with the ATV Matt had purchased.

  Because it was necessary.

  All farmers had them. It helped with surveying the land and knowing what sections were ready for planting or harvesting.

  She’d found that little snippet of Matt-fact in her journal, underlined twice with quotations around it. She wasn’t sure why she’d done that. She guessed that she was frustrated by the purchase or by Matt’s insistence that he needed something she knew was totally unnecessary.

  Her dad had been a farmer his entire life, and he’d never owned an ATV. He’d used his old Chevy pickup, wearing trails through the dusty earth during the hottest part of the summer.

  She remembered dust clouds on the horizon—a sure sign that her father was on his way back from the fields.

  She also remembered agreeing to the ATV. Although she couldn’t recall how long it had taken for Matt to wear her down and get her to agree. She had no idea how many times she’d said no before she’d said yes. None? A thousand?

  “This is a nice machine,” Flynn said. “You ride it much?”

  “I . . . don’t think so.”

  “No worries. There’s room for two, and I’ll drive.” He opened the cargo box at the back of the vehicle and dropped his cowboy hat and utility bag inside. “Do you have helmets?”

  “Somewhere.” She thought.

  “Hold on.” He walked back into the garage and returned carrying two helmets. He handed one to her and strapped the other on, the canteens hanging from his shoulder.

  It took her a little longer to take off the ball cap and replace it with the helmet.

  To his credit, Flynn didn’t offer to help.

  He just waited patiently while she made an hour-long project out of a one-minute job.

  God, she hated this.

  She did.

  She hated how hard everything always was, how stupid and clumsy she often felt.

  She hated seeing pity in the eyes of people who had once viewed her with admiration.

  She met Flynn’s eyes anyway, because she also hated being a coward. She hated being afraid.

  She hated pretending that things were great when her life was slowly imploding. “I’m done. Finally.”

  “It didn’t take long.”

  “It took an eternity,” she argued as he climbed onto the ATV.

  “It only felt like that to you. Climb on. I’m curious to see the borders of your property. I’ve been out here a few dozen times, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen all the land. It’s two hundred acres, right?”

  She missed the last part of what he’d said.

  She was still thinking about the first part.

  The part that went: climb on.

  Because the only place to sit was right behind him, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

  She knew she didn’t feel comfortable. That was for sure.

  Sure, he was Matt’s brother, but she barely knew him.

  “Ready?” he prodded, and she shook her head.

  “I should probably stay here.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “No.”

  “Then why stay?”

  “I just . . . probably should.”

  He eyed her for a moment, most of his face hidden by the helmet.

  She could see his eyes, though. Blue as the midnight sky. Surrounded by thick black lashes. Fine lines fanning out from the corners.

  He was smiling.

  He must be.

  “It’s not really funny,” she muttered, and his eyes crinkled even more.

  “I don’t recall saying it was.”

  “You’re smiling.”

  “Just thinking you look like a kid in that getup. Climb on,” he said again.

  This time she did, refusing to think about what she was doing or how close they would be. He was Matt’s brother, for God’s sake. Not some random cute stranger who wanted to take her for a ride.

  Cute?

  Flynn wasn’t cute.

  Matt had been cute. Chestnut hair and gray-blue eyes and that impish smile that had made every girl in their high school giggle.

  She remembered that. Remembered how proud she’d been to be the one Matt spent time with. He’d been an enigma. The rich kid from the mansion who’d dressed like he was poor. His mother had died when he was seven, and
people had made allowances for him. Made excuses. Poor grades, missed assignments, skipped school. All those things were because his mother wasn’t around.

  At least, that’s how Sunday remembered it.

  She also remembered knowing the truth and being amused by the fact that Matt could so easily manipulate the adults in his life.

  He’d probably been manipulating her. She could acknowledge that. Just like she could acknowledge that she’d made excuses for him, too. Years’ worth of excuses.

  “Ready?” Flynn started the motor, and she grabbed for the handholds on either side of the seat. The ATV had been built for two, but she couldn’t recall if she’d ever been on it. She had no idea if Matt had been.

  She only remembered that he’d wanted it, and he’d gotten it.

  It hadn’t helped him become a better farmer any more than buying a new computer had helped him keep better track of the business side of things.

  There’d been other things, too. Other dreams, she guessed she could call them. They were hazy memories in the far reaches of her foggy mind. She didn’t mind that she couldn’t pull them out. She knew what she’d find if she could. One dream after another with no plan for achieving it, no goals for reaching it, no follow-through on attaining it.

  A dreamer. Not a planner.

  Flynn was right about that.

  * * *

  He took it easy and slow. Not something he normally liked to do. Sure, he was methodical and careful, but he enjoyed a good quick spin around his property. He preferred horseback to ATVs, but he used both when he rounded up the livestock. He also used the old Chevy that had come with the ranch. Beat-up, dinged, rust spots speckling the faded green paint, the Chevy was the kind of vehicle his father would have laughed at if he’d been alive to see it.

  Redneck vehicle for redneck people.

  Unlike Flynn, he’d had no love for the outdoors and no desire to work with his hands. He’d been a computer programmer who’d made a fortune when the tech industry took off, but he’d been raised in Benevolence. On the wrong side of the tracks. So to speak. He’d told the story so many times, Flynn could still recite it:

  My mother was a whore. My father was an alcoholic. I just happened to be born, and they didn’t care much whether I lived or died. I guess I wanted to live, so I survived infancy. Made it to school, spent the next twelve years of my life being bullied by the stupid hillbilly hicks who lived in town. I couldn’t wait to get out, and once I’d made my fortune, I couldn’t wait to return.