Return to Me

  “You can’t shut off love just because you’re scared some man is going to do to you what your father did to me. Because here’s the thing.” Mom traced her thumbs gently along the heart line, draining me of my panic. “After all of this, I still believe in love. I do.”

  “Mom, how can you even say that?” I pulled back but didn’t draw away from her touch. “How can you even trust another guy?”

  “How can I not? I don’t want to go through the rest of my life bitter because of what happened. All shut down because I might be hurt again. I think about how lucky I am that this happened now instead of when I’m sixty.”

  Silently, I digested what Mom was telling me as a breeze scuttled inside the treehouse, bringing with it the cleansing scent of hope. I said, “When did Grandma predict this?”

  Mom smiled wryly. “Before I married your dad, she asked me if I was really sure of him. She said being pregnant with you wasn’t good enough reason to get married at twenty-four. He was so hurt when I told him that.”

  “You told him?”

  “I didn’t want any secrets between us. I had seen what happened to my parents when they kept stuff from each other. Your grandma stopped telling Grandpa about the premonitions she had of him, until they stopped talking altogether. She stopped telling him that he was jeopardizing their future by spinning randomly from one pursuit to another. Instead, she started stockpiling savings for herself and me, working as a teacher just for the steady paycheck and benefits. You can’t even imagine how silent the house was.”

  “And then they got divorced,” I said, tracing the stitching on the orange pillow.

  “Yeah, when I left for college, as if that would make it easier on me. So I didn’t want a broken home for the two of you.” She laughed ruefully, smoothing down the appliquéd flowers of her own pillow, petal by petal. “The best-laid plans… Look where they got me.”

  As I rubbed the quartz on my new bracelet, I thought about how hurt I had been that Jackson hadn’t confided in me about his father’s affair. But not once had I considered whether my own omission about my sixth sense would hurt him. After all, that was a huge part of me that I concealed from him.

  Mom pulled her knees to her chest, hugging them close. “But then when I got pregnant with Reid, your grandma started freaking out, calling me every day—sometimes up to three times a day—to see if I was okay. Looking at your father with so much… distaste. At some point…”

  “What?”

  “She told me that your dad was going to really hurt me.”

  “Wait, I thought she left because she blamed Dad for me almost drowning? Letting me jump into the lake?”

  “That was part of it.”

  Closely, I watched her. “And you told Dad what she said about him hurting you?”

  “No, she did.” Another rueful smile. “ ‘Avenging angel’ doesn’t quite describe what your grandmother looked like.”

  “Oh…”

  Outside, the wind chimes sang softly from the eaves. It didn’t take a whole lot of imagination to picture Grandma marching up to Dad, eyes crackling fire because she knew that he would uproot and dump Mom, Reid, and me someday. The time line clicked. “Was this around when I almost drowned?”

  “Exactly then.” Mom kept her eye on the smoky brown quartz, tracing its rounded edge with her finger as though following a path to her past. “She knew she was putting a strain on our marriage.”

  “And the ironic thing is, Dad basically used Grandma’s prediction to excuse what he did. Why didn’t you tell me all this before?” But I knew. If it had been hard enough to choose between Columbia and Jackson, how could Mom have chosen between believing her mother’s vision and wishing desperately for a solid marriage with Dad? “Mom, it’s hard to be an adult.”

  “No, being an adult is easy; that’s biological. It’s being emotionally mature that’s hard. Some of us never grow up.” Mom stood up now, adjusted her skirt that had twisted askew from sitting beside me. “But you? You’re doing a fine job of growing into a woman.” Her hand lingered on my shoulder. “Just remember two things that I wish someone had told me a long time ago. First, there’s a huge difference between being alone and being single. I’ll never be alone, not when I have you and Reid, my family, my Booksters. And second, don’t ever run from something just because you’re afraid. It doesn’t matter if it’s a boss or a boyfriend.”

  “But you’re the one who kept warning me that Jackson might not be The One.”

  “No.” Mom crouched down beside me to stare into my eyes. “No, that wasn’t my intention at all. Or not entirely. In some way this has almost nothing to do with Jackson and everything to do with your being too young to be in such a committed relationship. You’ve never dated anyone else seriously.”

  “We’ve been dating for almost five months!”

  Mom laughed at that. “That’s a nanosecond compared to a lifetime… and even then, you might find out that you hardly know a person. Or yourself.”

  Like the way we didn’t know that Dad was capable of being so duplicitous. Or so miserable.

  Mom twined her fingers in my hair. “Frankly, you’re too young to know. And you’re way too young to get pregnant.”

  “Mom! Geez.”

  She shrugged. “That’s what I was warning you about all along, you know. We were such babies when we had you. I was just two years out of college. What did we know about raising kids when we hadn’t even raised ourselves?”

  “We’re not you and Dad.”

  “No,” she agreed, and settled back down next to me. “No, you’re not, but I believe that at this time in your life, your job is to be selfish.”

  “Selfish?”

  “What I mean is that you go out there and figure out what you’re capable of doing. There’s so much power in living your life intentionally, knowing what you want, and then pursuing it with all your passion.”

  “Passion and power. That’s exactly what Grandma was telling me,” I said softly, thinking about what I could do if pushed to full throttle. What were all of us capable of doing if we used our skills and knowledge and directed our passion and power to a singular path? The image of a grove of treehouses began to shimmer enticingly again.

  “But I believe this,” Mom said, shifting on her throw pillow. “Jackson is in your life for a reason… and there are lessons you’re supposed to learn from being with him. No different from your father coming into my life.”

  “Don’t you wish he hadn’t?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Mom looked me hard in the eye. “That’s like saying I wish you hadn’t come into my life. Your dad was here to give me you and Reid. Even now, knowing what he’d do to me, even knowing how much I would hurt and how much he would hurt all of us, I would never run from that. Never.”

  At some point, I must have let go of Jackson’s bracelet. Before Mom left, she placed the soft leather in my open hand.

  “That’s beautiful,” she said, smiling down at me.

  “It’s from Jackson.”

  “I know.” Mom quirked her head to the side, studied the stone, and said, “Smoky quartz. It’s a protection stone for endurance and clearing negative energy.”

  “Really?”

  “You know,” she said, laughing lightly, “this is an igneous rock—fired from volcano. How perfect is that?”

  “Perfect,” I agreed.

  Alone but not lonely in the treehouse, I felt my family throughout Grandpa’s inn, scattered in different buildings but bound together. This was the solace of space that I wanted to create for people who were aching, their lives upended, their hearts shattered.

  I flew down the steps and walked into the sun. Basking in the warmth, I turned toward Grandpa’s house, only then noticing the red flowering tree by the front porch, its vivid blossom the same one that Mom had given me on our visit to Volcanoes National Park. Wanting to remember the shape of the hardscrabbled tree, I began to sketch it, when Grandpa appeared from the forest, lugging Mom’s baggage
in one hand, mine in the other.

  He smiled at me. “Ready to go?”

  I nodded, grinned back at him, and pointed to the tree with my pencil. “What’s this tree?”

  “The namesake and mascot for this inn,” Grandpa answered. He set the luggage down to kneel next to the plant, removing one of its blossoms carefully. “Ohia lehua.” Gently, he placed the blossom in my open hand, and as I lifted it to study the unusual spiny flower, Grandpa said, “Hawaiians say their goddess of fire fell in love with a warrior, and when he wouldn’t reciprocate her feelings because he loved someone else, she turned him into this tree. The gods felt so sorry for him, they gave him back his true love in the form of this flower.”

  “So they could be reunited,” I said, staring at Grandpa, the fountainhead of the everlasting hope that ran strong in my family. Two decades after their divorce, my grandparents had reunited. What better example of forgiveness could I ask for? Or of enduring love?

  Thousands of miles and an ocean may have separated Jackson from me, but I knew he was still connected, parting gift or not. We were in each other’s hearts, after all.

  My own armor slipped off, shedding like an exoskeleton I had outgrown.

  For the first time in what felt like eons, I didn’t wait for Jackson to contact me. Instead, I initiated the text: I’m coming home today. Bracelet is badass. Would love to see you soon…

  Part Four

  Architecture is about touching a lot of different parts of our soul.

  —Tom Kundig, architect

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Our plane may not have landed on sun-hot tarmac as it had in Hawaii, but the moment the Bookster mothers encircled Mom, Reid, and me at Sea-Tac Airport, I knew we had reached safety. Here, right here in the port of these warm smiles and welcoming arms, we found another place of refuge.

  I had yet to hear back from Jackson, despite checking my phone no fewer than ten times since deplaning. Accompanying my fretting, though, was real peace, because whatever happened, I knew I had held out an olive branch and told him what I wanted.

  As our entourage escorted us to the parking garage, I whispered to my mom, “I think we need to repaint our entry.” Even though it was admittedly odd, I needed to reclaim our cottage, forcefully and immediately. That urgency had thrummed in me during our entire flight home. What more efficient and budget-happy way to revitalize a space than a fresh color? Besides, I had a feeling on the plane that we might bump into Peter, our architect, at the paint store, too. Who was I to deny the siren call of a premonition?

  In any case, I was relieved that Mom didn’t question my suggestion as Ginny’s mom drove us out of the parking garage. Instead, Mom said, “We have to select new colors for our home. Is that okay with you guys?”

  So it was a sign of true friendship that the Bookster moms humored us with a pit stop at our favorite paint store in Seattle before catching the ferry to Lewis Island. Not wanting to rush us, they brought Reid to a coffee shop with a few good-natured comments: “You two are going to have to referee your own color wars!”

  Five minutes in the store, and Mom and I had already amassed a wad of paint swatches as thick as any textbook. And still we stood mesmerized before a wall of swatches stamped with blocks of colors, laddered by increasing intensity. While we dithered in front of the paint swatches and I awaited Peter’s arrival, I invoked his name: “Well, let’s do a Peter.”

  “What do you mean?” Mom asked, lifting her gaze off the paint chips.

  “He’d ask, ‘So, how do you want to feel when you walk through the front door?’ ” I modulated my tone, trying to sound more patient than I was feeling. Personally, I was getting a smidge antsy because Mom, usually decisive, couldn’t make up her mind. This was the side effect of a more relaxed mother that I had to accept.

  “I’m not sure,” Mom answered.

  “Energized? Peaceful?”

  She blinked fast, bewildered. But then what Mom said next raised a red flag of alarm: “This is your house, Reb.”

  That admission held an entire world of fear that Dad’s abandonment had knocked loose: to be homeless. I knew the words my mom ached to hear, even if she didn’t know it: “Mom, this will always be your home, too. Besides, you and Reid are going to live in it by yourselves while I’m in college. It so doesn’t make sense to have to repaint it in a year. So you choose.”

  She nodded, pressed her fingers to her eyes.

  “Take your time, Mom,” I said, gently. “There’s no need to rush. How about I go get the supplies?”

  Just as I selected a few aluminum pans, paintbrushes, and roller sponges, I heard my name in the laughter-lush voice I had been expecting: “Reb?” Even so, I wrenched around so fast, I could have left skid marks on the linoleum floor.

  Grandma says there are no coincidences in life, only synchronicity. That life presents us with moments and openings that line up in logic-defying ways, and it is our job to be aware of these opportunities and poised to accept them. Pity the list-checker who is so heads-down focused on the what-must-be-done that he misses the what-could-be-now, a twinkling jewel of an unexpected moment.

  Like standing with a world-class, hugely respected architect who had turned me on to sustainable building and intimate spaces in the first place.

  “Peter!” I cried as I threw my arms around him. He smelled like charcoal pencil and wood shavings the way I remembered.

  “You remember Cameron?” Peter said, gesturing to the broad-shouldered young man standing next to him once I let go.

  “Cameron?” The last time I saw Peter’s nephew, I was ten and he was a scrawny, pimply high school senior. Our remodel project was stuttering to an end because, as Peter had warned Mom, men were better at demolition than at reconstruction. Having none of that, Mom threw an impromptu barbecue for the crew, partly to thank them but mostly to prod them to complete the last fit-and-finish items. The beer was held hostage until the punch list was done. Cameron had joined the job for the final week and was mingling with the men, although they were swigging beer and he was drinking root beer, like me.

  Right in front of all those manly men, Mom asked Cameron point-blank, “Are you popular with girls?”

  As expected, his face reddened, which only heightened the angry splotchiness of his acne. Even if he wanted to melt in embarrassment, Cameron gave a halfhearted shrug—gracious, considering I wanted to incinerate Mom on the spot.

  But Mom’s gaze was steady, and her voice was clear with conviction: “High school girls are way too young for you. When you’re twenty-four, maybe twenty-five, you won’t know what to do with all the women who are after you. Trust me.”

  A brilliant blush cascaded from Cameron’s cheeks to his neck. To my astonishment, his eyes stayed riveted on Mom as if she were an oracle: “Really?”

  “I promise.”

  After that exchange, I was ready to scurry away, embarrassed, when I overheard the foreman say, “Can you imagine if a woman told you that when you were seventeen? Do you know what a difference that could have made?”

  “That was a gift,” Peter had agreed.

  Eight years later, Peter was grayer at the temples but still crinkly-eyed, as though he’d spent the last few years of his life smiling, and Cameron… My gosh, was Mom’s prediction spot on or what? At twenty-five, Cameron was gorgeous, not because he had a model’s chiseled physique but because his stance was so confident and his eyes glittered with humor. I was the gawky one, fidgeting under his scrutiny. When I fumbled my hold on the painting supplies, Cameron caught them with an athlete’s grace.

  Fortunately, neither Peter nor Cameron did the awkward “Whoa, just look at you—I remember you in pigtails” routine. Instead, Peter asked, “What are you working on these days?” Again, I was struck by how he treated me as though I were one of his contemporaries, so different from Sam Stone.

  “I’ve been sketching,” I said.

  “Treehouses?”

  “You remember?”

  “I don?
??t forget special clients.” And then, as if there was one special client he wanted to remember in particular, Peter asked even as he scanned the store, “Is your mom here?”

  Before I could nod, he’d located Mom. I knew she was as aware of Peter because she was dithering before a panel of lifeless tans that would never, ever disgrace a single millimeter on any wall inside her home.

  “Elizabeth,” Peter said softly.

  Mom’s answering grin was one hundred percent heartfelt. They fell into the hug-or-shake-hands dance, with Mom extending her right hand just as Peter widened his arms. Peter won. He wove his arms over Mom, and she sank into his embrace… as though she belonged right there, tucked under his chin.

  Shocked, I stood there, watching them even as part of me wanted to turn away. Their undeniable attraction felt so wrong. Would I ever get used to my parents being with other people? But as Mom burst into easy laughter, glowing up at Peter, I finally understood what Jackson had been trying to tell me: Perhaps the affair had been the best thing for Mom and Dad. Perhaps they had married way too young—after all, even if they denied it publicly, they hadn’t gotten engaged until Mom was pregnant with me. Who knows what path they would have taken—whether independently or jointly—if that condom on that particular night hadn’t broken?

  Perhaps now that my parents had grown up, they were better suited to other people.

  Perhaps Dad had found his soul mate, and Mom was free to find hers.

  Perhaps…

  “Weird, we were just talking about your mom this morning,” Cameron said, his voice deeper than his uncle’s. Despite being flustered by the appreciative way Cameron looked at me, I knew all too well what the next dance step was, because Shana had spoken of flirting so often. All I had to do to engage Cameron was angle my head just so, gaze slant-eyed up at him, drop a sentence that was at once witty, to make him laugh, and provocative, to gain his interest.

  But there was Jackson.