The Dandelion

  “Donna said you wouldn’t remember me, but I told her she was full of doo. I cleaned up and cooked breakfast after too many of my Christy’s sleepovers for you not to remember me. I think I saw more of you than your own mother did.”

  I return her smile. “I think I once stayed at your house for eight days straight. Momma had to bribe me with a pair of new jeans to get me to come home.”

  Mrs. Sturgill pats my cheek. “I was happy to have you. You were like one of my own. And I remember those jeans.” She gives me a look that speaks volumes. “Looked like someone painted ‘em on you. You girls.” She shakes her head, but her tone is soft and dreamy with nostalgia.

  “The rule of thumb was that if you didn’t have to lay on the bed to zip them up, they weren’t tight enough.”

  “Those were plenty tight!” She chuckles, an action that sets her ample belly jiggling in a Santa Clause way, which makes me grin all the bigger. “If I remember correctly, you had to have Christy’s help to get ‘em zipped.” I nod, remembering many times when I’d lie on my best friend’s bed and suck in my stomach while she wrenched the zipper up and buttoned those jeans before I exhaled. “Damn idiots. It’s a wonder you crazy kids didn’t end up sterile after wearing those. Didn’t seem to hurt Christy, though. She had her tubes tied after her fourth pup. How about you? How many you got, honey?”

  My grin fades and I find myself suddenly, desperately wishing for a change of subject. I didn’t come here to rehash my past. I came here to leave it behind. “None.”

  Her expression turns sympathetic and she pats my arm. “Oh, no! When I saw you still carried your maiden name, I wondered. Was there ever a man? Or…”

  “There was, but not any more. It just…things didn’t work out.” I’m purposely vague with that bare-bones answer. I have no intention of standing on the porch of a house I’m renting in my old hometown, spilling all the sordid, disappointing details of my life to a woman I used to know, in the first five minutes I’m here. Ideally, I’d love to keep everyone out of my business, but in a town like this, full of people I used to know, I don’t doubt there will be some who won’t settle for vague and bare bones. I just haven’t figured out what I’m going to tell them yet. Had I known I’d need to arrive armed with answers, ready to go, I’d have spent more of my driving time formulating creative yet believable half-truths.

  “Men!” she exclaims in commiseration. “Can’t live with ‘em, can’t shoot ‘em.”

  She winks and I smile, and the subject is dropped, thankfully.

  “So, are you here to greet me and give me the tour?”

  “Weren’t expecting such a hot old welcoming committee, were you?” She elbows me in the ribs and turns back to fling open the door. She sweeps her arm forward dramatically and says, “Welcome home, honey.”

  Welcome home, indeed.

  “Got it all cleaned up and smellin’ good for you. That’s what I do now. I clean all the lakefront rentals for Donna and her company. It’s not bad work, and I meet people from all over.”

  “I bet.”

  Lake Wilson was always a popular tourist destination. There are lots of community activities in the summer and, of course, there’s the lake with its miles and miles of tree-lined shores.

  “Never expected to be cleaning for one of my long lost babies, though. I’m anxious to catch up, but I know you must be tired. You can tell me all about your life when you feel up to it. For now, you can just tell me how your momma’s doing.”

  “She’s doing well. As well as can be expected anyway.”

  Her expression is steeped in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “You must not know about the accident.”

  “Your momma had an accident? What?”

  I nod slowly, solemnly. “She was driving home after a night shift and had stopped at an intersection. Dawn was just breaking and the tractor-trailer didn’t have his lights on. The cab part was dark gray, close to the same color as the road. She didn’t see him coming, so she pulled out. He didn’t have time to slow down. He T-boned her right in the driver’s side. Part of his grill went through the window and got stuck in her head. The brain damage was…”

  I pause. It’s always hard for me to recount this part. It happened a long time ago, but it still hurts to remember those first days. It’s like my mother died in that accident. Only she didn’t. Her body remained and, to this day, lingers on. The woman I knew isn’t in there, though. A child is.

  A child who doesn’t even know me.

  “The damage was extensive. She has no memory of me, of Dad, of her life before the wreck. She has the mind of a ten year old. She’s like a young girl stuck in a woman’s body, and that’s where she’ll stay. Forever.”

  Mrs. Sturgill gasps. “Oh, Abigail, I’m so sorry to hear that. Your mother was…well, she was a strong woman when she had to be. I know she’d have hated to see herself in such a way, not able to remember her own daughter, or her beloved husband.”

  I nod again, this time in agreement. I was fourteen when my father dropped dead from an aneurysm. I was sad, of course, but I was a kid. Kids grieve differently than adults. I didn’t know how much it hurt Momma until many years later. But I was old enough and aware enough to know that everyone in town knew losing him nearly destroyed her. And what his death didn’t obliterate, the accident did.

  Now, my mother is living in a constant state of respite from the harsh realities of her life. She has no idea what she’s suffered, or that she’s technically still suffering. I’ve often wondered if that’s really suffering at all. Don’t you have to know you’re suffering, don’t you have to feel the pain of it for it to be considered suffering?

  I shake off the thought. It’s one of those philosophical, mind-bending questions like if a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it still make a noise. At this point in my life, after all that’s happened, my brain is bent and broken and twisted enough without adding unanswerable questions to the mix.

  I finally respond. “I’m glad she doesn’t know. I’m glad she could forget.”

  And I am. Whoever said ignorance is bliss was brilliantly insightful. Most of the time, knowing only complicates things. And, in some cases, knowing brings misery.

  I know for a fact that remembering sure as hell does.

  “Well,” she says, clasping her hands together in front of her as she dons the smile I remember from childhood, “let me give you the ten-cent tour so I can get out of your hair and let you settle in.”

  I’m all for that. I’m weary. Not that I’m not always weary these days, because I am. But today I’m road weary, too. I can feel it sucking at my bones like a starving leech, siphoning away all my energy.

  “That would be great, thank you.”

  Mrs. Sturgill begins by taking a step back and spreading her arms wide. She points to my left and announces the living room, then to my right and announces the dining room, both of which are small and quaint and decorated with chunky, rustic furnishings that perfectly complement a country lake cabin. I follow her as she moves through the dining room and into the kitchen. Its dark red rooster theme is carried from the curtains at the window to the placemats on the table, and from the salt-and-pepper shakers on the old white stove to the rug that rests in front of it. There are roosters everywhere.

  Behind the kitchen is a set of stairs that splits, one half going up, the other half going down. “You have a loft with an extra bedroom and little bath upstairs, full basement down. That’s where your water heater and breaker box are. Laundry, all that good stuff,” she explains. Clearly, Mrs. Sturgill has cleaned this place many, many times. She seems to know as much about it as any realtor, maybe even as much as the owner.

  Next, she leads me back through the dining and living areas to the other side of the house, past a rock fireplace and a tiny powder room for guests. The master suite dominates the remainder of the house. It’s bigger than I expected, especially considering the likely age of the cabin, which I’d
guess to be thirty or forty years.

  “Here’s your master bedroom. Bathroom’s through there,” she explains, pointing to the back of the room. “But this is why you’re here, ain’t it, Abi?” She’s standing at the foot of the bed, staring out the large picture window that faces the lake. The sun is in the process of setting now, spilling its bright oranges and pinks into the water like buckets of thin, shimmering paint.

  “It is,” I admit softly. More than anything else, I’m here for the lake.

  The cabin is situated at the end of a cove that empties out into a wide channel. The view from this spot is of open water straight ahead and a couple of houses nestled in the trees on either side. At this particular time, there isn’t another human being in sight. Just water and nature and the vivid colors of another dying day.

  “You need help with your things?”

  “No, I don’t have much, but thank you.”

  “I’ll be by to give the place a good cleaning every other Tuesday, but if you need anything at all in the meantime, you just give a holler.”

  “I appreciate that, but I don’t want to bother you.”

  “You’re family, honey. You’re never a bother.”

  “Thank you, but I think I have everything I need.”

  “But you’ll let me know if you think of anything, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Promise?”

  I smile. She’s as certain of my desire not to bother her as she is of her own desire to help me, which is why she’s making me promise. It’s such a southern thing to do. “Yes. I promise.”

  “Good girl. Don’t you be a stranger while you’re in town, you hear? I live where I always have.” She’s talking over her shoulder as she makes her way back to the door. I trail along after her.

  “I won’t.”

  “Will I see you in church Sunday?”

  Her voice is sugary sweet, as always, but there’s a maternal edge to it that I haven’t heard in a long time. I fight back another smile. “I’ll do my best to make it.”

  “You do that.” She winks, pats my arm again, and then bustles out the front door, letting the screen door bang shut behind her. I follow her out just so I can let it bang shut, too. That sound reminds me of my childhood, of running in and out of the houses of my friends all around the neighborhood, screen doors slamming and Moms calling out not to run so fast, or to be back before dark. That sound and those memories are as comforting to me as the scent of the air here, even though all of that was before.

  Before.

  I wait for Mrs. Sturgill to pull out of the driveway before I carry my things into the house. My only plans for the rest of the day are unpacking and picking out which of the eight Adirondack chairs scattered from the front porch to the dock is my favorite. And to avoid thinking. That’s always on the agenda.

  Thinking is always the worst thing I can do.

  CHAPTER 4

  ABI

  My Very First Boyfriend

  When I was younger, Mullins Grocery was the only fully stocked store in Molly’s Knob. During the summer, farmer’s markets popped up all over the place, but to get things that couldn’t be grown in the ground or picked from a tree, Mullins’s was the place to go. On a drive through town this morning in search of coffee—still not a Starbucks to be found—I discovered that’s yet another thing that hasn’t changed. Mullins Grocery is the only option for shopping here. At least a McDonald’s has been added to the corner of College Street and Main. That’s some small sign of progress.

  Within a minute of entering the store, I find that, although Mullins’s has been remodeled to almost double its size, the store has remained basically the same. Even the bright green stickers shaped like clouds, announcing sales on certain items, hasn’t changed. It’s another little thing that catapults me back to a simpler, happier time.

  Lazily, I push my buggy up and down the aisles, browsing for things to fill my fridge and pantry. For the first time in ages, I’m enjoying a task as basic as shopping. It seems a strange thing to note, but note it I do.

  I’m studying a deli box of fresh grated Parmesan, not watching where I’m going as I round the corner, when I plow into another cart.

  “Oh, God, I’m so sorry!” I exclaim reflexively before I even look up to see the driver of the other buggy.

  “No problem,” comes the deep rumble of an answering voice. “Nothing broken.”

  The fine hairs on my arms stand up, my body recognizing something familiar long before my brain does. Slowly, with a mixture of anxiety and excitement fluttering in my stomach, I raise my gaze to the face that goes with the voice. I’m not surprised when it collides with eyes the color of a dove’s wing.

  “Sam Forrester.” I stare for a few seconds, my lips curving into a smile. But then, before I can stop myself, a laugh is bubbling up and I’m rounding my cart to wrap my arms around shoulders that seem even wider than they did when I was seventeen years old and head-over-heels in love.

  My very first boyfriend is still tall and trim and gorgeous, and he’s standing right in front of me at ten o’clock on a sunny Friday morning in May. What are the odds?

  In the wreckage that is my life, seeing Sam is like a life raft from the past, a bright dot of salvation floating on the otherwise bleak horizon. I didn’t realize how much I needed this place. Or to see kind, familiar faces again.

  Or maybe I did.

  Maybe that’s part of the reason I’m here.

  Maybe some part of me wants to be comforted, loved. Even saved.

  He smells of soap and something spicy, and he raises one arm to give me a quick squeeze before he lets go. I step away, still caught up in the pure pleasure of seeing him again—so unexpectedly, too—and I simply take him in.

  “You haven’t changed a bit,” I declare, although that’s not entirely true. His hair is still as black as ever, his cheekbones are still as sharp as ever, and he is every bit as handsome, if not more so, than he was as a teenager. But it’s clear he’s settled into his features. Into his body, too. Sam is like a fine wine that’s gotten better with age. It seems he was just waiting for some years to pass before he became the total package he was always destined to be.

  “You have,” he says quietly. “You’re even more beautiful than you used to be.”

  I blush, even though I’m not a blusher. But this is Sam Forrester. Sam. My Sam, the boy who stole my heart and never gave it back. “Thank you. Clearly, you’re still a charmer.”

  He doesn’t respond. He just watches me. Warily almost. That’s when I notice that he seems…quieter than he used to be. More somber. Burdened.

  “What are you doing back here?” he asks.

  Like a balloon with a pinprick in it, I can feel the pleasure of seeing him begin to drain from me, leaving me with the harsh, deflated reality of exactly why I am here.

  “Vacation.” My smile threatens to wobble, but I hold it in place. Firmly. Ruthlessly. Seconds ago, I was simply thrilled to see my old flame again. Now I can’t wait to get away.

  “Ah. Are you here with family, or…?”

  I glance down at my fingers as they grip and ungrip, grip and ungrip the edge of my shopping cart. “Nope. Just me.”

  Again, he says nothing. Luckily that gives me time to work up and plaster onto my face some semblance of a normal, polite, unaffected expression. Only then can I meet his eyes again.

  “So, you stayed around here. Obviously.” I roll my eyes and bark a self-deprecating laugh. “What do you do now?”

  For me, it’s much easier to ask the questions, to express the interest than to receive. I find that most people are more than happy to answer, too. The difference between them and me is that the average person doesn’t have as much to hide as I do. Questions about my life, about my past, about my motives make me distinctly uncomfortable.

  “I have a family practice here in town.”

  “Family practice? As in medical?” I scan his frame, this time noting his attire. He’s wearing a gray b
utton-up shirt that matches his eyes. It’s open at the throat, and the slacks that sit low on his hips are only a few shades darker. The ensemble gives him a casual yet professional appearance. I can absolutely see a hot doctor in his thirties wearing something like this. On Sam, it fits. I can even picture him in a white lab coat, questioning a child about a sore throat or listening to an old woman describe her back pain.

  “Yes, as in medical.”

  The amusement in his voice registers, and a distant part of my brain realizes that the humor isn’t reflected in his eyes. In my excitement over seeing him again, I didn’t notice some very important details about my Sam, like the fact that his eyes don’t sparkle with happiness the way they used to. Of course mine don’t either, but I have my reasons. So many reasons.

  Sam must have his reasons, too. And I can’t help wondering what they are.

  “I didn’t know you wanted to be a doctor.”

  “I didn’t either. Not until after you left. I had a lot of time on my hands. I ended up doing some volunteering to beef up my college applications. I signed up for a summer at the hospital. One thing led to another and a decade later…” He holds out his hands as if to say Voila!

  “Wow, you really did something good with your life.” A lump of remorse swells at the base of my throat and I swallow several times to force it down.

  “I tried.”

  “You did.”

  He shrugs modestly, something I never would’ve imagined Sam doing. Sam was always cocky. Not obnoxious, but he was very confident in that uber attractive way. But this Sam, this older, more mature Sam is humble. The thing is, it suits him. In fact, strangely enough, I think this might be an even more attractive look for him. He doesn’t have to strut out his awesomeness anymore. He’s living it. That much is plain to see.

  Still, there’s something not quite happy about him, an air of sadness or…heaviness that lies just beneath his words. It drifts behind the gray of his eyes like storm clouds hovering out in the distance.