Return To You - Leia Stone Page 0,31
I realized he had a problem. Mickey’s was an alcoholic’s Disneyland and I didn’t want to enable him, but tonight I could use a drink.
My hands tuck into my pockets of my work slacks and I roll back on my heels. Autumn's back hasn't lost even a fraction of its rigidity. "I'm going to take off," I tell her, hoping maybe she’ll try to ask me to stay for a drink or at least go out on the porch and talk.
I have so much to say to her…
She doesn't move. "Thanks for driving my mom home. And for earlier." She glances at me for the shortest second, then her gaze dances away. "With the, uh, needle."
I don't say anything, but I have the strongest urge to reach out, to hold her the way I did at the hospital this morning. It couldn't have been more than five seconds she was in my arms, needing me, but each second stretched out into a minute. I went straight back to being seventeen, to the time before everything between us went to shit.
"No problem," I grunt.
Autumn stays in the kitchen while I say goodbye to Faith.
Then I go to find my drunk father and settle in for a night of babysitting him.
Chapter 8
Autumn
"Since when do you go to church?" I give my mom a skeptical look.
"Since I started going," my mom shoots back.
I'd been lying on the hammock in my mom's small back yard with one of her romance paperbacks when she walked outside and told me to go get changed.
"And I have to go with you?" I ask from my prone position, hoping she'll let me off the hook. My entire life we attended church services twice a year: Easter and Christmas.
"It would be nice if you'd go." I can tell she's trying not to put too much pressure on me, but she can't keep the hopeful look off her face.
She's wearing a flowy gauze skirt and top. She’s blow-dried her hair using a round brush and it looks full and beautiful. I'd heard the hair dryer blasting on my way out of the house a half hour ago when I'd walked out back with the book tucked under my arm, but I didn't think much of it. I don't know her routine yet; maybe she always gives herself a blow-out on Sundays.
Turns out, her routine includes something else I never saw coming.
God.
The old man upstairs and I are on weird terms right now, and I’m not keen on stepping into a church anytime soon, but I’m not going to deny my mother anything while she’s going through her chemo treatments.
"I'll go with you," I relent, trying to cover my reluctance. I scoot over and swing my legs off the side, swaying a little as I stand.
"You can't wear that to church," she tells me, her eyes running down my bare legs.
"Shoot," I say, snapping my fingers. "It's either this or that lingerie I sleep in."
"Very funny," she responds, jostling me with her pointy elbow.
We go in the house, and I do as I've been asked and manage to make it happen in the twenty minutes I've been told I have to do it in.
"Will this do?" I ask, walking into the living room, where my mom is seated on the couch. My hands are held out to my sides, palms up. I'm wearing the black slacks that were a staple of my work wardrobe and a royal blue blouse.
Mom stands. "You're perfect. Let's go."
She's quiet on the way there. Well, technically, that's not true. She doesn't speak, but she's not quiet. She taps a finger on the center console and plays piano on her knees. Even her pursed lips make sounds when she finally has to take a breath. Is she nervous or in pain or something? Maybe side effects of the chemo?
"All good?" I ask her when we park.
She nods. Clears her throat. Adjusts the sleeve of her top. "All good."
"Okay…" I draw out the word, trying to understand why she's acting so strange.
Heat rises from the hot asphalt parking lot, and I swear I feel it seeping into my heels. The temperature isn't too bad yet, but the asphalt retains the heat, baking us all from the bottom up.
As we walk, people wave to my mom. They say hello and call her by name.
What the hell?
Oops. Good thing that was in my head.
"People know you, Mom," I murmur, nodding at someone who looks at me with curiosity.
"Mmm hmm."
I wait