The Way Home, page 19
“Don’t go. Let’s talk.”
Her shoulders slump. She nods and pulls back into her parking spot.
I climb into the passenger’s seat. “What’s up? Spill it.”
“I don’t know why you invited me to this thing.”
“I’m leaving in six days. I didn’t want that time to pass without seeing you.”
“So you try to squeeze me into something you were already doing with your other friends?”
Gumdrop whimpers, nudging Lexie’s hand with his nose. She obliges by petting his small head.
“That’s not it. We used to write together. I thought—”
“You thought wrong. I keep trying to tell you I’m not the same person. But you’re not listening.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, hard. “I’m trying, Lexie.”
“My therapist said I should forgive you, but it’s hard.”
She talked to her therapist about me, so my presence must be bothering her. I open my mouth, close it, then try again. “I can understand that. And maybe forgiving isn’t as easy as doing it because your therapist tells you to.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re telling me. I can’t make my heart and my head act a certain way. And I’ve had a lot of forgiving to do the last half of my life. Just telling you now, I don’t have a great track record for it.”
I lean my head back. Outside, a sparrow pecks the asphalt then flies away, reminding me of my birds in Swansea. “I understand more than you know. I’m having a hard time forgiving my dad.”
She looks at me, eyebrows raised. “What for?”
I realize that I never told her all that transpired before I left, in the last months before Mom died.
“A couple of months before Mom died, we found out he had another daughter.”
“Oh. Wow.”
“Mom thought he should make amends—have a relationship with this other girl. He disagreed, said all of his time and attention should go to the family right in front of him. His real family.”
Lexie doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “I didn’t know how I felt about it at the time, but I know the entire ordeal put a new kind of stress on Mom. She went downhill quickly after that. I’ve never been able to forgive my father for forcing her to deal with that as she was dying.”
“I’m sorry, Scout.” For the first time, she sounds like the Lexie I once knew.
“Thank you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I shrug. “Towards the end, I was wrapped up in all things Mom. I didn’t want to make her last days any more humiliating for her than they already were. I didn’t want anyone else to know about our family drama.”
“I was your best friend. I wouldn’t have told anyone.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I just wanted to ignore it, make it disappear.”
After a moment of silence, she turns to me. “I’m not sure I can go back in there again.”
“Okay.”
“You can go, though.”
“I think I’ll hang out with you, if that’s okay.”
“Don’t you want to be with your new friends?”
It was such an immature question, one that reeked of a lack of self-confidence. But my heart went out to her. “Maybe we can go for a walk on the Ocean Path, then ask Laney and Reagan if they want to get ice cream when they’re done?”
She wiggles her feet. “I have sneakers in the back.”
“Great.”
In a few minutes, we’re soaking up the ocean breeze, walking along the paved path, historic Bar Harbor Inn on one side, the vast expanse of the sea on the other. Lexie relaxes and even opens up about the verbal abuse she took from her husband in her former marriage.
Each sentence seems to cost her something and I listen, not offering any platitudes. It seems to be what she needs. I tell her more about my life in Massachusetts. She’s surprised to hear I’m a bit of a loner, that I haven’t dated much and spend my time hiking and visiting beaches. I tell her about my almost kiss with Zack the night before, how I can’t stop thinking about him but how I’m hesitant to start anything.
“You’ve loved him forever, Scout.” She tugs Gumdrop away from a signpost. “And while I’m leery of most guys right now, Zack always seemed genuine. Not that I’m the best at reading men, mind you.”
We laugh and it feels good. Right. Like healing.
When we meet back at the bookstore, Reagan excitedly tells me that Back of Beyond has hired her and she starts tomorrow. Lexie, suddenly her outgoing self again, suggests we celebrate with ice cream. I trail Laney, Kiran, and Lexie toward Jordan Pond Ice Cream and Fudge. Reagan hangs back with me.
“I know this isn’t a permanent solution.” She moves her fingers over her bulging abdomen. It seems to have doubled in size since we arrived.
“Reagan, I leave in six days. I know Charlotte didn’t say, but I would definitely assume that’s the end of her offer to host us for free. What are you going to do?”
“I have an idea.”
“Okay. Feel like sharing?” I realize my sarcastic tone as soon as the words are out.
“Not yet, but I will. Soon.” She points to the others waiting in line outside the shop. “Let’s just enjoy the ice cream.”
I nod, but my stomach sours. What idea does she have? And how can she be so certain that everything will work out?
If only I had that same confidence when it came to my own life. But if I have no big goals or aspirations for myself, what would having confidence gain me?
Maybe I needed to figure out my own plans before worrying about poking holes in Reagan’s.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I’m not ready to see Mom again.
~ SCOUT SWIFT’S JOURNAL
The package comes sooner than I expected. The morning after writing group, I’d helped Reagan sort books for a few hours. Then I walked downtown on a mission to find a few art supplies—nothing crazy, some paints and paper, a few brushes.
While being at writing group around women excited about creativity didn’t make me want to write a story, it did get me thinking about painting again, about what it would feel like to dip a brush into paint, to watch color form on a page. I was on vacation, after all. I hadn’t yet taken up Zack on his offer to borrow his truck to explore more lighthouses. Yes, I was stalling. But somehow, this felt right. Painting.
I’d come back from my walk, brown paper bag in hand, when Charlotte handed me the white Priority envelope. She squeezed my arm. “This is a good thing, honey.”
I nodded. She set me up in her bedroom, the only room in the house with a DVD player.
Now, my hands shake as I tear open the thick, bubble-wrapped package. Charlotte hovers at the threshold. “You good?”
I drop the package in my lap and nod. Charlotte walks over to me, gives me a hug and a quick peck on the head, then leaves me alone, shutting the door behind her.
I look around her bedroom. A yellow paisley comforter and matching curtains. On her night table sits a picture of her, Laney, and a woman I assume to be Charlotte’s daughter, Miriam. I know things were not always good between them, but seeing that picture now is like a beacon of hope. Maybe broken things can be fixed, after all.
My trembling hands fumble with the package until I pull out two DVDs.
That’s all. The tapes had made it seem like so much more.
I put the first one in and hit play on the remote. And then, there she is.
Mom.
My bottom lip shudders.
“Hi, honey! Hmm . . . is this thing working, you think? One second . . . ” She moves the camera around, then sits back in front of me. “It shows it’s recording, so I think we’re in business.” She looks straight into the camera. “Hi, Scout.”
A sob slips from my throat, and I hit pause on the screen because I’m not going to hear anything she says if I don’t get my tears under control. But instead of trying to contain them, I let them flow free. Once I give them permission to come, they don’t stop. Seeing her in front of me, her dark hair short from the rounds of chemo, but her eyes bright and smiling above dark circles, I finally allow my body a release it’s been holding in for years.
I take in everything about the still picture in front of me—the familiar shirt she’s wearing, sea-green with small buttons in front, the bedroom comforter we curled up on together for hours in those last few months, the window looking out to the pine tree where we’d hung the hammock. I take in all of it while a flood of pent-up emotions spirals through me. Like a waterspout, it funnels up and wrings me thoroughly until finally, it runs itself out. When I’ve used all the tissues by Charlotte’s bedside and there’s nothing left inside me except trailing, hiccuping sobs, I push play again.
“So, it’s Mom.” She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Of course, you know it’s Mom. I guess I’m a little nervous. Feels so strange talking into this thing . . . but I thought it might be good for you to have it, you know, after I’m gone.”
I glimpse her Bible on the nightstand behind her, the same one I retrieved from the box. I’d kept it with the scrapbook, had been reading a little bit every morning, finding comfort in the memories and stories and words they contained.
Mom’s smile flickers, but she continues. “I’m having a good day and you’re at school. Dad’s on the boat. We had a difficult night two days ago. An argument you overheard. Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. There’s so much more to say, more important things to say. Like you, Scout. You. Fabulous, beautiful you. Honey, you know how proud I am of you—how proud both me and your dad are of you—but just in case you need to hear it again. Here it goes. We love you and are so proud of the young lady you’re becoming.”
I blink back more tears as Mom smiles that radiant smile at the camera.
“And I’m not proud of you because you’re smart or because you earned a scholarship or because you’re beautiful and love all the same books as me”—she gives me a wink—“I’m simply proud of you because you’re my daughter and I love that you’re my daughter. That you’re you.”
I pause the recording again to wipe away more tears. This is way harder than I thought, and yet I can’t shake the sense that it’s a necessary part of dealing with my remaining grief. That maybe even the tug I felt to come home was not just because of the lighthouses, but this, these tapes. Had God or Mom known I needed to find these?
“I can’t believe you’re graduating this year.” Now, it’s Mom’s turn to wipe away tears. “How is it even possible that my little girl’s graduating? I’m praying so hard I’ll get to be there. Only a few more weeks. You looked gorgeous at prom last week. So grown up. I remember the day your dad and I brought you home from the hospital. He couldn’t say anything for two straight days except, ‘Isn’t she beautiful? Isn’t she beautiful?’” Mom laughs at the memory, a memory I’ve heard many times before but I’ve managed to block out the last several years.
“Honey, your dad’s not perfect and he’s made some mistakes, like we all have, but one thing is certain—he loves you so much. He loves both of us so much. Never doubt that. And never be afraid of loving, Scout. It’s the bravest thing you can do, okay?”
She goes on to reminisce about memories she has of me as a child. The time I woke up in the middle of the night, as a four-year-old, to try and hang a Happy Birthday sign for her on the eve of her special day, the time I called my mom to come and get me from my first sleepover at Lexie’s house, the time I came home with a broken heart from an eighth-grade dance.
She went on and on, sharing her treasured memories, some I knew and some I didn’t. She gave me advice about being an adult, advice about college, about money, about dealing with difficult people and relationships.
“Don’t give up on God, honey. Even when I’m gone and you’re angry. Even when people let you down. Even if people from the church let you down, do not give up on God. Jesus is always holding out His hand. He understands you when no one else does, and He might be the only one who can set you straight when no one else can. But don’t block out people, even when you’re hurt. That’s a lesson I had to learn some time ago. Relationships are messy. Love is messy. But it’s worth it.”
Her words are getting jumbled and slurred. She’s obviously tired.
“Okay, we have to talk about your father, but first, I want to check in on how you’re doing on our little project.” She holds up our lighthouse scrapbook and a peanut-sized lump lodges in my throat at seeing it in her hands. “You didn’t think I’d forgotten, did you? Now, I vacillated on this back and forth for some time and let me be clear, Scout, I never want to pressure you into finishing our trips. I know it will be painful. I know it will be hard. But something tells me it might be just what you need when I’m gone, you know? And don’t go it alone. Take Lexie, take your dad, take Charlotte—who knows, maybe you’ll have a boyfriend or even a husband by the time you’re watching this. Savor the journey. And I’m praying and trusting it’ll help you heal.”
She stares at the camera. “If that seems difficult, maybe start with the one we were saving for last.” She nods. “Yup, Bass Head. I know we used to go all the time, and I know we’ve been saving it for last, but truth is, I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it with you again. I think you should go now, honey. I think . . . I think there’s something there for you. And when you come back, keep watching these videos and maybe I’ll be able to give you some insights into your dad, things maybe you should know to better understand him.”
She stares into the camera another few seconds, places her hands on her hips. “I mean it, Scout. Go. For me. I’ll be here when you get back.”
I stop the DVD, drag in a deep breath. The last hour has wrenched every emotion possible from me. I’m left with a strange sort of empty fullness, and yet I’m not sure how to feel about Mom’s insistence that I go to Bass Head Light.
We had been keeping it for the last on our list. A sort of bookend to celebrate our accomplishment. What does she think is there for me? And what if I find nothing?
But there is no way I can continue playing the DVD while ignoring her request. That is out of the question for sure.
I look out Charlotte’s bedroom window to see Zack walking toward his work van. I wonder if he’s up for another lighthouse trip.
Chapter Thirty
ZACK
“Zack!”
I turn at the sound of Scout’s voice. It seems like I summoned her with my thoughts, because I’d just been thinking about our time the day before. But of course, that can’t be true, because I’ve thought about her day and night for the last two days and she didn’t appear out of thin air any of those times.
Much to my dismay.
Only a few days left, and she’d be gone for good. Would I be able to cast her from my thoughts then?
She jogs lightly out the front door of the inn toward me, her long ponytail slapping her back. Her eyes are red and puffy, and a fierce swell of protection mounts inside me.
“What’s wrong?”
She stops short in front of me. “Nothing. Why?”
“You look like you’ve been crying.”
“Oh.” Her fingers flutter to her face. “I was watching a video my mom left for me.” She shakes her head. “It’s a good thing.”
“Glad to hear that.”
“I wanted to thank you for the other day. It meant a lot. Not just the lighthouse, but the conversation.”
“I enjoyed it, too. And I hope I didn’t scare you off with . . . you know.”
A soft blush crosses her nose and cheeks. My throat grows dry.
“No. The opposite in fact.”
Oh, man. How am I going to stay away from her these next few days? She’s successfully tearing down any barriers I’ve tried to erect with just a few words and a blush. “Would you let me take you to dinner tonight?”
“That sounds really nice. Actually, I was wondering if you’d take me to another lighthouse? Then maybe I can pay you back by taking you to dinner.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I see. You’re using me for my wheels.”
She laughs. “No denying your wheels are a perk at the moment, but I enjoy you, Zack Garrison. The lighthouse is a request, from my mom.”
“Ah, gotcha.” That definitely explains the tears. “Yes, then. For your mom, anything. Where we headed?”
“Just to Bass Head.”
“Not much of a chore. I’m surprised you guys didn’t knock that off your list first thing.”
“We were saving it for last. She seems to think I need to see it now, though. I’m not sure why.”
“I wish I could help you figure it out.”
“Taking me there is help enough.”
I look at her, the long ponytail draping over one shoulder, the smattering of light freckles across her nose and beneath puffy eyes. What could happen between us if she stayed?
I think of Priscilla. Had I ever had a conversation—a real, meaningful conversation like I’d had with Scout on Sunday—with Priscilla? Looking back on my time with my ex, everything felt surface-level. I thought we were right for each other, but maybe I’d been too eager to find the right girl, too many years past thirty and feeling like my time to find my special person was running out.
Kind of like my time with Scout. But no, I can’t think about her leaving. Not right now. Right now, I have a work van to unload, a shower to take, a lighthouse to see, and a night with a woman who is confusing the living daylights out of me.
I’m pulling out of Charlotte’s drive when my phone rings. I answer it on my Bluetooth.
“Hey, Mom, how’s it going?”
“Good, honey. You home? I was wondering if I could stop by for a minute?”
“Um, heading there now, though I wasn’t going to be around long. What’s up?”
“I’d rather talk to you in person. Can you spare fifteen minutes?”
Dread coils in the pit of my stomach. “Yeah, sure. See you soon.” I hang up and drive the rest of the way home, the coil winding tighter and tighter. She sounded good. Better than a woman whose husband was leaving her for another woman had a right to sound. What was I missing?
