Page 12 of The Good Guy on My Porch

Oscar looked back at me and opened his mouth, just as my phone rang. I stopped in the middle of the walk and dug it out of my purse. My aunt’s name flashed on the screen and my heart sank. I hurried past Oscar and his girlfriend, mumbling something about having to take this call and rushed inside.

By the time I’d unlocked my door and gotten inside, my phone had stopped ringing. I shut the door behind me and called my aunt back.

“She’s bad, Dilly. Says you lied to her.”

“I called her three hours ago, Aunt Melly. I told her I was fine.”

“She called your land line and you didn’t answer. Can you get over here? She’s not going to calm down until she sees you.”

I sighed, hating the situation. I’d had such a good day. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I went out the back door so I wouldn’t interrupt Oscar and his girlfriend. I didn’t want to explain my hurry, didn’t want anyone to see me like this, frantic with worry about my mother. I cut across the neighbor’s back yard and onto the street.

In less than five minutes, I was at my mother’s place. She lived in a small apartment in a building full of other small apartments. We’d offered once for her to live with me or my aunt if she’d just take her medication, if she’d just go back to therapy, but she’d refused. So, she lived there alone.

I hurried up the stairs to the third floor and banged on the door. From outside it was quiet, no sign of the scene that awaited me.

Six deadbolts were disengaged and then my aunt’s face appeared. Her expression was grim and exhausted. “She’s in the bedroom.” She stepped aside to let me pass.

The sound of my mother’s sobs filled the apartment, and I felt like a horrible person because I didn’t feel bad for her, I didn’t feel compassion. I felt angry and resentful and sad that I couldn’t have one day, just one day to get away and do something for myself without my mother falling apart. Once, I’d taken a different approach with her, I’d told her exactly what I was doing, told her I was going out of town for a week for my senior spring break. It was the only vacation I’d ever had, a week in Florida.

I’d come home to find she hadn’t eaten in a week. She was so weak from lack of food and dehydration that we’d had to hospitalize her. I wouldn’t risk her life that way again. I could never live with myself if she died because of something I’d done.

She was in her small, cluttered bedroom, curled up, the covers wrapped around her, crying so hard she was barely breathing. “Mom. I’m here.”

She looked up at me, her face worn and wrinkled beyond her years, her eyes red-rimmed, her lips chapped. “Daffodil?”

“I’m here.” I sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her back, my earlier resentment fading at the sight of her. She was sick and all the worry, all the stress, took such a toll on her. “I didn’t hear the phone ring. I was napping. I’m sorry.” Did I lie to my mother again? Hell, yes, I did. The truth would only make her doubt me the next time I lied, and it would hurt her far more than it would hurt me. She was only forty-seven and, yet, she looked like she was sixty-seven. She was frail and physically couldn’t handle these upsets.

She sat up and put her hand on my cheek, looking into my eyes. “You’re really okay? I was so sure. . .”

“I’m fine, Mom. I’m here. I’m fine.”

“Oh, thank heavens. I was so worried. I had such a bad feeling.”

“I called you and told you I was safe, why did you call the land line?”

She laid back down, her eyes drifting shut. “I’m so tired. You know how I get after an upset like this.”

I patted her shoulder and covered her with the blanket. “Good night, Momma.”

I left her room, closing the door behind me. My aunt, only ten years older than me, was sitting on the couch, her head in her hands. She looked up when I walked in. “She’s sleeping.”

Melly sighed, her blond curls bouncing as she shook her head. She was tall and thin, blond and sharp-featured, my opposite in the looks department, yet in a lot of ways she was my closest friend. The one person who knew my whole story and loved me anyway. “You know I hate to bother you, honey, but she was inconsolable, and I was worried…”

“I know. I’m glad you called. I’m sure you didn’t plan to come over here today.”

“It’s fine. I had the day off anyway. I was just working on my book.”

Melly was a professor of art history at the university and was currently writing her third book on the subject. I’d read her first two books and knew more about the history of pastoral paintings than I’d ever wanted to know. Her latest book was about little-known art works by women of the renaissance period, and I was excited to read it.

I hated how hard it was for her to travel. She did it, but I knew she felt guilty every time she left me alone to take care of my mother. She was one of the reasons I stayed in Catalpa Creek. My career didn’t require travel, but she couldn’t do her work if she was trapped here like I was.

“I need a drink,” she said. “Want to hang out with your old aunt for a bit?”

“I’d love that.”

We parked on my street and walked to a small, hole-in-the-wall bar two blocks from my place. We found seats at the bar, the place nearly empty on a Sunday night, and ordered beers. Melly fiddled with the glass, before she spun on her seat to face me. I took a long swallow, because the look on her face was serious and I knew I wasn’t going to like what she was about to say.

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