Page 13 of The Good Guy on My Porch

“We can’t go on like this,” she said. “She’s getting worse.”

“She’s not.”

Melly put a hand over mine. “How many times a day does she expect you to call her now?”

Calling my mother had become such a habit, I didn’t keep a tally. “Four…No, six times a day.”

She sighed. “You’re twenty-eight years old, Dilly. You ought to be able to go out of town, to travel, to take vacations, without worrying your mother is going to starve herself or drive herself crazy with worry.”

“We’ve talked about this before, Aunt Melly. We don’t have any other choice.”

“We could have her institutionalized. We could let someone who’s trained to handle this help her. She might even be happier.”

“We’ve looked into that. There just aren’t any reasonable options around here.”

“I heard of a place,” she said. “It’s new. A sort of assisted living home for the mentally ill. It’s in New Hampshire and it’s pricey, but it’s got to be better than what we’re doing now.”

“New Hampshire? How would that even work? No matter where she is, she’s going to want to be able to see us regularly.”

Her expression hardened, determined. “We can’t keep going on this way. It’s not good for her and it’s not good for us.”

She was right, and I wanted my mother to be better, to be happy, more than anything. “We’ve tried hospitalization, we’ve tried medication and therapy. We can’t afford a full-time live-in nurse and there’s no long-term homes or treatment programs around here, Melly. We’ve done everything we can, we’re doing the only thing we can.”

She rummaged around in her bag and handed me a brochure with a photo of a large, fancy brick building on the front. “Just read about it, Dilly, please. It would be tight, but together I think we could afford it.”

“I’ve been saving for something like this, I just thought we’d have longer…”

“I know, sweetie.” She took a long swallow of her drink. “The most difficult part will be convincing her to go, they won’t accept residents who refuse medication or who don’t willingly come.”

The tiny spark of hope I’d felt wavered and died. “You should have led with that, Aunt Melly. We’re never going to convince her she needs help. She’s as afraid of the medicine as she is of everything else.”

She cupped my face in her hand, much like my mother had done. “Leave that to me, sweetie. I’ll do everything I can to convince her.”

I forced a smile, but I doubted Aunt Melly would be able to convince my mother of anything. Over the years I’d cried and pleaded and begged for her to get help and she’d never listened. She was convinced that she needed her anxiety, that her bad feelings were the only thing keeping us safe. I was certain my mother would never change, but maybe Aunt Melly was right that something needed to change and maybe that something needed to be me. Maybe it was time to push Mom out of her comfort zone, to take back some of my life. I’d given up enough for her, hadn’t I?

Then I remembered how she’d looked when I’d gotten back from that spring break trip, how weak and sad. I couldn’t hurt her like that again. I couldn’t cause her so much pain. “How’s the latest book going?”

“Great. I’m headed to Italy tomorrow. Want me to bring anything back for you?”

She’d stopped inviting me to go with her years ago, because I always said no. And that was okay. Sure, I’d love to go to Italy, to see more than my own backyard, but I was happy in Catalpa Creek. It was enough. “Do you think the pasta would make the flight?”

She laughed, as I’d hoped she would, but there was sadness in her eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.”

***

The beeping of my alarm woke me from a delicious dream of an ice cream festival in downtown Catalpa Creek. Booths lined either side of main street, each with an array of different flavors and toppings. There was even a booth with ice cream pizza. Why didn’t we have one of those? Catalpa Creek had four wonderful festivals each year, but no ice cream festival. Why was I the only genius who’d thought of it? And why was my alarm screaming at me on my day off? I rolled and slapped it off. I was just drifting back to sleep when I remembered I was supposed to hike with Oscar.

I sat up in bed, stretched, and heard the familiar sound of rain tinking against the windows. We couldn’t hike in the rain. Smiling, I lay back down and snuggled under my covers. I was almost asleep when someone banged on my door. With a sigh, I climbed out of bed, pulled a sweatshirt on over the tank top and shorts I’d worn to bed, ran a hand through my hair, and stumbled downstairs to the front door.

Oscar grinned when he saw me. “I wanted to make sure you were up and getting ready for our hike.”

“It’s raining.” I blinked and rubbed my eyes. “Are you hiking in that?” He was wearing only shorts and sneakers, so his tanned, fit torso was on full display and very nice to look at. Plus, he was all wet from the rain, drops of water rolling down his chest over his left nipple and down—

He cleared his throat and I looked up at his face. My cheeks heated and I rubbed them, like I could erase my blush. “Sorry. I’m not quite awake, yet. Can you explain what’s happening right now?”

He looked downright giddy with happiness. What the hell kind of person could be giddy at seven in the morning? “I’m just getting back from a run. I’m going to change and get some breakfast. Then, I’ll pick you up at eight for our hike.”

I looked at the yard and the mountains behind him. It was now raining so hard it sounded like nature was drumming for a metal band and the mountains were shrouded in clouds. “I don’t like to hike, Oscar. I’m definitely not doing it in the rain.”

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