Page 58 of Mountain Freedom
She let out a deep, shaky sigh. “No. Not really. He fought for shared custody—briefly—but in the end, he chose alcohol instead. Ruined every chance the judge gave him. He never even showed up for visitation. Mama ended up with sole custody. He sent letters on my birthday for a few years. That was it.”
“So you didn’t see him before…”
“Before he died?”
“Right.”
She shook her head, then laid it back on my shoulder. I reached up and stroked her hair as we shared our grief together.
“When he passed, Grandmother wrote to Mama and let her know. She told me casually, like she didn’t expect it to affect me at all because I hadn’t seen him in years. But it broke my heart, even though I rarely even thought of him anymore.”
“Of course it did,” I said. “He was your dad.”
“Mixed feelings,” she repeated.
“Yep.”
“He chose alcohol, and in the end, it killed him. Your dad chose…” She trailed off, as if realizing she might offend me by stating the truth.
“He chose hate,” I said, filling in the blank. “In the end, he always chose hate.”
She snuggled into me, her voice impossibly small as she asked, “Do you ever wonder why they didn’t choose us?”
“Every damn day.”
We spentthe afternoon at the creek. We skipped rocks, walked along the bank, and waded ankle-deep in the warm water as the sun sank lower in the sky, rays of light cutting a path through the trees to sparkle on the dark surface. Neither of us spoke much. It was clear we were both deep in thought, reliving some of the best—and worst—moments of our lives. But we didn’t have to talk much to get something out of it. We were together and that was enough.
When we finally decided to leave, Allison pulled her car beside mine. “Dinner?” she asked through the open window.
“You still want to hang out tonight, after I moped around feeling sorry for myself all afternoon?” I chuckled, even though I was genuinely asking. I knew I wasn’t the best company right now.
“I do.” She nodded. “I’m picking up takeout. I don’t know about you, but I’m starved. Pizza?”
“Pizza sounds great,” I said.
“And wine,” she said, eyebrows raised. “Red probably. That goes with pizza, right?”
“Pizzaandwine? What happened to setting an example of healthy eating?” I grinned, enjoying the ease that had somehow come back in our friendship, at least a little.
“We need comfort food tonight.”
“Alright, well, you get the pizza and I’ll pick up a bottle. Do you have a preference on type?”
She shrugged. “Not really. Something smooth and easy to drink. Not too dry, but not too sweet. You probably know more about them than I do.”
“Got it.”
After a day of grieving together,we both avoided any talk of Russell or the past at Allison’s that night. We shared a pizza anda bottle of pinot noir and swapped stories about crazy things that had happened in our jobs. It was a fun night, one where the ease between us seemed to return, even though there was an unspoken tension under the surface I was sure we both felt. Things had changed for so many reasons. But we both seemed determined to get back to normal somehow.
I was getting ready to head out for the night when the house practically shook.
“Was that thunder?” Allison asked, her eyes wide.
“Sounds like it,” I said before my voice was nearly drowned out by the roar of heavy rain pounding the metal roof.
Allison got up and opened the front door. Then she stepped out on the porch and closed her eyes, filling her lungs with the scent of the rain falling on the forest. “It’s beautiful,” she said, her tone wistful.
“What’s beautiful?” I asked, moving out onto the porch with her, even though I agreed completely. It almost didn’t matter what her answer was. The sight of the rain was beautiful. The scent of it was incredible. And when her own scent—delicate and rich at the same time, like lilacs—combined with the familiar smell of a Tennessee rainstorm in the summer, I thought I could just about get drunk on the combo.
