Page 27 of When I Come Back
He may say something in response, but I don’t hear it. Fear takes over as I rush to my office. It’s the only place I can think to go right now. It’s the only place I think I might be safe from the life-altering decision I just made.
I can’t go home. I can’t look at him. I can’t do anything but walk into my make-shift refuge, slam the door, and lock it behind me. The lock clicking is the last sound I hear before I fall to the floor and break down.
Chapter Fourteen
Thea
“Let me know if you two need anything,” Margot says as she leaves the room. She shuts the door lightly behind her, and I make a mental note to thank her for coming to my rescue with Brooks yesterday before I leave. I’ve never met a kinder soul than Margot Mason. I’ve never heard the girl even mutter a curse word or get snippy with someone. Mom and I call her the true saint of Saint Stephen’s.
Settling into the chair by the window in my mom's room, I watch her closely as she wheels over so we can chat. Sundays have always been the day I visit her. Because the funeral was last Sunday, and I was only able to see her for a short time, today is much needed. Especially after what transpired last night between Cary and me.
Once I finally calmed down enough to drive myself home, I spent all night tossing and turning. Everytime I closed my eyes, visions of him hovering over my body and giving me the best orgasm I’ve had in almost a decade flooded my brain. I want tosay I don’t know how it happened or how we got to that point, but the truth is I’ve felt the connection between us re-forming since the moment we made eye contact on the steps of RED.
My mistake was thinking it was one-sided or that either of us could ignore it. Now I’m left to wonder what it all means and how much it’ll hurt when he goes back to Seattle. My mother clears her throat, successfully pulling me out of my thoughts. I shake my head while biting the inside of my lip. “Sorry, Mom. I’m a little in my thoughts today.”
“I can tell. I can also see the bags under your eyes. Are you still not sleeping well?” Her voice is seeping with concern as her worried eyes meet mine.
I’ve had stress-induced insomnia most of my life. There were more nights than I can count where my mom would make me chamomile tea sweetened with honey and run her fingers through my hair to help me try to fall asleep. If I was at the end of a string of sleepless nights, it would sometimes work. When it didn’t, it would at least calm my mind and slow my racing thoughts. As I got older, others took over that role. First, it was Cary. Recently, it has been Ripley.
“It got better in the last few days until last night,” I say, fidgeting with my rings.
“Hmm,” she starts, “any particular reason you can think of for why it started up again?”
Her words have a small laugh escaping me. “Oh, I know exactly why.”
“Well, don’t keep an old lady waiting in suspense—spill.” My lips tilt up in a smile. My mom and I have always been close. She was a single mother and never had any other children. My father split the moment he found out she was pregnant. He apparently wasn’t keen on the whole being a dad thing. Not that she needed him. My childhood was never unfulfilling or unhappy with only one parent. We became thick as thieves as I grew up. She was theperson I told everything to, the one who told me to reach for the stars and chase my dreams.
Looking back, I see now that her symptoms started before I left for Seattle. She’d waved me off anytime I brought it up, claiming she was just tired or “getting old” despite being a younger mother than most with a teenager. Once I came back home, I’d found out she’d not only been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, but she’d been keeping it from me. It had progressed to a point where she could no longer hide it. And much to her dismay, she couldn’t live alone anymore either.
She was the reason I came back home. And she was a big part of the reason why I never went back to Seattle. Not a day goes by that I don’t remember the phone call that started it all.
8 Years Ago
(23 years old)
I look down at the time and see it’s six-twelve. Cary just got back from helping with the prep for tonight. We’re supposed to be at the restaurant by seven for his first night as head chef, but the drive is only about ten minutes from our apartment. It’s then I realize what day it is. I’ve been so busy getting ready for Cary’s big night, it completely slipped my mind.
Cary surprised me this morning by taking me shopping for a dress. He knows how much I dread big crowds and the anxiety that comes with them. I think he thought the dress shopping would distract me enough so I wouldn’t have too much time to think about it. I’ve been trying to not let my anxiety cloud how proud I am of him. This restaurant is owned by a huge name in the industry, so Cary getting the head chef position is a huge deal.
When we got home, I’d surprised him with the custom knives I’d bought him as a present for landing his dream job. They’re engraved with ‘Chef Cary’ on each of the blades. Thebox they came in also has a hidden ‘I love you, baby’ engraved on the bottom under the compartment that holds them. I wanted him to feel like he could use them at work but still think of me when he did.
Once he’d opened the gift and thoroughly thanked me, he’d left me to get myself ready for the night.
It’s going on six-thirty here which means it’s almost nine-thirty back home. I haven’t heard from my mom all day long, and today is our weekly phone call. I’m immediately nervous that something is wrong but try not to panic without any kind of proof. Maybe she was busy and simply forgot too.
Quickly pulling up her name in my phone, I press the call button and put it on speaker so I can continue applying my make-up. It rings and rings and rings then goes to voicemail. My stomach drops. She always answers my call. It is late though. I tell myself that’s all it is but call again for good measure.
Still no answer.
Opening the bathroom door, I look around the corner to see if Cary is nearby so I can ask his opinion. I don’t see him, but I hear him talking to someone on the phone in the other room and decide not to interrupt him. Back in the bathroom, I place my hands on the edge of the counter and look at myself in the mirror, actively biting my lip as I try to decide what I should do. I don’ttechnicallyknow if anything is even wrong. I just have this bad feeling, and she isn’t answering. Despite it being late, I decide to call my mom’s next door neighbor, Barbara.
Once again, the phone rings and rings, but on the last ring, Barbara answers, “Hello?”
“Hey, Barb. It’s Thea, Lydia’s daughter. I’m so sorry to call so late, but my mom isn’t answering, and she was supposed to call me earlier. I just have a weird feeling about it. Is there any way you can go over there and check on her?” My nerves aregetting the best of me, and I have to cut myself off before I start apologizing even more for asking.
“Oh, sweetie, I’m sure she’s fine. I saw her in the garden earlier today.”
I nod my head to myself, but the pit in the bottom of my stomach just won’t go away. My gut is telling me there’s something wrong. “I know it’s an inconvenience. I just… she always answers, Barb,” I plead my case once more.
