Page 46 of Townshipped
Mom shakes her head and busies herself around the kitchen, wiping counters and straightening things. “I’ll keep you posted.”
The tightness in her voice makes her sound like an untuned guitar.
“Please do.”
“Meanwhile, tell me everything about how you’re doing,” Mom says, shifting the focus onto Em.
Em tells Mom about life on the farm from her perspective—stories of the animals, things about me I hadn’t known she noticed, the way she feels settled and safe. I beam at that last part. I drift in and out of their conversation. Mostly I’m thinking about what’s going to happen to Paisley and Ty since Vanessa got into that accident.
“And your memory?” Mom asks gently, putting a hand over Em’s on the counter.
“It’s here and there. I get glimpses of things. Nothing significant.”
Em trails off, sighing deeply.
“It will come,” Mom assures her. “I can’t imagine losing my memory. Though, I sure can’t remember why I walked into a room most days. Or I pop my glasses on the top of my head and then go searching for them.”
Mom smiles at Em in that way only moms can. “But none of that’s near what you’re going through. I’m not even sure what to say when I think of your situation.”
“There’s nothing to say,” Em says.
She glances at me. “Aiden has been a godsend. If it weren’t for him …”
Mom smiles like I just ran for president and won.
“I’m glad you found him—well, he found you. Either way. I’m glad you have a safe place to stay while you wait for things to come back to you.”
Em gives Mom a tight-lipped smile. I think again about the life she left behind. It’s funny how I can go for whole chunks of a day without considering the magnitude of it at all. She feels so right, like she belongs here. Maybe I want to forget she has people waiting for her, looking for her. I assume she does. Only, where are they? Why haven’t they searched the registry where her name and picture and fingerprints are easily within their reach?
She looks like she’s thinking the same thing, so I shift the subject to my new niece and Mom carries on as if Poppy were the only baby ever born in the town of Bordeaux, or all of Ohio for that matter.
After about an hour, we leave my childhood home and drive back to the farm. My vet’s coming this afternoon and I need to prepare for his visit.
“What is that?” Em asks when I turn onto my driveway.
“Looks like a dog.”
I put the truck in park and hop out, walking toward the mutt standing between the house and the barn. He leans his weight onto his hind legs, pulling back on his front legs and barks at me a few times, but his tail continues to wag.
When he sees Em, he runs over toward her and hides behind her as if I’m a threat and she’s his defender. His scruffy face peeks out from behind her knee. His brown and black fur lies matted across his body. He eyes me with suspicion. Em slowly turns and bends toward him.
“Hey there, little guy,” she says sweetly.
She extends her flat palm out in front of herself, and he cautiously sniffs. His tail wags more rapidly.
I can relate. Em seems to have the same effect on most of the people who meet her—even me. Maybe especially me. I don’t pant and wag my tail, though. I have some self-respect.
Then again, I did shout “Muskrat!” out of nowhere this morning, so there is that.
I feel my smile as I watch her crouch down and ruffle his head behind his ears.
“No collar?” she asks him as if he’ll answer. “Where did you come from? And have you even eaten? Goodness.”
He moves closer to her, and she plops onto the cold ground in front of him. The dog steps straight into her lap and falls on her like he’s finally found what he’s been searching for.
Em looks up at me, not taking her hand off his neck, continuing to give long soft strokes across his unkempt torso alternating with scratches behind his ears. The dog looks at me too.
“Are we going to have a problem?” I ask him, man to man.
