Page 96 of Silver Linings
. . .
This day will endwith me sick and bent over the toilet bowl.
I arrive at the store earlier than the girls so I can take it all in and make sure everything is ready, ensuring no Post-It was missed in the making of this store. It’s still driving me mad that some things aren’t complete, namely the phone lines, website, and a little thing called a new store name. But I am trying to make peace with the idea that this was a physical reopening; I could always do a digital rebrand in a few weeks once everything is ironed out and running smoothly. The renovation was about drawing in new customers and starting to turn a profit—the rest could come later.
At least that was what everyone has been telling me so my eye would stop twitching.
The store is nearly unrecognizable. Gone are the decades old warm toned and bowing bookshelves filled with unsold titles. The floor is no longer creaking, and the walls are a sad, time yellowed beige no more. Instead, Hendrix and I managed to create something both bold and timeless.
With the new flooring, we sanded down the area tables, staining them with a more neutral shade that complimented thepale sage green of the walls. All the shelves are now a brilliant white, helping to offset books on the shelves instead of feeling lost. I finished off the place with bold floral rugs in shades of pale pink, lavender, and green, accenting the free space on the wall behind the counter with a gallery of vintage gold frames. One day, I would fix the stairs and transform the second floor, just not anytime soon. I need to get out of the financial hole I buried myself in first.
I’m lighting a candle, tying balloons around the shop, and setting up some beverages for patrons when the front door opens, letting in a cold snap of wind.
“Sorry, we aren’t open for another hour. Please come ba–”
“The place looks great, Silly.”
Every ounce of blood leaves my body as I stand frozen, unable to turn around, to face her.
“Don’t call me that,” I gasp out on a breath that barely escapes my body.
“Silver, please.” There’s a desperation in her tone that has no right to be there. Sheleft. Shechosethis reaction.
I turn to her and finally look at the face I haven’t seen in years byherown volition. She’s no longer the mother I remember; she’s older now, with grey hairs littered throughout her blonde strands, deeper lines around her eyes. Her face is beautiful—it makes me mad, and she flinches back at whatever it is she sees on mine. Maybe it’s the anger or the resemblance to my father that affects her so much. I don’t know. I don’t particularly care.
“What are you doing here?”
“I–I wanted to support you.”
I scoff. “Since when?”
The silence is deafening. She’s had two decades to support me, and she never showed up. Not for recitals or holidays or birthdays. She wasn’t there when I got my first period, or when I lost my virginity and was confused. She’s never met my bestfriend or come to our graduations or took us trick-or-treating. She’s had twenty years of opportunities and chose herself every single time. So why show up now, for this?
“I know there’s some bad blood between us–”
“That’s one way to describe abandoning your child,” I murmur under my breath.
Hendrix words from earlier in the week float to the forefront of my mind.Choosing yourself over someone who hurt you beyond compare is not cowardice. It’s bravery.
“—but I was just hoping we could put that behind us.” Her tone is soft, like she’s trying to gentle parent me into forgiveness. It feels manipulative.
My vision starts to spot, and I’m battling anger and devastation in equal measures. I decide to focus on the anger, choosing to ignore the latter, as I snap.
“You talk about what you did as if you ruined my favorite sweater! You dropped me off at Nan’sa weekafter Dad died and never came back. I waited for you, for months—years—and you never showed. All I got was a half-assed birthday card and a phone call whenever you could be bothered to remember. And now you come here,uninvited, on the biggest day of my life, to what? Ask for a do-over?”
She has the good sense to look sheepish. “You wouldn’t answer my calls. What was I supposed to do?” Apparently, all sense has flown out the building.
“Take the fucking hint!”
“Silly, please. We can fix this,” she urges. So desperate, and for what? I don’t understand this sudden need to reclaim her motherhood.
“Youdon’t get to call me that. That was Dad’s name for me. Remember him? Because he wouldn’t recognize you.” She jerks back as if I’ve slapped her. My hand comes to rest on the necklace he gave me before he died, and it gives me a strangesort of comfort, holding on to it like it’s imbuing me with his strength.
Tears threaten to spill, but I refuse to give in to that vulnerability, to show her how badly she’s hurt me for the last twenty years.
“Why are you really here?” I ask.
“I have something for you.”
