Page 82 of Meet Me in the Valley
Around the corner, the quiet mumbles of Nora and my mom filter through the air. My mind is so fucked. How is any of this happening? And how the hell did Tia and I find ourselves in a tangled web of lies? For both of our sakes, I need to get to the bottom of this odd connection. The puzzle pieces are a scattered mess, and I’m determined to put it all together.
“Okay. I’ll talk to her.”
It’s crazy where a day can take you. Twenty-four hours ago, my heart was jackhammering in my chest as I flew over the state of Nevada, and my sights were set on one thing and one thing only.
Tia and I were inevitable from the start, I think. From that moment on the dock, when we forged a bond, the tie between us would never break from that point forward. It’s never led us astray, never far from each other, and never let us down.
Even when our friendship transformed into something greater than anything we could imagine for ourselves, at the core of it all, it’s still us.
At times, it’s felt like us against the world. Every big moment in my adult life, Tia is the common denominator. College graduation, we tossed our caps together. Getting our first job offer, we threw back the shots in celebration. Hearing the news of her mom’s diagnosis, we held each other until the sun came up.
Now here we are, another hurdle to clear, both of us facing the pain from our past. Another us against the world moment.
Our hands clasp tightly together, anchoring me to the comfort I find in her touch. If Tia wasn’t holding me, I’d be convinced I’m in another dimension.
I told Tia I’d give my mother a chance to talk. Both of us have the same questions, like how is all of this connected? It’s one of those questions you ask yourself—how big is the world in actuality? Out of all the people that could’ve walked through Nora’s front door, it had to be my mother.
The sun beams down, and I feel its heat sizzling against my skin. Once in a while, a cool breeze blows in, brushing against the sweat beads forming on the back of my neck from the heat, or the nerves.
Nora and my mom sit across from us, both with different expressions. Nora looks on with confusion, much like how Tia and I feel. She insisted we take this conversation outside, away from Cali’s curious ears.
It’s not a large backyard, but there’s enough space for the raised deck we’re sitting on in simple lawn chairs and a ton of potted plants. Much like the inside of Nora’s home, the outside is very much an extension of the jungle she currently has growing in her living room. Packed dirt and mulch engulf my senses, sending my mind down a spiral of memories of my mom wearing a faded yellow bandana with well-worn overalls, knee deep in the soil and getting lost in an array of flowers.
When the jarring smell of cigarette smoke interrupts my reverie, I’m immediately sobered at the reality of the situation.
I’m not in my mother’s garden back in Oakwood Valley. Instead, I’m in an alternate timeline—the one where my mom made a life with another family.
I watch my mother smoke a cigarette; the tip burning bright fire with each indulgent inhale. She’s never smoked before. At least, I’ve never seen her do it. Not around me.
“A new vice?” I ask, breaking the palpable tension that’s thicker than the smoke she blows into the dry desert air. I don’t like the way the smell sticks to me. She exhales a plume of smoke as her fingers twitch. “More like a ten-year vice. Keeps my nerves in check.”
“Oh, so you’re nervous in front of your own son?” There’s a bite to my tone. Her face flashes with hurt, but it’s gone in a second. Her lips curl into a smirk, shaking her head at me like I’m some petulant kid. So fucking what? I think I have a right to be a little peeved right now.
“Anger doesn’t suit you, baby. You were never an angry kid. You were always so thoughtful. So sweet …” Her voice trails off, as if she’s getting lost in a distant memory. Stubbing the butt of her cigarette out in an ashtray, her matching cocoa gaze locks with mine.
“I don’t know if you remember this, but when you were about five, I tripped over an extension cord in the garage when I went to grab some more paper towels for the kitchen. I fell forward, using my hands to break the fall—sprained the hell out of both wrists.”
Bits and pieces of my memory come back, vaguely remembering my mom with wraps around her wrists. I nod for the sake of her story.
“You found me crying on the floor of the garage. I told you to call your father but instead, you called 911 and told them I was dying,” she laughs, causing the smallest upturn of my lips even if everything in me doesn’t want to react.
Tia looks at me with a bemused expression, twisting her lips as a smile fights to break out. Nora’s eyes stay down cast, picking at the skin around her thumb.
“You said to me, ‘It’s okay, Mommy. I’ll be your hands since yours don’t work anymore.’ You made me peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every day until I got better. I was so sick of eatingthem, but I didn’t have the heart to say no to you. You have always been charming since the minute you could talk.”
It’s a brutal game of tug of war within my chest, pulling me one way toward forgiveness and the other toward resentment. I’m stuck in the middle, the rope pulled too tight on both ends. There’s no clear ruling on which side will win.
“What’s your point? So what? Just because I was a good son to you, I’m not allowed to be angry?”
“That’s not what I said, Logan.”
“Then what exactly is your angle here? You sit here, forcing me to walk down memory lane with you—telling me you never had the heart to say no to me. What I don’t get is why you’re here playing house with my girlfriend’s sister and her kid!” My voice thickens with emotion, lodged deep in my throat. It makes me sick.
The sudden urge to throw my fists into something holds my mind hostage. It’s an unwelcome type of rage, one I usually choose to keep locked away and buried. It angers me more that it’sherwho unlocks the ugliest parts of me, exposing them and shoving it in my face against my will.
Tia’s hold on my hand tightens, and for a split second, I rein myself in for her sake. Nora buries her face in her hands, clearly suffering from this awkward-as-fuck conversation. But it has to happen, like a car crash you can’t look away from.
“I told you I’d explain, and you agreed. Don’t act like I put a gun to your head and forced you to be here. Like I said, anger doesn’t suit you, but hell, Logan, if you need to take it out on someone, go ahead. I deserve it.” Her steely gaze mists, and I search her eyes with desperation, hoping to find remorse in them.
