Page 93 of The Choices I've Made
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re not very nice when you get scared?”
“I’m not scared.”
“Mmhmm,” she said, her voice getting closer. “You look pretty damn scared. Are you sweating?”
“It’s hot out here,” I lied.
“Take my hand,” she instructed, holding it out in front of me.
I did as I had been told, placing my large hand in hers. It felt warm and safe, like the sunset on your face after a long day.
“Tell me something good, Jake. A memory. Not the bad stuff you’re trying to push deep down inside, but the good ones. I know you have plenty. Pick one.”
“I can’t do this,” I said, my deep voice cracking, as I pulled away.
Her fierce grip tightened. “You can. You will,” she encouraged. “It’s just one memory, Jake.”
Every fiber of my being was telling me to run. Every memory in my head was anything but cheerful.
The day I had come home to an empty house, only to run outside and find Terri rushing to find me, was the only time I’d seen that old woman cry, apologizing for having to deliver the news of my mother’s death since my father was too torn up to do so himself.
The years of slow, torturous neglect. My father had never been a sloppy drunk. Never an abusive father or husband. He’d never made a scene in public and always stayed sober enough for work. He’d played the part so well and for so long, he deserved an award.
My father had covered his addiction well. But we had known.
My mother, Terri…and me. We all had known.
“I can see it in your eyes, Jake. Those are not happy memories you’re drumming up.” She squeezed my hand harder. “Come on, try. For me.” A sweet smile spread across her face. “Dinner will burn if you don’t.”
I took a deep breath, nodding, as I gathered what little strength I had left. With one hand wrapped around Molly like a lifeline and the other braced against the doorframe, I willed myself back.
Back to a time I’d soon rather forget because to do otherwise hurt so bad, I could barely stand it.
“Milkshakes,” I finally said.
“What?” She laughed, her hand still firmly in mine.
I rubbed my thumb over hers, clinging to the connection.
“I’m going to need a little more detail.”
“When I was younger—well, honestly, ever since I can remember—my mom, like most Cokers around here, and I would have to make frequent trips up the coast for things we couldn’t get here.”
“Naturally. It isn’t exactly normal—how we live around here. Keep talking.”
“Well, those were our days—just mom and me. We’d hop the early morning ferry and drive up to Nags Head to one of the few big department stores, and every time, she’d take me out for lunch. But not any kind of lunch.”
“Fast food,” we both said in unison.
Shaking my head, I looked up at her with a wide grin. “Seems silly now,” I said. “I hardly touch the stuff. But, for that ten-year-old boy stuck on an island that didn’t even have a grocery store, let alone a McDonald’s, it was like going to Disneyland for me.”
Her smile warmed, our eye contact never wavering.
“Look down,” she whispered.
My gaze shifted, and my breath caught. While I’d been going on about long drives up the coast and fast food, I’d stepped over the threshold.
Without even noticing it.
