Page 46 of Every Beautiful Mile

“I feel guilty,” I confess, without looking at her, making her go still next to me. “I feel guilty for wearing happy, cheery colors when your dad isn’t here. Like people will think I’m glad he’s gone or something.” I fidget with a dress on a hanger.

“Mom!” Her voice is uncharacteristically harsh as she grabs my shoulders firmly. “Nobody would ever think that. Dad would never think that. If every person who lost someone thought that way, this world would be a horrible place.” She shoves a turquoise skirt at me as I nod.

She softens. “And no matter what you wear, Mom, he’s gone just the same.”

She’s right. Whether I wear black or blue, I’m still alone. He’s still gone.

I clear my throat and eye the pink dress she’s holding.

“Fine. But no pink.”

Once again, she grins then shoves me into the dressing room with a pile of clothes.

Marin is in her element. Like the actual clothes, good or bad, give her some kind of supernatural energy.

By the time we step out of the store with stuffed bags, she’s beaming.

“You’re good at this, you know?” I say as we walk down the sidewalk.

“Of course, I know.”

She tilts her head as she strolls lightly. “Have you thought at all about what you want to do after high school? You have time to figure it out, of course, I jus—”

“No,” she cuts me off, almost defensively, “And I don’t think regular college is for me if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Gosh, no, Marin. I don’t care about that. If I could do it all again...” I pause, not even sure what I want to say next. I shake my head. “I just know paths to happiness look different, and it’s okay if yours doesn’t involve college.”

“You would have done something different?” she asks, surprise leaking into her voice.

I shrug. “I did what I thought everyone wanted, I guess. I just want you to know you don’t have to.”

She smiles. “Good.”

Then as if the conversation isn’t happening, she pulls me through the open doors of a salon and loudly announces, “My mother is in dire need of a makeover.”

If Marin was in her element shopping for clothes, what happens to her in this place is otherworldly. She never stops asking questions about techniques and trends. I’ve never seen her so passionate—another thing I missed in the last year—but sitting in this chair watching her come to life with joy feels like a special type of forgiveness I didn’t even know to ask for.

When the stylist, a red-lipped woman named Shay, finally spins me around to face the mirror two hours later—I laugh. Gone is the neglected dull hair that hung sadly to the middle of my back. The woman in the mirror has a textured cut that hits just below her shoulders.

With the now rich chocolate color framing my face, I barely look like the same person.

Marin squeals with a clap. “Mom!” she gasps, “Do you love it?!”

She runs her fingers through my hair, and the face I see in the mirror is one I don’t even recognize.

I’ve spent the last weeks working to be different, to figure out how to show up for my kids, but today, Marin is reminding me how to look—live—like I have an actual pulse still thumping under my skin.

I’m speechless. It’s as if I had no idea this woman in the reflection had been lying dormant. Waiting.

As soon as we’re outside, I wrap Marin in a hug. My voice cracks as I whisper into her ear, “Thank you, Marin. Really… I know I haven’t been…”

She squeezes me tightly, saying everything I need to hear. “Love you, Mom.”

Arm in arm, we make our way down the sidewalk toward the campground.

At the edge of town, the last business is Haystack Rock Distillery. Home to the most unfamous craft cocktails of the Pacific Northwest, the sign says. My heart skips a silly beat as I read and re-read it.

It’s been nearly a year and a half since I’ve let my mind dance with the idea of creating any kind of cocktail for the bar, but seeing this little wood-shingled building on the Oregon Coast makes me miss it fiercely.

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