Page 78 of Again, In Autumn

My mind tends to swirl with extra nonsense, gathering more thoughts as it spirals.

I can’t have Adam or suddenly live the life I wanted when I was eighteen. But I can control how many unnecessary dark thoughts and much self-loathing I wrap myself up in. Last night, I didn’t just stand up to him, I also stood up to myself. For myself. I defended my choices because they deserved that.

“What a great day,” Maggie says, walking over to sit beside me.

“Yeah,” I agree.

Adam glances over at us, and she waves back.

“You do this every year?” Maggie asks, taking a bite from a carrot.

“We do, unfortunately. Big on traditions around here.”

“We didn’t grow up with family traditions.” She clarifies, “Adam and I the only two who share both parents. We grew up with our dad and stepmom and stepbrothers. Three of them. Then, they had two more after we were out of the house.”

I look at the boyish group on the lawn and make a judgement about Maggie’s presence with us girls in the house. “Dare I ask their gender?”

She gives me a look. “Boys.”

I laugh.

“They’re sweet boys,” she says. “And I got a good one with Adam. I’m glad he and I stayed close.”

She’s aware of my relationship with her brother so she might have thought he talked about his family life, but he divulged very little.

I met his dad and stepmom, who bought the house and stayed on and off that summer we met. He mentioned his older sister Maggie. He shared about his Mom in Vermont, how they talked on the phone every few weeks, but didn’t see each other much.

Maggie says, “If you don’t mind me asking, how old were you when your mom died?”

“Eight,” I answer.

“What happened?”

“Car accident. It was raining. She was on her way to a PTA meeting.”

That’s more information than I typically offer. Even though I say very little, my mind always wants to add: she had the prettiest smile, the softest skin, gave the best hugs, never once raised her voice to anyone. My mother was an angel with Francesca’s hair color, my eyes, and a sadness I recognize now that I’m older.

Maggie doesn’t pry. She continues, “And then it was just you, Fran and your Dad?”

I bite a chunk of apple. “Yeah.” Swallow. “I don’t remember much about my mom dying, so the worst part of the whole thing was after. Just it being the three of us.” I cast her a look. “Or, I should say, the two of us.”

She understands. “And Heddy?”

My heads nods. “Heddy and my mom were best friends.” Having her around felt like a piece of my mom still existed. Or, exists, I should say.”

Those early years, the late elementary and middle school years, the most challenging part of childhood.

I say, “We had nannies until I was sixteen, but Heddy still showed up all the time. She came to parent-teacher conferences and field trips, spent weekends at our house, and planned our birthday parties. She signed us up for soccer and cheerleading. She brought us here for the entire summer, just like we did when my mom was alive.”

“Wow,” Maggie awes. “That’s quite a friend.”

I smile. “Yeah. Heddy never had children, but she’s been married about five times. I don’t think any of them could have ever worked, because Fran and I were her family. We took top billing. She prioritized us over everything else.”

Maggie takes a swig of her soda and grumbles, “I wish I had a Heddy growing up.”

She senses my confusion and explains, “When my mom left, I was twelve, Adsy was seven. We didn’t have a choice about which parent we would stay with. She didn’t want us.”

She’s matter of fact in her tone and expression, as though I know what she’s talking about.

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