Page 2 of The Cost of Forgetting You

“It’s nothing at all, Mom.” The sigh is halfway out of my lungs before I can think better of it. Her penciled-in eyebrows lift. The shade is a bit dark for her blonde hair but perfect for my own mouse-brown waves. She must’ve swiped it from my makeup bag this morning while I was still sleeping.

We stare at each other, twin hazel gazes communicating in a language only years spent up each other’s asses can forge. Deep down I’m sure she at least has an inkling why I want space. I also know that she’ll never be ready for it.

And we both know who’ll win the battle today.

Her already thin lips pinch together. I rise from the wooden dining chair my grandfather carved by hand, my back muscles screaming in protest.

“I’ve got another meeting in five minutes.” I scoop my half-eaten sandwich from the table and start toward the staircase. Its grandiose presence dominates the foyer at the front of the house, which is separated from the kitchen by an arched threshold. I have the entire upstairs level to myself, in this house which has always been too big and yet not big enough.

“But I thought we’d have lunch together.” She joins me in the archway, the in-between, and points to a white paper bag with her favorite sub shop’s logo sitting on the console table in the foyer. “I came home on my break just to spend time with you. We haven’t seen each other much this week.”

That was intentional, I want to say. But like so much else, I keep it to myself. Lately I find my patience with her wearing so thin, the artificially rose-colored veil over my eyes when it comes to her all but disappearing. But I’m not ready for an all-out war, which is what I’d have on my hands if I ever told her how I’m feeling.

Her down-turned eyes only serve to emphasize the pout she’s sporting. Mine may be colored the same as hers, but they’re shaped like Dad’s, early onset crow’s feet and all. Something she’s always suggesting a new cream to fix.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t skip this meeting. Maybe dinner instead?”

She drops the pity party, realizing it’s not working out the way she’d like. Suddenly her pinkie nail becomes the most interesting thing in the room, demanding her full attention. “I’m actually going out for margaritas with some of the ladies from work.”

“Well.” I glance over her shoulder at the clock on the wall. Two minutes to get upstairs and logged in. “Have fun with that.”

“You’ll pick me up, right?”

My gaze flickers back to her. The eyebrow pencil really isn’t doing her any favors. “Yep. Have an extra margarita for me.”

She winks, oblivious to my tone. “I have the best daughter.”

I offer a tight-lipped smile and return to my tower.

My phone taunts me the entire afternoon.

By my third meeting, I’ve lost all ability to focus. The clients I’m supposed to be training are having to repeat their questions twice for me to finally register what they’re asking. There’s a tension headache building at my temples. When my vision goes blurry, I block off the last hour of the day and close my laptop.

My gaze catches on my thumb as I do it. The cuticle is angry and bleeding where I’ve chewed it raw.

I glance at my phone again, and anxiety bubbles to the surface once more. No one calls after eight years to chat about the economy. Whatever my dad has to say to me, it’s bad. I don’t know how I know, but I do. It’s the kind of sixth sense you only develop after the rug’s been pulled from beneath you once before. The knowledge that it can, and most likely will, happen again.

Just rip the Band-Aid off. I tap on the notification.

“Hi, sweet pea, it’s Dad.”

I hit pause so hard the phone flies off my desk and falls screen first on the beige carpet. Guilt slaps me across the face. What would Mom think if she knew about this? Even listening to his voice feels like betrayal.

My heart lodges in my throat. The tip of my nose burns. I need air.

The window groans in protest as I pry it open for the first time in months. It may be spring everywhere else in the country, but in South Carolina it’s already sweltering. Living on the outskirts of Charleston, we’re close enough to the marshes that a salty breeze pushes that warm air against my face. I drink it in like water.

All the while I’m wishing for a different breeze, carrying the heady scent of a river and magnolia blooms and the Parkers’ farm in the distance. I haven’t allowed myself this yearning in so long. It’s all I can do not to stumble beneath the weight of it.

Sweet pea.

I was eighteen the last time he called me that, and suddenly I am eighteen again. Hot tears streak my cheeks; sticky snot fills the hollow above my upper lip. I feel so incredibly small. I feel like somebody’s child, and I can’t remember the last time I felt that way.

A deep, shuddering breath. An exhale that lasts five seconds. Rinse and repeat.

I glance over my shoulder. The fading sunlight reflects off the back of my phone. I want to know what he has to say, and yet I’m so ashamed to want it.

Because Mom was right. He never called again. How do you give up so easily on your child? The words in that letter were harsh, yes, but they were never meant to be read. I was angry and confused, living in a world that had been turned upside down on a dime. A world where the one person I thought I knew best became someone I didn’t even recognize.

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