Page 33 of The Cost of Forgetting You

A mixture of anxiety and yearning clenches my gut. I find myself craving his arms around me. Our embrace in the field, his tutorial on the mower… it unlocked something I’d have preferred to keep hidden away. I was perfectly happy wanting nothing from him. This, I don’t know how to navigate. This, I don’t know how to quell.

Mom clears her throat. “So, how are things?”

I shake my head. From one impossible situation to another.

“As good as they can be.” Acorns crunch under my tires as I pull into our driveway. “He’s mostly himself. There are some things he needs help with here and there. Reminders.” I think of him weeping over Lucy. Of the brightness in his face when he thought I was still in high school. I wonder absently if his brain just patched up the wounds of the last nine years by wiping them clean, and can’t help but feel a pang of envy. “Today is a good day.”

“You’re staying there to give him reminders?” She snorts. “Seems like something Lucy Parker is perfectly capable of handling on her own.”

I swallow the bile that rises in my throat. She doesn’t know, I remind myself. She doesn’t know that the person who hurt her most in the world is gone. I try to let her animosity roll off my skin, but it leaves a few abrasions behind.

“Yeah, Mom. I am.” I watch the porch swing sway in a breeze. Let the motion lull me. There’s a bag on the front doormat, next to Dad’s Converse. A delivery, maybe? “Lucy… she died. A couple years ago, from the sound of it.”

It still feels so difficult to say. I half expect that if I walked into Tru’s kitchen right this second, she’d be standing there by the sink, teeth sinking into a peach. Juice dribbling down her pointed chin. She’d wipe it away and smile at me. Ask me where I’ve been.

Mom sighs heavily. “Well, what’s that her daddy used to say? The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

My heartbeat stills. The world tilts like I’m about to be sick. I step out of the car, sucking in a breath of humid air. She’s hurting, I reason. She doesn’t mean it.

“I have to go, Mom,” I manage to squeak out. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Before she can reply, I end the call, slipping my phone back into my pocket.

There are so many types of hurt in the world, and no two of them the same. My gaze drifts toward the Parkers’ farm. I try to remind myself that I’ll never understand what my mother went through. Just like I’ll never understand why my dad did it in the first place.

I kick off my flip-flops beside my dad’s shoes and pick up the bag. The thick, white plastic sports the logo from the shoe store in the city mall. Curious, I reach inside and remove the box. I tuck the bag under my arm and turn the box over, which is how I see the note taped to the bottom.

Temptress,

These ought to fit your tiny feet, but if they don’t, let me know and I’ll exchange them. Can’t have you mowing with those cute toes hanging out.

And before you even think it, you don’t owe me a dime. But if you’re inclined to repay me, the offer for dinner still stands.

Or skinny-dipping in the river. You pick.

Sincerely,

Tru

Inside lies a pair of white Keds, just like the ones I destroyed last week in his field. I remove them from the box and discard it beside me, tucking the bag inside. Before I even slip one on, I know, but I do it just to confirm.

Size 6. A perfect fit.

Chapter Eleven

Henry

January 10th, 1997

We lurch apart, Lucy and I, landing in our respective seats on opposite sides of the cab just as the officer raps his knuckles on my window. My hands tremble against the crank as I wind it down. A gust of cold air flows in through the gap I create. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lucy tighten her jacket around herself. She’s shivering. Whether from the cold or nerves, I’m not sure. Despite the fear violently twisting my gut, I wish I could comfort her. Make her warm.

“Good evening, Officer.” I keep my head down, avoiding eye contact. Hope beyond hope that he doesn’t see the beautiful blonde in my passenger seat who most definitely shouldn’t be out this late. In a town as small as Fly Hollow, and with her father being a well-known member of the community, this guy’s bound to recognize Lucy.

“Henry Ridgefield?”

I glance up, startled, and nod. The first thing I notice is the hat he’s wearing. One of those cold-weather things with the flaps that cover the ears. The second is his expression. I haven’t had a run-in with the cops before, but I’d never have guessed that they feel particularly bad about pulling people over. This man, however, has eyes pinched at the corners and lips flatlined. The lights from his cruiser reflect in a fresh coat of tears over his irises, hiding their color.

From the cold, I’m sure.

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