Page 72 of The Cost of Forgetting You

Her smile softens. She trains her gaze on me, watching for my reaction to her words. “Anyway, I think you should be honest with yourself, and be honest with Truett. I imagine your parents, and mine too, would’ve spared a lot of people so much pain if they’d done that.”

A stone sinks in my chest, weighing me down. I part my lips to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.

She leans forward, places a hand on mine, and offers one of those half smile, half frown expressions that says, I know it sucks, but I’m here with you, in a way that fits right into the hollow of my heart.

“Thank you,” I manage to force out.

She pats my hand. “What are friends for?”

I’ve grown so accustomed to getting my mother’s voicemail that it takes me a few seconds to realize she’s answered when I call her on my way home from the cafe.

“Hello? Delilah, can you hear me?” She scoffs. “Godforsaken town with its shitty cell service.”

“I can hear you,” I interject. Early afternoon sunlight filters through the canopy of oaks overhead as I drive down the main road through town, creating a kaleidoscope on my dash. I retrieve my sunglasses from the center console and slide them into place. “Sorry, I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“And why not?” Her tone is tight. Poised for an argument I wasn’t prepared to have. Hell, I wasn’t even prepared for a conversation.

“I don’t know, Mom. You just haven’t lately, I guess.” I don’t want to go home with her on the phone. Not when Dad’s awake to hear every reply. I flick my blinker, then take a turn down a winding dirt road that leads to another access point for the river that flows through Truett’s farm. Groves of dense forest line either side, broken up every so often by double-wide trailers painted varying shades of washed-out beige.

“You haven’t either,” she retorts.

Because you call in the middle of the night, I want to say, but I grind my teeth over the unspoken answer. Mom has always been a night owl. Sometimes she’d climb the stairs to my floor at two in the morning, tiptoe into my bedroom, and shake me awake just to talk about the movie she finished, like I wasn’t dead asleep moments ago.

So often it felt more like we were two college students sharing a too-big apartment rather than a mother and a daughter. I wonder if she was trying to recreate an experience she never really got to have. I know she was a freshman in college when she got pregnant with me and moved to Alabama to marry my dad. How much did she miss because of me? How much did she give up?

Sympathy stretches my impatience out like taffy, working it into something more malleable. More forgiving.

A wooden bridge appears in a break in the trees ahead. I slow, pulling into a small dirt parking lot. There are only a few other cars right now, but come Saturday, the road leading here will be lined with cars overflowing the lot. It’s a popular spot to swim on sweltering summer days. I crack my window, and the sound of children splashing in the river filters in.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’ve just had a lot on my mind.”

I hear a door close on her side, followed by a wrapper being split open. The image of her raiding our pantry for a pack of Veggie Straws fills my mind, the familiarity of it tugging at my heart.

“What’s been going on?” she asks around a mouthful of her favorite snack. I smile at her predictability. Sometimes I wonder if I know her better than she knows herself.

That thought triggers something in me. A reminder of Truett’s words, and the truth he hinted at but wouldn’t explain. On impulse I decide to ask Mom, hoping someone in my life can shed a little light on things. “I’ve been spending time with Truett?—”

“Lucy’s son? I didn’t think you wanted anything to do with him after?—”

“Yes.” I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I mean, no. I didn’t. He was helping out with Dad before I came back.” I’m toeing the edge of honesty, staring down from this precarious ledge. For reasons I don’t look too closely at, I want to keep parts of him to myself. Who he’s grown up to be. The moment we shared in the kitchen. But there are things he hinted at, things I need to understand, that push me over the edge. “He said some things about the affair, and I just feel like there’s so much I don’t understand. I was wondering if you could help.”

She laughs. It’s a harsh, painful sound. My hand flutters to my throat like I can soothe her ache.

“What’s there to understand? Your dad cheated. That bitch was always prowling around, and she finally got what she wanted. They didn’t even have the decency to do it in private, for Christ’s sake.” Her voice grows louder, more heated with every word. She sucks in a shaky breath and adds, “I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but God help me if that isn’t karma.”

A tear snakes beneath the rim of my sunglasses. Falls down my cheek. I shake my head, knowing she can see me about as well as she can understand how much it hurts for her to talk about someone I loved that way. Someone I lost, too. Which is to say, not at all.

“Was that night the first time that something happened between him and Lucy?”

“Why? What have you heard?”

“Nothing.” I sigh heavily, but it relieves none of the weight in my chest. “It just doesn’t make any sense. Why would Dad cheat out of the blue? I know you two didn’t always get along?—”

“We got along fine.”

I bite my cheek, allowing the searing pain to clear the fog of annoyance. Denial is a stage of grief, I suppose. Is it possible that she’s still grieving her relationship with Dad after all this time? Before, I would’ve said it’s unlikely. But maybe my absence has brought it all back into focus. “Right. But was something going on that you guys didn’t tell me? Were you two fighting?”

“Why can’t you believe that your father did something bad without accusing me of causing it, huh? You’ve always worshipped him, but he’s not perfect either, Delilah.”

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