Page 61 of High Frequency

Like a coward, I linger in the bedroom, picking out a change of clothes, and wishing I could access the bathroom from here so I could hop in the shower without having to face Mom. Instead, I remind myself I’m a thirty-three-year-old woman and not a teenager, leave my clothes on the bed, and walk inside to face the music.

“Did you see Sully yet?”

Mom is in the kitchen doing a few dishes, and only quickly glances over her shoulder before answering.

“Briefly, yes. I went over to the house earlier to say hello to Thomas and Ama.”

“Did you see Jonas or Alex?”

I’m curious to know if they made it home yet.

“They weren’t there.”

She turns and dries her hands on the kitchen towel, then she dives into the fridge and digs a bottle of champagne out of the vegetable drawer.

“Steve got this bottle for us. He suggested we needed a good bottle so we could celebrate and hash it out at the same time.”

She sets it on the kitchen counter and starts digging through the cupboards for glasses.

These cabins are just the basics so it’s safe to say this kitchen isn’t exactly outfitted to serve Dom Perignon. I think we’re lucky Mom finds two wineglasses. While she tackles the champagne, I set two places at the table and grab our dinner from the oven.

A few minutes later we’re seated across from each other, and Mom raises her glass. I follow suit.

“To Aspen,” she toasts.

“To Aspen,” I echo, and we clink glasses.

“She is absolutely the most beautiful baby I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

I smile at Mom’s words. Of course, I agree wholeheartedly, but it’s nice to hear someone else say it.

Except, it shouldn’t come as a surprise my mother would think that. In fact, I bet Mom loved her even before she laid eyes on her.

I feel so stupid.

“Mom, I’m so sorry.”

She nods. “I know, but damn, it hurts. You’re gonna have to give me some time.”

Nothing for me to say to that, really, so I stay silent.

“What happened to us, Sloane? I remember a time we were like peas in a pod. We did everything together.”

The question is rhetorical. We both know damn well what happened.

I was sixteen, I found my mother beaten to within an inch of her life, and my dad with his brains blown out. My dad could never quite settle at home after he returned from his last deployment. He never wanted to acknowledge he likely suffered from PTSD, and it was a source of friction between my parents. His outbursts of anger became more volatile until one day the darkness took over. When he saw what he’d done to Mom, he killed himself.

The years after, I struggled with anger. I guess most of it I took out on Mom—who’d been lucky to have survived—but it was aimed at my father. Mom and I both went through counseling, both individually and together, but we never really got back to where we were before.

Any bumps we hit in our relationship took a lot of work to overcome, and I guess at some point it was just easier to minimize interaction. Mom was building a new life with Steve, my stepdad, and I was setting my own course.

“He’s been gone for seventeen years,” I point out.

There’s no need for me to explain who I’m referring to.

“I know,” she acknowledges. “And it would kill him to know after all this time we still carry the marks he left on us.”

She’s right. “We need to let him go, let the anger go.”

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