Page 4 of New Hope, Old Grudges

I parked my car next to my mother’s vintage VW Bug. The same one she’d driven for years. It was metallic green. It only got up to 60 mph, and you could hear it coming from a mile away. Just another thing to set our family apart from those middle-class to upper-middle-class families in New Hope who upgraded their American-made vehicles every three years.

My father’s truck was in the detached garage, I guessed. It had been years… Maybe she’d gotten something else. Something newer, more practical, in need of less maintenance. But I knew better than that. The old Ford would be in there. The one my father restored himself. With my brother and me.

“You’re not just watching, Tittlemouse,” he said, handing me a wrench. “I’m not bringing up a girl who doesn’t know how to take care of herself. You’re gonna know how to do everything a man can do, and you’ll do it better.”His brown eyes crinkled at the sides as he winked and then kissed me on the head.

I squeezed my eyes shut at the memory. I couldn’t even see the truck right now, but I knew the fucking thing was there like the Titanic, a ghost ship lurking and waiting to haunt those stupid enough to climb aboard.

I’d have to see it. Because my mother’s Bug was not suitable for Colorado winters. I was surprised she was still driving it this late, but perhaps there hadn’t been a big enough snow yet. Soon… Soon she’d switch out vehicles and drive that truck.

The trees and bushes surrounding the house already had Christmas lights strung around them. There was no order, no uniformity. They were hung with chaos, with wild abandon. My mother loved Christmas and any and all religious holidays, despite the fact that she did not follow any organized form of religion aside from dabbling in Wicca.

The sight of the multicolored lights that illuminated the pink shutters of our cabin brought back memories of all the Thanksgivings and Christmases I’d spent at this house.

My knuckles turned white from the force I used to grip the steering wheel.

I stayed in the car for three minutes and thirteen seconds when I parked. It would’ve been longer had the door to the house not opened. I was surprised I had gotten the three minutes. Despite the early hour, my mother was up. She was amorning person.

Many of my teenage years were punctuated by her blasting Fleetwood Mac on the dusty, old record player as the sun was coming up.

I couldn’t listen to Stevie Nicks without shuddering, trying to shrug off unwanted memories of a past I’d long left behind.

Her multicolored kimono flowed behind her as she ran out the door wearing purple slippers. My mother was a purple person.

I closed my eyes for a second, trying to find the mental strength to face her and her perpetual good mood and positivity.

I didn’t find it by the time she wrenched the car door open.

“You’re here!” she shrieked, reaching over to unbuckle my seatbelt. She smelled of patchouli. My eyes watered at the smell suddenly, and I let myself be pulled out of the car into my mother’s arms. I didn’t know if she was surprised that I let her hug me for over a minute, but I was sure she was glad. My mother was naturally affectionate. She kissed us on the mouths until we were teenagers and would’ve done it to this day if we hadn’t protested.

I didn’t remember when I started shying away from my mother’s affection, when I forced the distance between us, but she never faltered. Not once.

“Let me look at you!”

She released me, and her eyes flickered over me.

I thought about what she’d see.

Stained workout clothes, expensive ones too, from when I had money. The leggings clung to what used to be my curves, but I had dropped a dangerous amount of weight since everything happened. My skin was sallow, there were likely bags under my eyes.

She clicked her tongue. “Gorgeous!” she declared, sounding as if she actually believed it. “But you must be starving. Leave the bags. We’ll get them later.” She shut my door then ushered me up the walk. “I’ve got breakfast ready for you. And hot tea. Chamomile. No coffee. Because after you eat, you’re going straight to bed.”

My mother didn’t hesitate to launch into nurturing mode. It was just her way.

I scoffed. “Mom, there’s no way I’ll be able to sleep.” Even though exhaustion painted my bones, there had been too much buzzing in my head before even stepping foot in my house for the first time since my father died.

“Nonsense,” my mother waved me off. “A full belly does wonders for a tired soul.” She spouted off fortune cookie type statements like that on an hourly basis.

I didn’t try to argue with her. I knew better.

There were too many ghosts in here for me to sleep. Full belly or not.

* * *

I woke up with a dry mouth and a disembodied mind. My heart rate skyrocketed as I took in the strange surroundings.

Except they weren’t strange

They were familiar.

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