Page 5 of New Hope, Old Grudges

Too familiar.

Nancy Drew books on the shelf,Twilightposter on the wall, journals bursting with sketches still piled on my sage-green dresser that had hand-painted wildflowers all over it.

I was here.

New Hope.

My home.

The urge to throw back the covers and sleep for the rest of time was overwhelming. But I could smell food cooking, and my stomach grumbled loudly. I’d tried to eat my mother’s food when I first arrived, but I’d been falling asleep at the plate. She’d quickly ushered me to my old bedroom where I didn’t even remember falling asleep.

When did I last eat? A gas station donut? A hundred miles ago? More?

Although I was pretty down, I wasn’t about to go on a hunger strike. My lack of sustenance was a result of lack of funds not will to live.

I squinted around the room and at the darkness that came from the crack in the curtain. I’d slept all day.

Great. If only I could sleep through the rest of my days here, then I’d be golden.

I pushed back the covers and frowned at my suitcase. It was open. And empty. My mother had been in here. Not just watching me sleep—as she had done regularly into my teens despite my continued protests—but unpacking my bags.

I swallowed the fire in my throat. It was a breach of privacy, but my mother didn’t really believe in privacy. Beyond that, it was a sign she knew I was going to be staying a while. Because I had nowhere else to go.

It took a lot of effort to support my own weight as that thought hit me, but I did it. Falling to my knees now wouldn’t achieve anything. So I changed out of my dirty clothes into some sweats then padded down our hall in sock-covered feet.

The cold outside was nowhere to be found in this house. It had always been warm, always smelled of home cooking, everything was soft, inviting and welcome, if a little chaotic. Pictures on the wall were always a little off-center, always a little askew. Rugs and pillows were mismatched. Crystals were cluttered on various surfaces, a rogue Tarot deck beside a half-burned candle or a nude woman figurine.

All my mother.

But my father still remained. Dog-eared biographies on Abe Lincoln and histories of countries like Rhodesia. His reading glasses sat on the coffee table as if he were just going to walk past and pick them up.

My mother had done nothing to communicate that the man had died two years ago.

“Oh, brilliant timing.” My mother appeared from the kitchen, her hair escaping in tendrils from the messy bun on top of her head. She did not follow the doctrine that women of a certain age should suddenly cut their hair short and dress conservatively. Her hair was long and flowing, wild, and she wore the same things she always did. Today it was a long, flowing skirt, cowboy boots and a chunky knit—all varying shades of purple. Chains hung from her neck. All of them mine.

Another punch to the chest.

“I made eggplant lasagna,” she declared. “It’s vegan. If you don’t count the cheese. Or the beef.” She winked. My mother toyed on and off with the idea of being a vegan because she certainly agreed with all of their principles, but she also loved a medium-rare steak.

My stomach growled as I looked at the steaming dish on the dining room table. Candles were lit, illuminating the cozy space. The table was long, made of reclaimed wood and surrounded by mismatched vintage chairs. It was always full.

Except now. Two plates were set—plates handmade by my mother, of course—along with two glasses and a bottle of wine in a decanter.

Another punch.

My mother’s eyes followed mine to the table. In that way of hers, she seemed to guess what I was thinking.

“Your brother wanted to be here,” she straightened the knife on the setting in front of her. “But he’s working late.”

That was bullshit, and we both knew it. I hadn’t spoken to Harry in two years, not since that horrible phone call. He hated me. Rightfully so, I guessed. I’d made my peace with it.

Or I’d thought I had. My throat burned slightly as my eyes found a framed photo of us, much younger, arms around each other, grinning wildly. I barely recognized myself, the frizzy hair, the glasses, the acne. No, that’s not true. I recognized her all too well. I still saw that girl in the mirror every day.

“That’s fine. I’m sure he’s busy.” I shrugged, keeping up the charade. My mom may have been naïve in many ways, but I was sure even she understood the rift that I’d created and just how permanent it was.

Her eyes glistened for a beat, communicating a sadness that was hard for me to witness. Luckily, my mother was not one to wallow.

“Sit,” she clapped her hands together before pulling out a chair. “You look starving, and your aura is all off … understandably.” For a split second, there was pity in my mother’s gaze. But only for a second before she covered it with a warm smile. “Nothing that good food and a decent amount of wine can’t fix.” She winked at me again.

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