Page 3 of On My Side
I force myself out of bed and shrug into my marine blue bathrobe before going to the ensuite bathroom to brush my teeth and do my morning skincare routine.
When I enter the kitchen, Piper, my newly fifteen-year-old daughter, is already at the table, eyes glued to her iPad and a bowl of Reese’s Puffs in front of her.
“Morning, Pipe.” I lean down and kiss the crown of her head before playfully ruffling her hair.
She squawks and shoves my hand away. “Mom! It took me thirty minutes to get my bangs to look like this!”
“I’m sorry.” My apology is genuine. My parents never apologized when I was growing up, and it was something I promised Piper and myself she’d always get when needed. “It looks great, birdie.”
“Thanks.” Her eyes are on her iPad as she takes another bite of cereal.
I wrap my robe tighter around myself and walk to the coffee maker, scooping in my favorite French roast and pressing the button to brew, the same way I do every morning.
“Do you need a ride to school?” I ask, eyes on the coffee’s slow drip into the glass pot.
“No.” Her voice is muffled from her mouthful of Reese’s Puffs. “I’m riding my bike.”
“Sounds good. Don’t forget to text me when you get there.”
Piper groans and rolls her eyes the same way I did at her age, because fifteen is simply too old for your parents to still worry. “Mo-om.” She stretches the word to two syllables, the same way I did.
“Hey, I try to be the cool mom. I don’t check your location, but I need you to do your part, too.”
She sighs heavily. “Fine.”
“Thank you.” When I was a teenager, I rebelled against my parents to get the attention I never got from them. The only time they paid any attention to me was when I had done something bad enough to warrant their discipline. It started with little stuff, like staying out past curfew, but my attempts became more extreme over time. This is why it’s important to me that Piper knows she always has my attention, and I’m never too busy for her. I make it a point to talk to her before school, even if I worked late the night before. Not only to keep her out of trouble, but because I genuinely like the kid, and she deserves a mom who gives her all.
“Don’t forget you have OT after school!” I remind her as she pushes her chair backward, the legs making a scraping noise against the linoleum floor. Piper’s been in occupational therapy for the past decade or so, learning how to exist in a world that wasn’t made for brains like hers. She’s learned coping skills, has a sensory menu, has improved communication, and has increased her confidence when it comes to stimming or and her other autistic traits.
I turn off the coffee maker and pour it into a mug decorated with disproportionate, lopsided butterflies Piper painted in second grade.
It’s my favorite.
“I know.” She exhales a long-suffering sigh. “I’m riding to the office after my meeting with Ms. Santiago.”
I turn to her after stirring in cream and sugar, brow furrowed. “Why do you have a meeting with Ms. Santiago?” I have yet to meet Piper’s beloved music teacher, Ms. Santiago, mainly because I graduated high school with her husband and I prefer to keep that part of my life locked away in a box.
After my parents kicked me out, my great-aunt Olivia took me in. She was the exact opposite of her sister, my late grandmother, in all the best ways. I lived with her and workedat the inn for three years, until she encouraged me to move out of town to find my own way. I packed up Piper and her things and moved into a shady two-bedroom apartment in Norwalk. It was far enough away I could escape from my past, but could still frequently see Aunt Olivia. She paid for Piper’s childcare, and once she was in kindergarten, insisted on paying for me to take classes at the community college.
When Aunt Olivia got sick two years ago, against her insistence we stay where we were, Piper and I moved back into that little cottage so I could be her primary caregiver and take over her work at the inn. I dyed my naturally blonde hair auburn to blend in, and was surprised at how well it worked, how almost nobody recognized or remembered me. Once, I made eye contact with my former best friend’s dad over the produce at Stop & Shop, but by the time he did a double take, I was speed walking towards the deli. When Piper was born, I’d refused to give her my parents’ last name. Her dad was never involved, so we took Aunt Olivia’s last name instead. The Hinton name is one of love.
It’s also generic enough that Piper isn’t immediately associated with me. If someone hears or sees my name, they don’t know it’s Audrey Price, the “town whore who got herself knocked up,” as my parents lovingly referred to me.
“She wants to talk about summer plans,” Piper says breezily, putting her backpack on.
“What summer plans?”
“Exactly. She wants to make plans so I practice consistently and don’t lose my skills.”
Ever since Aunt Olivia gifted Piper a toy piano for her first birthday, she’s happiest when her fingers are dancing across the keys. I surprised her with a baby grand piano for the inn lobby last year, and despite never being able to afford formal lessons, she loves wowing the out-of-towners who frequent Port Haven in the summer. She’s self-taught, and has big dreams of being aconcert pianist. I wish I were able to provide more toward this dream, but the funds have never quite been there. She’s never complained, but I think I’ll always want her to have more.
I smile and bring my coffee to my mouth. “Sounds good, let me know what she says.”
“Yep.” My daughter puts a pair of yellow earplugs into her ears. They’re protective enough that she won’t get overstimulated by noise on her ride, but not so noise-blocking that she can’t hear what she needs to while on the road.
Piper was diagnosed with autism a few weeks after her third birthday. It was a hard diagnosis to navigate, with so much conflicting information, but after fifteen years, we’ve hit our stride. She has a routine that works for her, and occupational therapy has helped her learn ways to come with the discomfort that comes with existing. Insurance didn’t cover OT, but after researching different options, I knew that was the best fit for our family. Aunt Olivia insisted on paying, and I’ll always be grateful for her generosity.
She passed away two years ago, and I was shocked to discover she’d left me the inn and most of her money, except for the money set aside for Piper. I knew I had to do something to revive the inn and make it a success beyond the summer months.
