Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 78521 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78521 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
But that fact fucks up the life that I thought I wanted—that I thought I needed.
She sighs. “I made this meal. Will you please sit down and eat it with me?”
I trail my index finger over her lower lip. “Of course.”
“Have a seat, then, and open the wine, okay? I’ll serve the dinner.” She walks back to the kitchen.
When ten minutes pass and she hasn’t returned, I join her.
Chapter Forty-Five
Skye sits on the floor, her green dress nearly around her waist. Her head is in her hands, and she’s… She’s not crying, exactly. More like trying to gulp back tears.
Her meal sits on the cooktop. Steamed rice in one pot, and…
Something that’s been reduced to a rubbery consistency in the other. I inhale. The aroma isn’t the acrid scent of something that’s burned, but it’s not right.
“Skye?”
Then the tears come.
She heaves and gasps, as if she’s desperately trying to swallow them down.
But it doesn’t work.
She cries.
And it dawns on me.
I’ve never seen Skye cry before.
And it takes me back.
Back to a time when the only other woman in my life who I cared as much for—in a completely different way, of course—cried like this.
…
I was six years old when my mother came home from the hospital. She’d been gone for so long, and I missed her. I missed her so much. She was beautiful and perfect in every way, and my father… He was a shadow of himself since the fire, but at least he wasn’t drinking. He yelled a lot less when he stayed away from that stuff he called whiskey.
Benji and I were excited today, because today Momma was coming home. I had trouble sitting still because my heart was beating so fast. I couldn’t wait to see her, to tell her what had been going on, to hug her. We weren’t allowed to visit her at the hospital. Only Daddy could go.
Mrs. Nivens, the neighbor lady, stayed with us while Daddy went to the hospital to get Momma and bring her home. Mrs. Nivens had a wrinkled face and bad breath—she smoked these long cigarettes called Virginia Slims—but she made us chocolate chip cookies and let us play with puzzles as long as we wanted. And because Momma was coming home today, she let us go over to her garden and pick some roses. They were red and pink, just like the roses that burned up in the fire—they burned so badly that their petals were black. And when you touched them, they fell apart into ashes.
“Why isn’t Momma home yet?” Benji whined.
“She’ll be here soon,” Mrs. Nivens said. “Just be patient.”
Be patient? Didn’t she know I hadn’t seen my momma in months?
I shoved another cookie into my mouth when—
“Here they are,” Mrs. Nivens said. “I see your daddy pulling up now.”
I got to the door as fast as my little feet could carry me, Benji at my heels. Daddy helps Momma out of the car, and they walk toward the door. Momma is wearing a scarf around her face. Daddy said she got hurt in the fire. I remember a fireman dragging her out of the house and into an ambulance.
That was the last time I saw her.
And now I was going to see her!
Mrs. Nivens pulled Benji and me away from the door. “Give them some room.”
Room? Why would they need room?
The door opened, and—
I ran to Momma, but a gust of wind flew through the open door and blew the scarf away from her face.
And I saw a monster. I wanted to run away. I wanted to throw up. But I didn’t. Instead—
I screamed.
I screamed and I screamed and I screamed.
Momma’s face was bandaged, and the part that wasn’t was red and weird looking, like it had been twisted around and then put back together.
“You’re not Momma!”
Momma cried out. “Brady!”
Benji ran to her, grabbing her around her legs. “Momma! You’re home!”
Did he see her face? Why wasn’t he screaming?
Momma picked Benji up and hugged him. “My sweet boy.” She looked toward me. “Brady. Come see Momma.”
But I backed away.
I backed away from this woman who wasn’t my momma.
And she began to cry.
She wept, and the weeps turned into sobs, and the sobs turned into—
“Go to your room, Braden,” Daddy said. “Go to your room and wait for me.”
…
My father wasn’t a great dad, but he never laid a hand on me.
Except for that time, when I made my mother—who’d been through the hell of a fire and the pain of third-degree burns—cry.
He beat my ass.
And I deserved every bit of it.
My mother, who I miss to this day. Who I apologized to profusely later, and whose lap I sat on and realized that she was still Momma, and I still loved her just as much. Who took me in her arms, kissed the top of my head, and forgave me willingly. Who wanted only my happiness.