A Mother's Homecoming (6 page)

He only knew one thing about her absolutely. Pam had given him Faith, for which he would always be grateful. And he wouldn't breathe easy again until Pam left Mimosa.

By the time AA ended, the sun had fully set. The bob-whites that had been singing when Pam had parked her car an hour ago had been replaced with the harmonious buzz of insects and the low hoot of a distant owl. Even though it was dark, she'd decided to visit Mae's grave. The idea had come to her during the meeting, when she'd been thinking what a waste it was that alcoholism was probably the strongest bond she and Mae had ever shared. She knew that if she waited until morning, Ed or Julia would probably insist on coming with her, wanting to be there for her, but she preferred to do this alone.

Pam had seen big, formal cemeteries before that were gated and locked up after a certain hour. But Mae had been buried in the small patch of graveyard alongside the old Baptist church, which had been a one-room schoolhouse many decades before and had gradually lost a fair amount of its congregation to newer churches in the area. Anyone could park at the church and walk between the headstones.

The uneven parking lot was empty at this hour, and Pam pulled up as close as she could to the edge of the cemetery. She climbed out of the car, leaving her
headlights on for illumination. The headstones closest were the ones that had been there longest, so she automatically went to the back row, looking for a stone not so weathered by time. Even though she had to squint to read it, she made out her mother's name. Mae Danvers Wilson, Mother and Sister.

Pam swallowed, turning the words over in her head—especially the “mother” part. “You weren't much good at it,” she said candidly. The sentiment might be disrespectful of the dead, but it was still true. “Wherever you are now, I hope you know I came back. I wanted to see you.”

The odds weren't good that they would have hugged it out and gone on to be lifelong friends, but whatever happened would have been better than
this,
this piercing sense of incompleteness. This hollow feeling of unfinished business was a major reason she'd agreed to Nick's request this afternoon. Pam wasn't worthy of being anyone's mom—she hadn't even been sober a full year—but if letting Faith meet her would give the girl any kind of closure, then her daughter deserved it.

“Your granddaughter's beautiful,” Pam said. Seeing that school picture had been a jolt, like banging a funny bone against a doorjamb. Tingly and painful all at once. Pam almost envied Mae for the years she'd spent in Mimosa, theoretically able to watch Faith from afar. Truthfully, though, Pam doubted her mother had crawled out of the bottle long enough to care that she was a grandmother. And Pam knew without a doubt that the Shepards never would have let Mae, who'd disowned Pam and hadn't even attended the wedding, anywhere near Faith.
Rightfully so.
Faith should be protected from selfish, destructive alcoholics.

Pam took a deep breath. “I'm trying to forgive you,
Mom. Some days I'm better at it than others. I wish things could have been different.” She stopped, then felt foolish, as if she were waiting for a response she knew would never come. “I don't know how long I'll be in Mimosa, but I'll come back again. I'll bring flowers next time.”

Blinking against the glare of the headlights, Pam made her way back to the car. Flowers would help alleviate the grimness of the stark, simple stone.
Mae Danvers Wilson, Mother and Sister.
If Pam had somehow killed herself during the worst of her drinking, she wouldn't even have had that much to claim. She'd never had a sister and she'd completely forfeited her right to be a mother. Still, she thanked God that she'd realized something was unnaturally wrong with her in time, that she hadn't stuck around to damage her own daughter. She wanted Faith to grow up secure in Nick's love and the adoration of all the Shepards; she never wanted
her
daughter to be the one standing in a dark cemetery with decades worth of bad memories and self-doubt.

“S
TRUCTURALLY SOUND
, but needs a lot of work. And a lot of love.”

Pam slanted Ed a sidelong glance.
Is he talking about the house or me?
As a guest in her aunt and uncle's home for the last couple of days, she'd realized there was a lot more to the man than she'd guessed. As a teen, she'd viewed him as the henpecked, somewhat simpleminded husband of an overbearing woman. But this week she'd witnessed the subtle affection between the couple. Also, she'd learned that while Uncle Ed didn't talk much, his words often carried more than their superficial meaning.

The man was eerily insightful. She suspected that
when she'd said she was going out for a drive to see how the town had changed, he'd somehow known she was going to an AA meeting at a nearby church. Pam had been slow to broach the subject with them because Julia was still so obviously upset by her late sister's drinking and alcohol-related death.

Ed turned off the car. “Your inheritance awaits.”

They'd met with the attorney this morning, and Pam was the proud owner of one forlorn, neglected house.
Last week, all I had to my name was the car, and now I'm a regular land baron.
Oh, yeah, things were looking up.

Uncle Ed had discreetly handed her a check for “miscellaneous” costs, like taxes, realty fees and maintenance. But from where she stood, this place needed more than “miscellaneous” repair.

“That additional money you gave me wasn't from Mae,” she said as they exited the car. “You tried to make it sound that way, as if you were just holding it in trust for me as executors of the ‘estate.' But there's no way she had that much.”

“The money's for you, from family who want to help. Who would have been helping all along if we'd had the opportunity. Don't worry, our savings are in good shape.” He shook his head. “I had no idea how well your aunt was going to do with her jewelry-making and craft shows.”

“I appreciate the help,” Pam said softly. It would have been less humbling to turn the check down, but she'd learned the value of accepting assistance.

“It's up to you, of course, how you spend it. You could try to buy a listing for the property and sell the place as-is … or you could invest some time and cash
and ask a much better price. Isn't that what they call ‘flipping' a house?”

“Mmm.” She didn't know much about house-flipping, but she was pretty sure no one who was good at it would have picked this particular home. It didn't offer some of the amenities that were considered standard on newer houses—like a garage—and it wasn't part of a neighborhood where it could be buoyed by adjacent property values. But she was basing her low expectations on a cursory inspection of the house's exterior. The inside might be more promising.

Then again.
A few minutes later, Pam stood in the kitchen, reevaluating. The inside sucked.

“It could be worse,” Uncle Ed said from behind her.

“Oh, there's a ringing endorsement. I think that's how the property listing should read.” Although now that she thought about it, the house might not even qualify for a listing. Didn't houses have to pass certain minimal inspections before they could legally be sold? She didn't think the walls were full of asbestos, but it was apparent from the damaged patches in the ceiling that the roof needed work. There were definite plumbing issues, too, from the minor problem that faucets caked with mineral deposits would need to be replaced to the less minor news from Uncle Ed that tree roots had grown through some of the underground pipes. Carpeting and windows needed to be replaced. Vents and ducts needed to be professionally cleaned.

Appearance-wise, the kitchen was the most depressing. The damaged tiles and hollowed-out section of counter told a story of a dishwasher that had leaked water all over the floor and had eventually been removed, but never replaced. Ugly colored paint was
peeling off the cabinets, and one or two of the cabinet doors had become so warped they no longer closed properly.

Pam's lungs constricted in a moment of panicked defeatism.
Mae's parting gift … I always knew she hated me.

“It's doable,” Ed said, his quiet voice firm. There was something hushed about the rooms around them that encouraged whispering, like a library. Or a haunted house. “It will be hard, sure, but you've survived much harder, haven't you?”

She studied him, temporarily distracted from the two-bedroom, one-and-a-half-bath albatross around her neck, wondering how much he'd intuited about her. “How do you know my life hasn't been all rainbows and rose petals?” she joked weakly.

“We took my car today because you weren't sure yours would start. And your aunt Julia, who has only been outside the state of Mississippi a half-dozen times, owns an entire matched set of floral upholstered suitcases, while your luggage seems to consist of backpacks and recycled grocery bags. You look like you haven't eaten in a year, and your eyes …” He trailed off, and she didn't press him for more grim detail. She wasn't sure she wanted to hear it.

“Busted. It hasn't been all rose petals,” she confirmed. “Although, for a while, I did try to find rainbows at the bottom of beer steins and shot glasses. I'm an alcoholic.”

He nodded. “Runs in your family. Your great-grandfather and great-uncle both were.”

“I didn't know that.” She'd grown up painfully aware that her mother had a problem—the entire town had
known Mae had a problem—but she'd never questioned whether previous relatives had shared the same vices.

“You got it under control?” he asked.

“For now.” To assume that she had it under control permanently, or to pretend there weren't days she struggled, would be worse than arrogance; it would be stupidity.

“You planning to tell your aunt?”

With Aunt Julia being a devout teetotaler—literally—the subject might never occur naturally in her house. “Eventually, I guess. It's not that I'm trying to lie to her, it's just difficult.”

Ed patted her shoulder. “Let me know what I can do to help. Now, about the hinges on these cabinets …”

Having dispensed with personal conversation, they spent the next forty minutes cataloguing and discussing the house's many flaws and few attributes—the wiring was in good shape, and both the bedrooms had ceiling fans.

“If you didn't want to sell the house outright,” Ed began as she locked the front door, “you could always rent it to someone. That would keep it in the family. And if you wanted to partially furnish it, I know someone who could get you some great discounts.” He winked.

She smiled fondly at him, knowing that his owning a furniture warehouse was how Julia had managed to afford many of her favorite pieces. “Thank you. It's a generous offer, but I don't think I'm landlord material.” If she rented out the house, it would become an ongoing responsibility, a tether to a place she didn't want to be. “No, I'm going to fix it up, then sell.”

“Either way, we get to enjoy your company for a while.” Ed glanced from her to the house. “Repairs of
this magnitude could take weeks. Months, depending on how much you tackle yourself and how much we delegate. Why don't you spend the next day or so putting together a list of what you want to accomplish? Then I can recommend places or people to use. I'd offer to roll up my sleeves and help you get started this weekend, but I promised to drive your aunt up to Rowlett for a jewelry expo on Saturday. You're welcome to come with us.”

“Thanks, but I have a previous engagement. Dawn offered to do my hair at the salon.” Which was entirely true. But there was also the far scarier appointment to meet Faith on Saturday. Nick had insisted they wait until the weekend, instead of throwing something potentially upsetting at his daughter in the midst of her school week. Far from resenting the delay, Pam applauded his paternal vigilance. Maybe, given the extra time, he'd come to his senses and cancel the meeting altogether.

But she rather doubted it.

“H
OW DO
I
LOOK
, D
AD
?”

Nick raised his eyes from his laptop and the monthly bills he'd been paying to find his daughter in the doorway. She'd braided her hair and was wearing a baggy T-shirt printed with the logo of one of her favorite bands over a pair of black jeans. Before he had a chance to say anything, Faith sighed.

“Too teenager, right? Jeans and a T-shirt, ultimate cliché. I have a pair of capris clean, but they were
eulcgh.
” She demonstrated her distaste for said capris with a derisive, phlegmy sound. She blushed, adding quickly, “Not that I'm worried about impressing her! I
don't care what her opinion is. You think a skirt? Yeah, probably a skirt.”

Despite any momentary bravado about “not caring,” Nick knew Faith was far too emotionally invested in a single milk shake date. He hoped she had realistic expectations about the outcome. He forced himself to keep a light tone rather than reissue any of the cautionary reminders he'd been giving since she'd learned her mother was in town. “Fashion advice from the old man, huh? So I'm like your Michael Garcia now.”

Judging from her vacant stare, his analogy hadn't been as fitting as he'd hoped. “Isn't he one of the judges from that runway show you watched over the summer?” He'd come home from work a couple of times to find her and Morgan engrossed in a marathon of repeats.

She threw him a pitying look. “Close, but no. Do I have time to go change?”

He was torn between telling her to take all the time she needed and urging her to hurry; the longer they left Pam sitting there all alone, the greater the chance she might talk herself into bolting.

“Go put on whatever you'll be most comfortable in,” he advised his daughter, “but do it fast. I know how you hate being late.”

A few minutes later, Faith spun back into the room in a brightly patterned top and denim skirt. Somewhere along the way, she'd also pulled the braid loose; her long hair was still kinked into ripples where it had been plaited together. “Ready,” she sang.