Bittersweet Homecoming (19 page)

“I don’t know—
I told you so
?”

“I’ve got to get to work.” My dad drains the rest of his coffee and folds his portion of the newspaper.

“Really?” I practically yell.

My reaction has my dad looking wildly uncomfortable. He’s never been good with excessive emotions, which is problematic when raising two girls on your own. “You girls talk,” he says. “You’ll figure this out.”

He leaves Emily and me in the kitchen without another word. The front door opens and closes, followed by the sound of his old pickup truck’s engine starting.

Emily stands and begins to clear her breakfast dishes. “We’re obviously disappointed, Abby, but you’re a grown up. You make your own decisions, even if they suck.”

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“Do you still want to break up with her?” Emily asks.

I look toward the staircase and the silent second floor. Unless I wake her up, Kambria won’t be awake for hours. Even without the time zone difference, she’s never been an early riser. “Yes. But how? And when?”

“As shitty as it would be to break up with her right now after she’s come all this way to see you, it would be even more cruel to pretend that everything is okay only to break her heart when you get back to Los Angeles.”

I release a long, exhausted sigh. “I know you’re right. But it’s not going to be easy, regardless of when I tell her. God,” I lament. “Why couldn’t she have just gotten my voicemails?”

“Are you going to tell her about Charlotte?”

I regard my sister. I haven’t told her the details of what’s transpired between Charlotte and me these past few days. I’ve been more absent than usual around the house though, combined with my late-night visit, so she’s probably put the pieces together. I don’t mind that as much, but thinking that my dad might know is embarrassing.

“I don’t know. Would you want to know?”

Emily pauses, thoughtful and reflective. “No,” she decides. “I don’t think I’d want to know. And I don’t think it really matters; it’s not like you and Charlotte have a future together.”

Emily’s words provoke a knee-jerk reaction. “You don’t know that.”

“Be reasonable, Abby. She has a kid. You don’t mess around with single moms. Even I know that.”

I leave Emily in the kitchen before we can start a fight and climb the stairs to the second floor. The door to my bedroom is closed. I slowly turn the handle until I hear the latch click open. The door mercifully opens without sound. One of the advantages of living in a craftsman’s house is that door hinges are always well oiled and screws and nails are securely fastened.

Kambria sleeps on her stomach in my childhood bedroom. It’s strange seeing her in this setting, surrounded by the material objects of my past. She doesn’t belong here.

I turn to leave, but the wooden floorboards give me away.

Kambria’s breathing changes and she makes a low noise. Heavy eyelashes flutter open and piercing blue eyes settle on me.

“Hey. I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep,” I quietly urge. “It’s still early.”

“Will you come to bed with me?” She pulls the covers back.

“I’m sorry. I can’t. Dad’s house, Dad’s rules.” He’s gone for the day and probably wouldn’t care even if he was home, but Emily’s right; I can’t pretend like everything is okay. I have to yank off the Band-Aid.

After I’ve had my breakfast.

When I come back downstairs, Emily remains seated at the kitchen island, surrounded by the broken pieces of a toaster oven and a bread maker. I can feel her eyes on me, but I head directly for the refrigerator.

“If you’re looking for the milk, I used the last of it.”

“I’ll go get more,” I offer.

Emily regards me with clear skepticism. “You’re not trying to avoid someone upstairs, are you?”

“Yes, I am.” I’m not going to deny it. “Before I get a lecture, I’m going to talk to her,” I vow. “But she’s still sleeping, so there’s no need for me to be around until she gets up.”

Emily shakes her head, looking displeased. “If you say so.”

I leave the house with a promise to my sister that I’ll be right back. I’m only supposed to be gone long enough to pick up a gallon of milk, but it’s not my fault that dairy products are at the back of the grocery store and that I’m tempted to throw other things into my cart that we don’t really need—at least that’s the lie I tell myself as I leisurely stroll up and down each aisle of the downtown grocery store.

I’m so focused on avoiding Kambria that it never crosses my mind that Grand Marais only has one grocery store. Everyone in the area does their food shopping here—including Charlotte Johansson.

I see her when I’m standing in front of the bakery counter. She’s talking to the man who works in the meat department. Her oversized tank top nearly hides her cutoff jean shorts, and I have a sinking feeling that I might be the reason for the sunglasses she wears inside.

Amelia pushes their shopping cart, even though she can barely see over the cart’s handle. She’s clearly dressed herself this morning—a puffy pink skirt that looks like a ballet tutu and an orange tank top paired with her favorite green rain boots. The color combination reminds me of rainbow sherbet.

When Charlotte turns away from the bratwurst and ground chuck, I duck behind a display rack stacked high with hot dog and hamburger buns.

“Who are you hiding from?” a voice asks me. I look away from mother and daughter to see my old friend Julie staring at me. A grocery basket hangs from her arm. “Or is there an incredible sale on bread that I’m missing?”

I stand a little straighter, but I don’t come out completely from behind the bread display. “Charlotte Johansson.” There’s no point in trying to deny what I’m doing.

When Julie scans the store, I snag her by the elbow and pull her behind the bakery rolls with me. “Don’t stare,” I hiss.

There’s an amused smile on my friend’s face. “Why are you hiding from her? Did you give a bad review of her bar on Yelp?”

“Worse,” I say through gritted teeth.

There’s a puzzled look on Julie’s face before realization settles on her features. “You and she didn’t—”

I nod grimly.

“I didn’t know she—”

“Neither did I.”

“But don’t you have a—”

“Who showed up unannounced last night at Roundtree’s.”

Julie whistles, long and low. “That’s enough heat to keep the town gossips warm all winter long.”

I feel suddenly panicked. “You can’t tell anyone, Jules. Not a soul.”

I don’t worry about my own reputation in Grand Marais, but Charlotte’s got enough to deal with without the whispers and disapproving stares.

She holds up her hands in retreat. “Okay, okay,” she insists. “Not a word.”

My shoulders sag under the weight of guilt. “I really screwed up. I like her
so
much. I should have been honest with her from day one.”

“Charlotte’s tough. She’s been through worse than you.”

“That’s what makes it even worse. Now I’m just another jerk on a long list of jerks.”

Julie pats my shoulder, albeit rather awkwardly. “It’s kind of refreshing to know that lesbians can be just as bad as men.”

“You’re welcome,” I deadpan.

Emily’s still sitting at the kitchen counter when I get back to the house, and there’s no sign of Kambria yet.

“Have you moved since I left?” I ask.

“Did you forget the milk?” she counters.

My hands are empty. Not wanting to risk running into Charlotte in the checkout line, I abandoned my shopping cart and the food inside of it.

“They were all out.”

Emily gives me one of her patented disapproving stares. She purses her lips and lifts one eyebrow. Thankfully, before she can launch into the lecture that I’m sure she’s been holding back all morning, my dad’s landline rings.

Emily picks up the cordless phone in the kitchen. “Hello?”

“Who is it?” I ask. For some reason, the phone call makes me nervous. Maybe Charlotte saw me at the grocery store. I doubt she would call the house since she has my cell number, but I can’t keep from both hoping and dreading that she’ll eventually reach out to me.

“It’s Dad,” she says, hand over the receiver. “He’s at Emma Bernstein’s house and needs a tool from the shop.”

“I’ll get it,” I immediately volunteer.

“Do you even know what an air compressor looks like?”

“I’ll Google it.”

Emma Bernstein lives near my dad’s house, but it takes some time to drive into town to the hardware store and then back out to the worksite. As I park in the long concrete driveway in front of Mrs. Bernstein’s house, I get a call from my dad’s landline. It’s probably Emily, and I’m not in the mood for one of her lectures or reminders that Kambria is at the house. I’m well aware of that fact. I answer the call anyway though in case my dad forgot he needed something else.

“Where are you?” It’s Kambria, not my sister. “I just got up, and your sister said you’d left.”

“My dad needed me to pick up a tool for him.” I don’t mention that it’s the second time of the young morning that I’ve left on an errand.

“When will you be back?” she asks.

“I don’t know. My dad might need me to stick around or go get more tools for him.”

“I was hoping you’d give me the grand tour today. I want to see where you grew up.”

“There’s really not much to see,” I insist. “A few stores downtown and the lake; that’s about it.”

“That bar last night seemed fun. We should go back tonight.”

Worst idea ever.
I make a noncommittal noise.

“What am I supposed to do while you’re going?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why are you acting like this? I came all this way to see you.”

“I never asked you to do that. This isn’t a vacation for me.”

“But I missed you. And I didn’t know when you were coming home.”

“All you needed to do was pick up the phone and call me.”

“I told you I lost my phone,” she huffs.

“You couldn’t buy a new one? You couldn’t borrow a friend’s phone long enough to call me and let me know what was happening?”

I’m irrationally angry and taking out my frustration with myself on her. It’s not fair, and I know it.

She hangs up on me or my cell phone loses reception, but whichever one it is, I don’t call her back.

I find my dad in Mrs. Bernstein’s garage. He’s using a turned over five-gallon bucket as a chair.  

“I got your air compressor doohickey,” I announce as I walk in.

“Thanks. You find it okay?”

“Yup.”

He stands and begins moving things around, tools and sheets of pink insulation and drywall.

“Can I help you with something?”

He gives me a quick glance. “Shouldn’t you be hanging out with your girlfriend?”

“Maybe I’d rather spend time with you,” I deflect. “I can see Kambria all the time when we’re back in Los Angeles.”

“I thought you two were breaking up.”

“We—I … yeah.” There’s a stray construction nail on the concrete and I kick at it.

“I’m not good at this sort of thing.”

“Me either.”

“I’ve gotta do some finishing work in the garage’s attic space. Why don’t you hold the ladder for me and hand me tools when I ask for them?”

“I can do that,” I say, happy for the task. “What does the air compressor do?”

My dad climbs up a tall ladder and disappears through a small square opening in the ceiling. “It powers the nail gun so I don’t have to be plugged into a wall. Emma doesn’t have power out here.”

I stand at the base of the ladder and stare up through the cutout in the ceiling. “Mrs. Bernstein seems nice,” I remark. She had been a bank teller at the bank for as long as I could remember. Her husband died of an early heart attack a number of years ago and she’d never remarried. “Is she dating anyone?” I’d often thought she and my dad would make a cute couple, but I’m no matchmaker. I can’t even handle my own love life.

“How would I know?” my dad’s disembodied voice replies.

I lean against the ladder, resting my weight on it. “Doesn’t everybody know everybody else’s business in this town?”

“I do my best to keep out of that. Not worth the time or the trouble. Son of a … Mother puss bucket.”

My dad doesn’t swear. So when I hear the string of near expletives, I know something’s wrong.

“Dad?” I call up the ladder. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just put a nail through my hand.” His voice is so calm and matter-of-fact that I think he’s kidding.

The ladder shakes as my dad gingerly descends from the attic. When he’s near the bottom rung, I notice he’s holding his right hand close to his chest.

“Holy shit, Dad. There’s a nail in your hand!” I exclaim.

“That’s what I said.” Same no nonsense tone.

I usually do okay with the sight of blood and minor injuries, but there’s something about the way the carpenter’s nail looks protruding from my dad’s hand that turns my stomach.

“What do you need me to do?” I ask with heightened urgency.

“Well, I suppose you can drive me to the doctor.”

Grand Marais is tiny, but the drive from Emma Bernstein’s house to the walk-in clinic on the far side of town feels like it takes forever. Periodic glances towards my father who sits in the passenger side of my rental car has me swerving erratically across the center median.

My father’s mouth forms a permanent grimace and the color has drained from his face. Beads of sweat collect at his temples and near his hairline. “I’d like to make it to the doctor’s in one peace, Abby,” he says in an overly calm voice.

“Right. Sorry.”

I park out front and rush into the clinic before my dad. “I need some help,” I announce to anyone who’ll listen. “My dad’s got a nail in his hand.”

The hospital staff at the reception desk, all two of them, slowly look in my direction. Everything feels like it’s going in slow motion, but also too fast. The automatic doors open behind me, and my dad lumbers inside the hospital, holding his injured hand close to his chest.

A woman in light blue scrubs steps out from behind the front desk. “What’s the problem, Jerry?”