Bittersweet Homecoming (6 page)

Charlotte still holds my hand even after we’ve reached the shelter. She feels solid and warm despite how the unforeseen rain has lowered the air temperature. I had expected her hands to be rough—calloused from opening so many beer bottles—but they’re soft and smooth like I imagine the rest of her being.

She drops my hand and laughs. “Sorry. Mom instincts,” she explains.

I’m too stunned to do anything but smile in return.

Fingers that had grasped my hand so tightly now rake through slightly damp hair. When I’d seen her at the bar, her hair had been up in a loose bun, messy but attractive in an effortless kind of way. Now that her hair is damp, it’s begun to curl at her temples from the humidity.

“So much for that blow out,” she complains.

“You still look great,” I vocalize. She’s more than great; she’s breathtaking. The rain has caused her clothes to cling to her figure a little more.

Her fingers stop their futile task and her hands fall to her sides. “Thanks.”

A shrill, high-pitched shriek snaps my attention away from the lovely bartender. Children run in zigzagging patterns around the city park with their arms stretched out as if they might sprout wings and take flight. I watch Charlotte’s daughter stomp barefoot in pools of standing water.

“Do you remember ever being like that?” Charlotte speaks beside me.

“It feels like a million years ago,” I admit. “Was it supposed to rain today?”

“I’m a bartender; not the local weather girl.”

I tentatively stretch my foot beyond the protective covering. The light rain is cool on my sun-baked toes. I wiggle painted toenails and watch the water bead up on my skin.

Before I can step out fully into the rain, Charlotte is speaking again: “I’d better grab my kid and bring her home to dry out. Amelia,” she calls out sharply. “Time to go.”

I expect her daughter to put up a fight, but after one more good stomp that produces an impressive splash, she’s chasing after her mom, darting between raindrops to reach their parked car. They join hands, and I hear the joyful, high-pitched shrieks and yelps.

“Are you done being a bad feminist?” Emily, looking slightly damper than the last time I saw her, is suddenly at my side.

“Where have you been?” I ask, ignoring her question.

“Taking shelter like everyone else. You and Charlotte Johansson looked cozy,” she coyly observes.

“We were talking about the weather,” I insist.

“You owe me a hot dog.”

+ + +

I had been hopeful that maybe Emily was starting to come out of her deep depression, but as soon as we return to my dad’s house after the picnic, she retreats back to her bedroom. Lying on my bed in my room across the hallway, I can hear the floor creak and groan with my sister’s periodic footsteps, but beyond her haunted gait, the house is silent. There’s nothing on TV and there’s no wireless Internet. There’s a computer downstairs in the den with dial-up Internet, but I no longer possess the patience for the slow-crawl of buffering Internet connections.

My cell phone rotates between no service and limited bars of reception. Kambria and I haven’t spoken since I left Los Angeles. I sent her a text when my plane landed in Minneapolis and when I’d arrived in Grand Marais. She’s sent a few texts of her own, but neither of us has attempted to actually call each other. It’s the first time we’ve been in different area codes since we met.

With the time difference, it’s still early in California. Even though it’s a holiday, Kambria should just be getting off of work and probably getting ready to go out. She’s an administrative assistant by day, but at night the skirt gets shorter and the makeup more dramatic. Everyone has more than one career in Hollywood. Most people I meet are some combination of waitress/model/aspiring celebrity.

During a longer stretch of connectivity, I call her number, and on the third ring, she picks up.

“Hello?”

“Kami?” There’s unexpected loud music playing in the background, and I can’t tell if it’s even her voice because of all the noise.

“Hey, babe,” she greets affably. “How is everything?”

I sigh heavily into the phone. “A mess. My sister is a wreck, not that I blame her. I managed to get her to leave the house today for the first time since the funeral though, so I guess that’s a good sign.”

“Abs, I can’t really hear you.”

I stick a finger to the ear not pressed against my phone. “Can’t you go someplace where it’s not so loud?” I’m having a hard time hearing her, too, even though it’s silent in my bedroom.

“I’m out with some people from work. I don’t want to be rude.”

Well, you’re being rude to me.
I swallow down my annoyance.

“I’m sorry, Abs. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

We hang up, and I toss my phone on my bed. Instead of her voice calming me or reassuring me that everything is going to be okay, it’s only succeeded in aggravating me.

My relationship with Kambria isn’t much different than those I’ve been in before, and I can almost predict what’s going to happen next. Everything burns fast and hot in the beginning, but once the gestalt has worn off and someone inevitably gets bored, the relationship comes to a crash-and-burn finale. This is probably the beginning of the end.

I snap my eyes towards my bedroom door when I hear the knock. “What?” I say with probably too much heat.

My dad pokes his salt-and-peppered head inside. “I’m going down to the fireworks,” he says almost apologetically. “You want to come?”

I don’t feel like being social, but any excuse to get out of this house is welcomed.

I take a long, calming breath. “Yeah.”

With the town boundaries hugging Lake Superior, there are few spots where you can’t see the Fourth of July fireworks. The most popular place for viewing the fireworks has always been a grass-covered bluff a few hundred yards from the shoreline. It’s probably the highest point in town and therefore the best spot from which to watch the fireworks. Normally the hill is overrun with wild flowers and weeds, but the city mows the lot in the last days of June in preparation of the holiday.

By the time my dad and I show up that evening in the moments before dusk, the hilltop is crawling with families. People have already staked their claim across the grassy hill with folding chairs and blankets. Children run around with sparklers that shower bright gold flecks. A few of the older kids have roman candles that they point and shoot into the sky.

I stay close to my dad as we make our way through the concentrated crowds. He stops every few feet to talk to someone he knows, and I linger in the background, smiling and silent. Small talk with people who’ve known me all my life makes me even more anxious than Hollywood parties. Regardless of my other accomplishments, without a diamond ring on my finger or a wallet full of pictures of my kids, I’ll never feel like a real adult in this city.

“I’ve got to talk to Fred Patterson about a job,” my dad says. “Why don’t you scope out a place for us to sit?”

I nod, thankful for the task, but also dread being on my own. I do my best to survey the grassy hill for decent seats, but it’s made more difficult when I’m trying to avoid making eye contact with anyone.

“Abigail Henry,” a voice calls out.

It takes me a moment to scan the crowd for the owner of the lower-registered feminine voice, but then I see her sitting on a blanket in the grass. She’s changed out of her sundress from earlier that day and has opted for skinny jeans and a plaid button-up shirt that’s rolled up to her elbows.

I take a few steps in her direction. “Charlotte Johansson,” I respond with an easy smile. “We meet again.”

“I’m glad to see you didn’t drown in the rain,” Charlotte remarks.

“I’m resilient like that.”

“No Emily tonight?” she asks.

“Nope,” I say, shaking my head. “I was happy enough to get her out of the house for the picnic though. Baby steps.”

Charlotte pats the space beside her. “Want to sit?”

I look around at the immediate area. Nearly all of the ground space has already been claimed, and anything left is quickly being gobbled up by families with oversized blankets. “Thanks. My dad and I didn’t really come prepared.”

“I’ve got plenty of blanket,” she assures me. “And there’s no way Amelia will sit still until the fireworks start, so you’re both in luck.”

I take up an empty spot on the blanket. “How old is she?”

“Six.”

I whistle under my breath. “You have a six year old? Did you have her when you were twelve?”

“Funny,” she rolls her eyes.

I do the mental math. Charlotte’s the same age as my sister, which means she was around twenty-one or twenty-two when Amelia was born. To an outsider that might seem like a young age to be having children, but in my hometown, teenage births are the norm. Approaching my thirtieth birthday, I’m practically a spinster.

“Do you have any kids?”

“Me?” I’m not expecting the question. “No. I’m gay.”

She doesn’t blink. “That doesn’t mean you can’t have kids.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“The fireworks are supposed to be really good tonight,” she notes. “Last Fourth of July the company the city hired screwed up, so they promised a show to bring down the house this year.”

“How do you screw up fireworks?” I question.

“You light off the grand finale first.”

A loud laugh bubbles up my throat and Charlotte looks particularly pleased at my reaction.

I’m not sure how to continue the conversation, so in the absence of having something to do, I take out my phone. I’ve got full reception up on the bluff, but no messages or missed calls from Kambria. There’s a texted image from Anthony, however. He’s set up stuffed animals among my houseplants. There’s a lion and a zebra and a giraffe. I quietly laugh, but not quiet enough.

“What’s that?” Charlotte asks.

“Oh, my friend Anthony is house sitting for me, and he sent a picture. We’ve got a running joke that my houseplants are a jungle.”

She leans closer to see the screen of my phone, and the ends of her hair tickle against my bare kneecap. It’s hard to smell anything over the scent of freshly cut grass, but I can make out the sweet scent of her soap.

“Cute,” she remarks before sitting up again.

The sun has sunk deeper into the horizon, and the evening sky is darker. My dad has disappeared on me, but because of my current company, I’m strangely okay with that. I take a deep breath and exhale, feeling my stress escape with the long breath.

Tiny fireflies hover in the air, making their own fireworks display. The ones we have in Minnesota look like helicopters or Inspector Gadget buzzing through the air with that propeller coming out of his hat. I open my hand, palm facing the sky, and a firefly lands to take a break. It periodically glows and slowly opens and closes its wings as it perches on my hand.

“Isn’t it hot?”

I look up from my cupped hand to see Charlotte’s daughter, Amelia, standing in front of me. “Hot?” I repeat, not quite understanding the question.

“The bug,” the young girl clarifies, “isn’t it burning your hands?”

“Oh. No. The fire’s inside its belly,” I say.

She crouches down for a closer look. My hands remain gently curled around the insect, and its yellow-green light flashes against my skin. “Why do they light up like that?” she asks.

“It’s how they talk to each other.” I’m no entomologist, but fireflies had been a part of my childhood. I also know that male fireflies light up to attract females for mating and that some species are actually cannibals. I’m not about to try to explain that to a six year old though.

Amelia peers hard at my still cupped hands. When I carefully open them, the tiny bug doesn’t fly away.

“What is it saying?” She speaks quietly as though afraid any loud noise might cause the insect to flee.

“I’m not sure,” I say. “What do you think it’s saying?”

She tilts her ear towards my hands. ”I think it’s trying to find someone. Like a friend, maybe.”

“I should probably let it go so it can keep looking, huh?”

She nods solemnly. She looks too serious for her young age.

I open my hands the rest of the way, and the insect hovers above my palms briefly before jetting off into the night sky.

“I hope you find your friend, firefly,” Amelia calls out. We both stare up into the inky black sky, which is dotted with tiny sparks of light.

“Amelia, baby, why don’t you have a seat?” Charlotte suggests. “The fireworks are going to start soon.”

“Can I do another sparkler?” she asks.

“
One
more and then you have to sit.”

Charlotte lights the end of a metal sparkler rod and hands it to her daughter. Amelia holds it out in front of her and stares unblinking at the golden shower of sparks.

“Do you want one?” Charlotte holds the open box of sparklers in my direction.

“No thanks, I’m good.”

“You’re kind of a natural,” she observes. “Are you sure you don’t have kids?”

I’m usually even more awkward around children than I am with their parents, but like dogs that seem to sense who is allergic to them, children tend to flock to me despite my ineptitude. Sometimes I feel like I have more in common with children than I do adults.

“I’m pretty sure I would have remembered something like that.”

Once the fireworks begin, Amelia obediently sits in her mom’s lap, oohing and aahing at the fireworks as they explode overhead. It brings a smile to my face; I remember being that young and thinking Grand Marais’s fireworks were the brightest and biggest and loudest in the world. Around me people start to cheer and clap their hands when the grand finale begins. Amelia covers her hands over her ears, but her smile isn’t shaken. I periodically sneak glances at Charlotte’s profile, lit up by the glow of multicolored fireworks. They have the same smile.

The cheering and applause heightens when the sky is choked with smoke and the last of the fireworks has sputtered out, and I can’t help but join along. At the end, people around us begin to stand and gather their belongings. I stand up on legs made stiff from inactivity. I haven’t seen my dad in a while, but I’m sure he’s somewhere in the crowd, probably talking to someone about plumbing or electrical outlets.