Our Finest Hour (The Time #1)(81)

As hard as that stuff was, they are surface hurts. The worst ones are the ones deep down, the daily subjections that gnaw until they whittle me to nothing. Sometimes a girl just needs her mom, the social media posts say. My mom said… followed by whatever advice was given. Now that I’m older, my mom is my best friend, adult females declare. Or the well-meaning people and their assumption that a mother exists in my life. Of all the daily subjections, those are the worst. Because of course I have a mother. Who doesn’t? And if a person doesn’t have a mother, it’s because she died. Never because she voluntarily left.

The more I think, the angrier I feel, until my anger is the color red and the color red is filling the car. I roll down the windows to let it out. When the breeze flows through, it cools me. A little, anyway. The anger is now sharing a stage with the hurt.

I concentrate on breathing. Deep, even breaths, in and out. Claire’s little face appears. My Claire Bear.

The tiny person who saved me. She took my sad heart and brought it light and love. Now it’s easy to see how Isaac and I are meant to be. How much I needed that first hour we spent together.

I’m almost smiling when the wooden church doors swing open. Out walks a man with white hair, and a woman with white hair follows. They stand beside one of the open doors, shaking hands with everyone who walks out.

My breathing picks up. I lean forward. My hands are in my lap, my chin rests against the steering wheel.

Person after person walks out, but I don’t see her.

It’s like the Dr. Seuss book all over again. Are You My Mother?

The congregation flows onto the grass lawn. Some people go to their cars, but instead of leaving they grab things and go back to the lawn. Some have chairs, some hold bags, other’s carry things that look like food containers.

There. At the wooden doors.

My mother.

My breath catches in my throat. She’s waving her arms and smiling, like she’s telling a story, and the two old people at the exit are laughing. She walks down the steps and goes to a car. Confusion fills me for the briefest second, until logic kicks in. Of course she doesn’t still own the car she left in.

My brain moves quickly, cataloguing her every motion. Open trunk, lean one hand on trunk, run other hand along ankle, straighten, pull hair over shoulders, pick up something, close trunk. The first time I saw her I was too shocked to notice much about her, but now I see everything. How she moves, so gracefully. How she talks to every person she sees. Her smile is easy, relaxed, and it never leaves her face. Just like someone else I know.

She carries a large plastic container to an empty table, where she removes the contents and arranges them. I’d bet my life those are blueberry muffins.

And I’d be right, based upon the number of people who flock to the table. She’s laughing and picking up the box, walking back to her car. I’m hit with the memory of standing on a chair in our kitchen, stirring the batter while she dropped in the berries. She told me to fold them in, so they stay whole, then she placed her hand over mine and showed me how.

I’m out of my car. I don’t remember climbing from it, but now I’m beside it. I can see her clearly. She’s five cars away, her back to me. She’s placing the container back in the trunk.

Someone calls her name and she looks over. She shuts the trunk and takes a step.

This is my chance.

I open my mouth. No sound comes out.

She’s walking away, loose gravel being pushed aside with every step. I’m steadily losing my chance. My voice is frozen, and so are my limbs. I watch her. From my spot beside my open car door, I watch her.

She moves through people, talking and laughing. She knows everyone. And they all know her. Or at least they think they do. I wonder what story she has told them.

I watch the picnic unfold in front of me until I can’t anymore. Because now I understand.

Knowing why she left won’t change anything. Confronting her here, in front of the life she’s built for herself, won’t change anything for me. She can’t give back what she has taken away. Telling her what she’s done to me won’t give me a mother.

Nothing will.

I didn’t make her leave, just as I couldn't make her stay. Maybe it was her own ghost that propelled her out the door that day.

The best I can do now is let her be. I’ve given her enough of my past. There are other people who deserve my future. And I can think of one person in particular who deserves so much more than I’ve given him.





If life were a movie, maybe I would've looked in the rearview mirror just now. So much symbolism in that one gesture. But life isn’t a movie, and Sugar Creek doesn't need one last, lingering look.

I turn my phone back on for one minute, to tell Isaac I’m on my way home. When I do that, text messages and voicemail notifications flood my screen. Isaac calls again, just as I’m pulling over to read and listen to the messages.

“Isaac, hi.”

“Aubrey, thank god you finally turned your phone on.” Relief colors his words. “Your dad was in a hunting accident. He’s stable but…”

His words run together for a few seconds, until the fuzziness clears from my head and I can hear again.

“…Are you still in Sugar Creek? Can you come back?”

“Yes.” The word is so mixed with salty tears I can barely choke it out.