Sweet Forty-Two(77)

I couldn’t tell him I didn’t want his help anymore with the bakery. He seemed so happy when he was in the kitchen, and it was a constant reminder of why I loved being there in the first place. And, opening the bakery was something I was genuine in wanting. He was the only person who would let me go at my pace.

Then there was that f*cking letter.

I shouldn’t have read it. I wish he hadn’t shown me. I knew all of it, but to see it outside of the folklore of Rae: former girlfriend was overwhelming. It wasn’t her words or her character that so cheerfully bubbled through the ink that got to me. It was that she so certainly laid everything bare for him. I know they never said those words together, but reading her note and hearing stories from him, I knew they were a real couple. The kind that talked about things and then worked through them.

That was nothing I could ever live up to, even if I wanted to. I wanted to, but didn’t want to want to.

I pulled into my mother’s driveway right when my mind started somersaulting down a hill. The rain hadn’t been this heavy in as long as I can remember, and I knocked louder than necessary just to be able to hear the sound.

My mom came to the door looking better than she had in days. Her recovery time between shock treatments was getting better, easier to manage. She was looking more like herself than I’d seen her in years, which was good since I was a total mess and needed her like I hadn’t needed her in just as long.

“What’s wrong?” she shrieked and pulled me in out of the rain.

The door shut behind me as I buried my face into her shoulder.

“I’m in big trouble, Mom.”

In that moment I was thankful for gravity, because there was nothing else holding me to the Earth as every piece of strength I thought I had seeped from my eyes and onto my mother’s freshly pressed blouse.





“That’s quite a story.” My mom brought me a fresh cup of hot chocolate as I finished telling her the Regan and Rae love story, and the Regan and Georgia tragedy in the making.

I looked into the swirling mini marshmallows, my eyes swollen with tears.

“What are you afraid of, Georgia?”

“Hurting him,” I answered before I could craft something witty.

“I don’t understand. From what you’ve told me, you two have an easy relationship. You’re friends, you each have your own interests but are interested in each other’s, respectively. What’s the holdup?”

I took a deep breath; it tripped over lingering tears, but satisfied me just the same. “The women in our family don’t really get happy endings, Mom. Grampa killed himself and with him, took Gram’s chance at one, and you...”

“You don’t think I’ll get a happy ending?” Her eyes pinched at the edges, clearly hurt.

“I meant you and dad. He was a drunk and then you had...”

“Georgia, your father and I—”

“Had alcoholism and schizophrenia as supporting characters in your love story. How romantic. Regan doesn’t seem to have any discernible mental illness, so I won’t be robbed of a happy ending like Gram, but given my genetic inheritance—”

“You’re not still hung up on that, are you?” My mother rolled her head back in exasperation.

“Caught up on my chances of getting schizophrenia? Yeah, I’m hung up on statistics.”

“Georgia, you were more likely to get killed on the drive over here. Especially knowing how fast you drive.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled.

“So, let me get this straight. Regan is helping you open the bakery, and has been supporting you every step of the way for the last few weeks, and you’re pushing him away because you’re afraid you might, at some point, get a mental illness that’s treatable?”

“Don’t patronize me. He doesn’t deserve a love that has to be medicated.”

“He doesn’t deserve to be cheated out of it, and it doesn’t sound like he wants to be cheated out of it the way you talk about him.”

I sat forward, my face growing hot. “Whose side are you on?”

“Yours, Georgia. Always.”

I sat back in a huff, crossing my arms. “You weren’t on my side when you took off and left me to be raised by an alcoholic father and his pack of misfits at Dunes.”

My mother turned her face from me, gripping the edge of her chair as my words cut through her.

“Mom,” I started, “I’m sorry...”

“No,” she sniffed, “you have a right to be upset with me. I was doing what I thought was best for you at the time. Treatment wasn’t like it is now, and I didn’t know how long I’d be functional, or where the disease would go. Your father had never once been violent, but, if we can remember back two months, you’ve had bruises from me. Sure, your dad pissed away most of his money, but not before keeping food on the table and buying the building you live in now. There were no good answers there, honey. No right answers. I just tried to make you as strong as possible before I left.”

“Because you knew I’d end up taking care of myself.”

She didn’t answer. She just sighed and looked down. I hadn’t intended on showing up and blaming my mother for my life, so I stood and made my way for the door.

“Why are you leaving?” My mom followed me, staying a measured three steps behind me.