Some Quiet Place (Some Quiet Place #1)(27)
My hand towel goes around and around on a plate. “I’m your daughter, no matter what you believe.” Around, around.
Following my example, Mom starts scrubbing again. “Just the way you’re so controlled … ” She purses her lips. “Even when you were little, you didn’t crack a smile.”
“I could try harder—”
“No.” Mom ducks her head and hair falls forward, hiding her haggard face. She grips the edges of the sink. Knuckles white. I can see her heart breaking all over again. Guilt is still there, answering her summons solemnly, her spindly fingers tight on Mom’s shoulder, and she’s joined by others again. Sorrow, Anger, Hope. As the seconds tick by the air begins to tremble with expectation. Tension and pressure builds in the room and I know something’s coming. Something that won’t be easy for her. Finally, her chin trembling, my mother plunges. “Do you know where my daughter is?”
I meet her sad, sad eyes. And in this moment I realize that she’ll always deny me, never accept me. I’ll never be her child. But I can’t release her. If I let her sink into these impossible despairs, there will be no place for me. So I tell her, in the same hard way Tim speaks, “I’m your daughter. And you owe it to me to believe that, no matter how much I’ve changed.”
Silence. The soap in the sink bubbles. After another minute she nods, pursing her lips. She turns away. And thus ends the first meaningful, sincere conversation I’ve ever had with my mother.
This time there’s no disorientation. I know, the moment I open my eyes and find myself in an unfamiliar room, that this is another dream. The walls are blue, the furniture all mismatching. There’s a narrow bed in one corner with messy sheets, all wrinkled and tossed. There’s a stereo on the dresser. But what makes this square place remarkable, individualistic, is the books. Dozens upon dozens of them are stacked up, covering every surface, every possible spot. Some are open, some are bookmarked, some look ancient, and others have yet to have their spines cracked for the first time. Titles and words fly at me: THE GREAT GATSBY. THE GRAPES OF WRATH. THE ASSASSINATION OF JOHN F. KENNEDY.
I’m standing in a corner, gazing at it all. Through the window to my left I see that it’s morning. The sun is just awakening and fingers of orange and pink stretch out over the world. There’s a distant roar, something mighty and older than time. My mind recognizes it after a moment. The ocean.
The realization hits me then: I’m in the house. The one that I see sometimes in my dreams. The one by the cliff side.
“ … almost time to eat,” a woman says from down the hall. And then the door opens and the boy enters. I remain where I am, expecting him to lift his gaze and see me. But he doesn’t.
I might as well be invisible. He just strides to the cluttered desk and rifles through some papers in a drawer. His mouth is puckered and his movements are graceful, thoughtless. He’s just showered; his hair is wet and he smells of sharp soap. He finds what he’s looking for—a notebook and a textbook along with it—
and he pulls them free of the pile, tucks them under his arm, and leaves again. Without hesitation, I follow.
We walk into a kitchen. The house is small; it only takes five steps. Everything is clean and orderly in contrast to the boy’s room. Though the furniture is worn and there’s only one very old TV as entertainment, someone has worked very hard to make this place a home. The rugs are colorful and there are pictures on the walls, framed images of a smiling family of three: the boy, the mysterious girl who always weeps in my dreams, and an older woman with crinkling eyes. Grief doesn’t exist. These pictures … these pictures are genuine. The Caldwell mark is nowhere to be seen—no shadows in their gazes, no tight smiles, no distance between shoulders.
I pull my attention away from the pictures and examine the room. A woman has her head half-inside a refrigerator. As the boy circles her and approaches the table I see that she’s sniffing milk. “You’re going to be late,” the boy says.
The woman sets the milk down in front of him, telling him, “I’ll be fine. Oh, and I did pick up an extra shift, so I’m going to be little late tonight. Make sure you tell your sister, okay?” Of course she’s his mother; the knowledge is there in the way she brushes his bangs back, the way she moves around the kitchen with such purpose. This is her purpose. He is her purpose. It must be so fulfilling, to have a design.
The boy pops the mouth of the milk carton and tilts it. The sound of the milk streaming into a glass is the only sound for a second. It’s strange for me, the silence. There are no ticking clocks or thudding boots coming into the house.
“Where is she?” the boy asks his mom after a moment. I lift my head at this—it’s the same thing he asked me in that clearing. Before the churning skies and bloodthirsty swarms.
This time he receives an answer. The dark-haired woman sighs. “She went out to the woods again. She didn’t hear me when I tried to call her back.”
He watches her. “Don’t worry. She’ll be back. She always comes back.”
It doesn’t soothe her, but she hides her expression. When she turns back to her son, she raises her brows. “Are you sure you want her to? You wouldn’t have to share that damn bathroom anymore.”
He smiles faintly, holding his fork tight. She smiles too, a sad curve of the lips. They’re entwined together through loyalty, not obligation. This is what family is supposed to be.