With a giggle, I load the log holder that’s sitting on the ground and bring the bag down to the cellar, where she keeps her wood stacked against the wall. There’s a decent stockpile down here already, and this new wood will have to dry before she can use it.
When I get back outside, she’s grabbing a bunch of logs, loading them into her arms. “I bet I can carry more in my arms than you can in that bag.”
I squint my eyes in determination. “You’re on.”
I put the rest of them in the bag, and together, we bring the remainder to the basement.
Some of my fondest memories from my childhood are doing chores like this. She would somehow always make even the hardest of tasks into a game, so I wouldn’t realize just how hard life really was for this single mother and daughter duo.
“If you’d waited, I would have helped you split the wood,” I tell her.
“A good woman knows how to take care of herself. Besides, this keeps me active and sets my mind at ease.” She wipes her hands on her pants and looks up at the sky.
I love seeing my mom with her hands dirty. She has the feminine quality of a dancer with the hardened tone of an independent woman. Her long, thin arms bend as she leans back and stretches, which is graceful in its own way.
“September is late in the year for prepping wood. Where did this come from?” I ask.
“The neighbor had a tree cut down due to rot. He brought this over.”
I smile. “That’s an awfully heavy piece of tree to be schlepping over here for the nice neighbor lady. Looks to me like Mr. Myers needed a reason to come over.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “You know that’s not the case.” With a point to my outfit, she says, “You look nice. What’s the occasion?”
I pull my brown hair to the side as I glance down at my long-sleeved sundress and ballet flats with a shrug. “Just felt like doing my hair and makeup today. I’ve been living in sweats.”
She nods, knowing that’s my ensemble of choice when I’m writing. “Come on up. We’ll make lunch, and you can tell me about what you’re working on.”
We go up into the kitchen, which is exactly the same as when I was a child. Floral wallpaper with yellow daffodils and oak cabinets on the wall. It was old and out of date then. It’s ancient now.
I take a seat at the eat-in table while Mom gets bread, cold cuts, and mustard from the refrigerator.
That’s when I notice the box sitting on the table. It’s slightly bent on the top, and it has my name written across the side.
“What’s this?”
She smiles big. “Open it. I found it up in the attic. I can’t believe I forgot about it.”
I open the top, and when I do, memories come rushing back. Every summer, we would go on scavenger hunts, looking for the craziest things we could find and trying to beat the prior year’s items.
When I see the Indian arrowhead we found on a hike or the set of oddly shaped magnets we scored at a flea market, my heart fills with joy. We didn’t have much, but my mom made sure I had the best upbringing possible.
After I rummage through the box of childhood memories, I push it to the side. “I have an offer from a publishing house.”
Her brows rise. “Really? For the romance books?” She sounds more surprised than excited.
“Yes. They’re keeping an eye on my next novel. If it does well, then they’ll sign me to a three-book deal.”
She raises her chin but doesn’t smile. “That’s very good.”
As she takes a seat, I watch her mannerisms, namely the way she keeps her eyes fixed to the bread she’s taking out of the bag and the meat she’s putting on. Her muscles are stiff, and her mouth is steady.
“You don’t approve,” I state.
She drops her hands to the table as she looks up. A very small sigh escapes her lips. “Of course I approve. You’re a brilliant author. Even when you were six, I could see you had a gift for writing. That’s why I’ve always supported your career choice. I just wish you’d write something with meaning, not this sex fluff. You’re better than this.”
“It isn’t sex fluff. Think of it as women’s literature, except when I get to the romance scenes, they’re a tad … explicit.”
She raises a brow with a smile. “They’re a lot explicit. Makes me wonder what you’re doing over there, living alone in the big city.”
“I’m not dating, if that’s what you’re asking.”
My mom gives me a sorrowful expression. “I know the feeling. Men are destined to stomp our hearts. Take your father for example. That sorry excuse for a man ran off. Good-for-nothing—”
“I got it, Mom. It’s not every day you’re reminded that your father abandoned you.”
Actually, that’s a lie. Nearly every time I see my mother, she reminds me that my dad took off. It’s been twenty-three years, and she still can’t get over it.
It’s a shame really. My mother is beautiful with long brown hair and bright blue eyes. Thanks to the manual labor she does around the house, she still has a phenomenal body. But her skin is worn—from sun and a broken heart. The years of being a single mother are written in the wrinkles on her skin. The scar my father left on her heart practically shows through the T-shirt she’s wearing.
She’s smart too. My mother is a grant writer, the kind who gets schools and philanthropies the funds they need to succeed. I know for a fact that men have been interested in her through the years, but she has carried my father’s scarlet letter on her sleeve all this time. She’ll never change.
“That reminds me. You have a letter.” She walks to the counter and lifts a blue envelope.
I take it from her, looking at the familiar handwriting. “It’s not my birthday. Why is Dad sending me a card?”
“Probably because one of your cousins mentioned you’d released a book over the summer. He’s an advantageous son of a bitch, that one.”
With a grimace, I pop it open and take a look. It’s a congratulations card—the kind he should have sent when I graduated high school or college or pretty much every other milestone he missed. The fact that he sent it to my mother’s house and not my apartment shows how little he knows about me.
I toss it in the trash and watch my mother.
Her jaw is tight as she looks off to the other side of the room. I hate how Dad makes her feel this way after all these years. Every move she makes is a direct result of him walking out on her.
Charisse’s words run through my head. “Don’t turn into your mother.”
I close my eyes and shake off the idea. “Tell me about work. Any new grants come in?”
Her face lights up. “Actually, yes. I spent hours researching and drafting a large one for that children’s museum downtown, and we got it. Thirty-five thousand dollars. Man, seeing the board president’s eyes light up when I told her the news was priceless.” She smiles proudly, nodding her head. “That’s why I keep at it. It’s a lot of work for little money and a lot of rejections, but when you get one that’s approved, it makes it all worth it.”
I sigh wistfully. I know exactly what she means. I get the same satisfaction from writing my books. I just wish she would recognize that. What I do might not fund children’s museums, but my books still help people escape from their world for just a bit of happiness.