She was sitting in her usual seat at the table, a cup of coffee steaming beside the Jasper Chronicle. The headline announced the official schedule of the Midsummer Faire, the town’s largest and oldest event, which took place on the summer solstice. Local makers and craftspeople set up on Main Street to showcase their goods, and people came from neighboring towns for the music and dancing.
Birdie pretended not to watch me from the top of her gaze as she smeared cream cheese onto the toasted bagel in her hand.
“Morning.” I kept my back to her, taking the half-full pot of coffee and pouring it into a mug. The little sugar spoon clinked against the ceramic as I dumped two spoonfuls into the coffee and stirred.
“Morning, honey.” The newspaper crinkled as she turned the page.
I clutched the mug to my chest, leaning one hip into the counter as I faced her. It was our usual rhythm, except that a week ago, Gran would be sitting beside her. I couldn’t help but notice that Birdie’s plate and newspaper were set squarely to one side of the table, as if she’d subconsciously left room for Gran’s breakfast.
She tore the bagel in two. “When are you going to tell me what’s goin’ on in that head of yours?”
“Nothing’s going on.” I brought the mug to my lips again, trying to hide the nervous twitch of my mouth.
I was still thinking about the feeling of that body pressed to mine. I’d known for most of my life that certain things weren’t in the cards for me. The kind of relaxed, lived-in love where you woke up together in the morning was one of them. I’d been clear on that. With Gran, Birdie, and Mason. There were times when I’d sensed the slightest hint of sympathy worming its way into them. Sometimes, I’d catch Gran and Birdie giving each other a silent look in those conversations. But I’d never let any of them feel sorry for me, and I’d refused to feel sorry for myself.
The faint fissure in the ice of my resolve found me in the rarest of moments. The delicate, absent-minded touch of a woman’s hand on her pregnant belly. A newborn cradled in someone’s arms at the grocery. It would hit me like a train. Because there was only one thing I’d ever kept from them. It was a buried thing inside of me, so deep I could almost always pretend it wasn’t there.
It was the truth I couldn’t even admit to myself—that I did want it. All of it.
At nine or ten years old, I was just beginning to understand that one day, I’d be sick the way my mother had been. I was old enough to realize that she hadn’t just disappeared. She’d left me.
I tried not to think too much about what part of my mother had been broken enough for her to do what she did. I couldn’t imagine it, just walking away from your child and never looking back. The question nagged at me, like a finger picking the same string on an out-of-tune guitar over and over until it just became one head-splitting sound. I knew she was sick, but I wanted to believe that there were pieces of us that couldn’t be touched by that shadow—the pieces that made us human.
The sharp, deafening ring of the telephone made me jump, sending my coffee cup forward. The liquid sloshed over the lip, spilling over my hand.
Birdie started to stand but I waved her off, flicking the coffee from my fingers into the sink.
“It’s okay. I’ve got it.”
I crossed the linoleum floor, wincing when it rang again, and my shoulders drew up protectively around my ears. The old phone’s volume had been turned up for Gran when she started refusing to wear her hearing aids, and it sounded like a fistful of quarters shaken in an old coffee can.
The receiver was cold against my hot face as I answered. “Hello?”
A man’s voice crackled on the other end, and I adjusted the twisted cord, trying to make it clear.
“Hello?” I said again.
Behind me, Birdie was muttering. “Got to get that damn thing replaced.”
“Ah, hi there. June?” The voice finally came through. “It’s Dr. Jennings.”
I stilled, slowly turning so that Birdie couldn’t see my face. “Oh. Hi.”
“Sorry to call so early, but I tried your cell yesterday and there was no answer.”
“No problem. What can I do for you?”
There was the sound of paper shuffling, followed by a breath exhaled into the receiver, as if he was getting situated at his desk with the phone pinned between his shoulder and his jaw. “Just wanted to confirm your appointment for this afternoon.”
Dr. Jennings’s voice faded to the back of my mind, replaced by the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of a fly tapping the window in an attempted escape. I stared at a black knot on the pinewood floor between my feet. I’d forgotten about the appointment.
“June?”
“Yeah,” I said, wrapping the phone cord around my hand. “Sure, I’ll be there.”
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
“Thanks.”
“Bye-bye now.”
The line clicked, going dead, and I hung up the phone, plastering a look of calm on my face before I went back to the sink.
“Who was that?” Birdie spoke the words around a mouthful of bagel.
“Just Mason checking to see if I’m coming out today.”
She raised a skeptical brow in my direction as she took another bite. I’d managed to keep her from finding out about my episodes, but eventually, she was going to put it together. I’d kept the secret not because I didn’t trust her. It was because the moment I told her I was sick, things would change. For her and for me. The further I drifted, the more alone she would be.
She changed the subject. “Ida’s goin’ to be the death of me with this Midsummer Faire business. You sure you’re up for it?”
I nodded. It wasn’t the first time Birdie and I had run the show together. The flower farm always donated the excess early summer harvest to decorate at the event, and this year, Ida was the chair. She had Melody working around the clock on the plans.
“First one without Gran,” I thought aloud.
A smile stretched up one side of Birdie’s face. “Yeah, I was thinkin’ that this mornin’。”
My thoughts pulled back to that envelope and the photograph that was tucked inside. I’d considered telling Birdie about it last night as we sat at that same table with Ida’s casserole between us. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to do it, but it was still eating at me, poking at the edges of my mind.
“Do you know if Gran knew Nathaniel Rutherford?” The question formed on my lips before I’d even really thought about it.
Something stiffened in Birdie’s posture, just slightly. Almost too subtle to notice. “What?”
“Nathaniel Rutherford. The minister over at the church who—”
“I know who he is, June.” Was there an edge to her voice? I couldn’t quite tell. “But I was just a little thing when that happened.”
“Right. But Gran was older. She might have actually known him.”
“She didn’t exactly mix with the church folk. You know that.”
“But did she ever talk about it?” I tried again.
“No one really liked to talk about it. Not then and not now.”
“I just mean, I grew up hearing that story and seeing his picture in the cafe, but I don’t remember Gran ever mentioning it. It’s strange.”