I tried to glance through the trees and see what she was looking for. “What are you—”
She whipped her head around to stare at me. “You need to get the hell away from here. Do you understand me? And stay the fuck away. I don't want to ever see you back here.”
“What—”
“I mean it.” She spoke through clenched teeth, her voice quaking and her hands shaking. “Go. Live your life. That's all you’ve ever wanted, right? To get away from here? Now, you got it. So, go.”
I thought about mentioning that I had wanted to take her with me all those years ago. That I had saved all of that money so that we could start over somewhere else—somewhere better—together. But what would be the point now?
So, I reached out and gripped her shoulder, startled by how frail and bony it was. “What are you afraid of? What—”
She thrust her hands against my chest. The impact did nothing but send a message. “Soldier, leave. Get in that car over there before anyone sees you and go.”
“Okay.” I stomped the cigarette out with the heel of my boot on the concrete surrounding the perimeter of the building. Then, I pulled a pen from my pocket. “But I'm giving you my number.”
“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ …” She sounded shrill as she pulled at the dry strands of her hair. “You can’t—”
“You don't have to call me,” I said, scribbling the digits onto an old receipt I had on me. “But if you need help, if you need me … if you need anything … I'm here. Okay?”
“What I need is for you to go—”
“Mom.” I took her hand and stuffed the crumpled slip of paper into her clammy palm. “I'm here.”
Her chest rose and fell with every heavy breath. Her eyes stared into mine, misting with tears, as her lips pinched around every protest she kept locked inside her mouth.
Neither of us spoke in those few seconds of shared air, but everything she felt was spoken in her eyes. Her regret. Her failure. Her abundance of apologies. I could feel every single one as the realization that this would truly be the last time I saw my mother pierced my heart.
“I have to get some cigarettes and a few six-packs,” she announced quietly.
I nodded, too acutely aware of the pain and anguish tugging at my nerves. “Okay.”
She hung her head and turned around, ready to walk away, when she abruptly stopped. She pulled in a deep breath before spinning on her heel, dropping her purse, and allowing her arms to fly up and around my shoulders. I bent at the waist, pulling her in for a tight hug—maybe the realest, truest embrace we'd ever shared in my entire life.
“You know,” she said, speaking against my shoulder, “I always hoped he was your father. I always hoped you'd be more like him.”
I said nothing as she pulled away and wiped her eyes, taking a step back and picking her purse up from the ground. She held her head higher and held the strap tight as she plastered a fake smile on her face.
“You are, Soldier. Like him, I mean.” She nodded as she continued moving backward, leaving the shelter of the trees. “You're a good man, and he was, too.”
Then, she was gone, hurrying away before I could utter another word.
My eyes burned with impending tears, and my lungs deflated with a sigh. I shook off her abrupt departure before taking a step in the direction of Harry's car.
But then something caught my eye.
Something bright against the ground of soil and dead grass. A piece of paper maybe.
This wasn’t here before, I thought as I bent to pick it up. I would've noticed when I had stomped out the cigarette. It must've fallen out of her bag when she dropped it.
At first glance, I saw it was a handwritten prescription, and I thought of running after her to give it back. But then, after giving it a better look, I saw it was for oxycodone … written in my mother's handwriting.
The doctor's name printed on the top was Dr. Erin House, OB/GYN, and I thought about what Laura had said.
“… I saw her at my doctor’s office. She was the secretary there, and …”
“Holy fuck, Mom,” I muttered, crumpling the stolen paper and stuffing it into my pocket. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Or better yet … who was she doing it for—herself … or the guy in her apartment?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BIG EMPTY
“… in the chocolate flavor?”
I gave my head a quick shake before focusing my attention on Mrs. Montgomery, holding up a container of dietary fiber chews.
“I’m sorry,” I said before clearing my throat. “What was that?”
Her scowl deepened. The woman looked like a toad. “What, do you have cotton in your ears?”
“Mrs. Montgomery, I’m sorry. I just …” I swallowed to chase away the thoughts of my mother and the prescription she’d written out for herself. “I’m kinda having a tough week, but—”
“Life is tough. Get used to it,” she snapped.
“Oh, believe me, I’m more than used to it,” I fired back, a harsh bite in my tone.
The old woman studied me with a hardened glare. Our relationship was hot and cold. Some days, I could get a little hint of a smile from her while, others, I was lucky if she even looked me in the eye when she spoke to me. I was always polite though. Always kind and willing to take her sharp and heated comments, for the sake of my reputation in town and my job. But today, I was tired. Mentally and physically exhausted. And I couldn’t find it in me to be anything but.
She held my gaze with an iron grip, her mouth twitching with irritability and whatever snappy comeback she had waiting. But then she surprised me by thrusting the container toward my face—as close as she could get with her short arms and four-foot-nine stature—and said, “These. Do you have them in chocolate?”
I slowly took the container from her while cocking a brow and narrowing one eye, wondering what the hell had kept her from firing back at me. “Um, give me a sec while I check the stockroom.”
“Fine. I’ll wait here.”
I hurried for the door at the back of the store, where I searched the rows of boxes, bags, and towers of cans until I found what she was looking for. I grabbed a box of twelve containers of chocolate dietary fiber chews to restock the shelf and hurried back to where Mrs. Montgomery was still waiting.
“Here you go,” I said, pulling out my box cutter and slicing through the tape. I pulled out a container and handed it over. “Chocolate.”
“Hmph.”
She dropped it into her cart and turned to walk away, but then she stopped. She glanced over her shoulder and looked up at me.
“Whatever’s on your mind, it won’t last forever. And before you know it, it’ll be just another memory.”
My lips rolled between my teeth as I let what she had said sink in, and then I nodded. “I know. But that doesn’t help what’s going on in the present though.”
“No. But you might want to think before you let it affect your life. Ask yourself … does this matter? Does this serve me to care? And if the answer is no”—she reached out and tapped my aproned chest with a knobby finger—“then you might want to reconsider the next time you ignore your friends for something that doesn’t belong in your head in the first place.”