Mitch had his arm slung around my shoulders. I was looking up at him, my eyes intense and hungry. We were both smiling. Only inches apart. Mitch’s hand was frozen just as he was about to touch my face.
It was a beautiful picture. The fire and the smoke created an artistic haze over our figures.
But that wasn’t what left me reeling.
It was the look on our faces.
We looked in love.
No one could see it and think anything else.
I flipped it over and saw a date in Mitch’s chicken scratch handwriting.
July 4th, 2013.
2013.
The photograph was from two years ago.
Two years.
Even then my heart had known that I loved him. My brain may have been in denial, but I knew.
I clutched the photograph to my chest and felt almost sick about all the lost time. The missed chances.
I had been such a fool.
Carefully I put the pictures back, closed the lid, and replaced the hair ties. My hair ties. The ones Mitch kept.
With trembling fingers I left the note for him propped against the box and wiped the lingering tears from my face.
It was time to leave.
I shut the door on our memories, hoping that we weren’t too late to make new ones.
Rows of family photographs lined the walls of my parents’ living room. Mom had turned on the gas fireplace and the house was toasty and warm. It had started to snow late in the day and there was a fine dusting already on the ground. I hoped the roads stayed clear enough for me to get home.
Because hell if I was spending the night.
Anyone looking at the framed pictures would think we had lived a perfect life. Posed photo ops of Christmases and birthdays. First days of school and gymnastics meets.
I was obviously the center of my parents’ world. Oh the fun of being an only child. I was the entire focus of their pride. And more often than not, their disappointment.
My parents were good-looking people. My dad was tall and rugged. Mom was beautiful and refined. And I was the cherry on top of the perfect genetic cake. A lovely combination of my mother’s blonde hair and my dad’s blue eyes.
They loved me. I knew they did. But their love came with a price. Absolute and total obedience. It was expected and required if I wanted to exist in harmony with them.
“There you are! I didn’t even hear you come in,” my mother said¸ breezing in from the kitchen wearing a lacy apron straight out of a Leave it to Beaver episode.
“I just got here,” I replied, air kissing her cheeks so as to not smudge her make-up.
“You father just called and there’s a pile up on 64, so he’ll be another thirty minutes.” She pulled back the curtains and looked outside at the falling snow. “It looks treacherous out there. You should plan to spend the night in your new room.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. Because in my mom’s mind there was no room for argument.
“I can’t, Mom. I’m supposed to go to Vivian and Cole’s new apartment after dinner.”
Mom waved away my comment. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Then she frowned as she registered what I said. “Vivian has a new apartment? When did this happen?”
Crap. Way to step in it, Gracie! “She’s not moving for a few weeks,” I explained.
Mom smiled triumphantly and I knew what was coming. I braced myself for it.
“Well, that makes your decision to move back home much easier. If Vivian’s moving out, there’s no reason for you to stay in that cramped shoe box you call an apartment.”
“I like my apartment, Mom. And with my new job I can easily afford the rent on my own,” I said tiredly. I was already exhausted and I had just gotten there. It wasn’t a good indication of how the evening was going to pan out.
“Why waste your money on your own place when you have a beautiful room just upstairs. You wouldn’t have to pay for anything,” Mom protested. She took me by the elbow and steered me towards the stairs. “Go up and have a look at what my decorator did with the space. I’ll be up in a minute. I just need to check on the casserole.”
Ugh. Casserole. My mother loved making them and I hated eating them. They tasted like bitterness and resentment.
But I did as she asked.
I climbed the stairs opened the door to the room I had grown up in. As I had suspected, all remnants of my childhood were gone. Gone. Except for the small brown teddy bear I had slept with as an infant. Mr. Itchy—strange name, I know—sat in the middle of my queen sized bed that was no longer covered in pink and black checks, but now sported a very classy green and white stripped duvet.
The walls had been painted cream and the large picture window was dressed in heavy green damask. My mother had even gone so far as to replace my old vanity with an antique table and cushioned bench. A brand new laptop sat on top.
I sighed heavily, walking further into the room. Mom’s decorator had done a great job. If it had been a hotel. Because it felt sterile. Cold.
Sort of like my relationship with my parents.
There was nothing in the space that screamed Gracie Cook. But I knew that my mother would expect me to be pleased with the transformation. She loved it, so of course I should too.
“What do you think?” My mom stood in the doorway and inspected her handy work. She pointed at the window. “The material for the curtains was very expensive. But I think it turned on wonderfully.”
“Where are my books? My posters?” I asked.
My mother didn’t answer me. “The layout is more appropriate for a woman of your age. More mature. Don’t you love the art?” My mom pointed to a large print above the bed. It was done in soft pastels that resembled trees blowing in the wind. “That one was very pricey, but when I saw it at the art auction, I thought it would look perfect in here. It’s called The Storm and it’s signed by the artist.”
“Very nice, Mom,” I said with little enthusiasm. “You’ve made a great guest room,” I added, ready for the battle to begin.
Mom’s mouth thinned into a straight line. “Don’t start this nonsense again, Grace.”
I hated how she insisted on calling me Grace.
Everyone else had always called me Gracie. My grandmother—the one who had pinched Mitch’s ass—had given me the nickname and it had stuck. No one else ever called me Grace. Not even my dad. But my mother refused to call me anything else.
It was a total power play. It was Mom’s way of saying, “I don’t care what you want to be called. This is the name I gave you.”
“I like my apartment—”
“You’re a sick, sick woman, Grace Evelyn. You need to be where I can take care of you. Where I can make sure you’re all right.”
I looked at my mother and her stern, yet beautiful face and I saw something I had never noticed before.
Fear.
Underneath the selfishness and the shallow obsession with appearance, was a woman with genuine concern for her daughter. Even if she couldn’t express it in a manner that was supportive or kind. Or conducive to healthy relationships.
I put my hand on my mom’s sleeve. We weren’t a touchy feely bunch so the action surprised both of us.
“Mom, I’m doing okay. Just because I live on my own doesn’t mean that I’m going to fall off the wagon. Or stop eating and waste away. I’m working hard to build a life. And I think I’m doing a pretty good job.”
My mom stared at me for a long time.
I wasn’t sure what she saw when she looked at me. I hoped she could see that I was at least telling her the truth. That I was capable of making my own decisions, and not fall on my face in the process.
She sniffed, her lip curling in disdain. “Is that what you call drinking yourself into a coma? Building a life?” She stepped away from me, my hand falling to my side. “Now have a look at this wardrobe. I picked it out myself. It looks small but once you open it, you will see it holds all of your clothes. And there’s even a shelf for your shoes.”