Plus you could see every corner of the kitchen, in case there was something on the stove.
Frowning, Mels realized she’d chosen her father’s chair, the one to her mom’s left, the one that faced the hallway that led to the front door.
Growing up, she’d always been in the seat across from this one.
She’d stepped into her father’s shoes in a lot of ways, hadn’t she.
In fact…it might be possible that the real reason she’d quit her job down in Manhattan at the Post had been to come back here and be with her mom.
The more she thought about it, the more that felt like the truth. First, there had been her father’s last words, his dying worries about his wife. And then after the funeral, her mother had been so very alone, lost in so many ways. Like any good daughter, and as she imagined her father would want, Mels had stepped in to fill the void…but the sacrifice had driven her mad—and made her resentful of her mother, her job at the CCJ, her life here in Caldwell.
Best of intentions. But not so great—or necessary—an outcome. No one had asked her to do what she had. Not her father or her mother. And as she looked around the kitchen, and the dining room, and out through the sliding glass doors to the porch and the garden…everything was in order.
Not because she had arranged for the upkeep, however: Her mom had taken care of it all.
Shaking her head, she wondered how this pater familias transformation had happened without her knowing it. Then again, was she really asking herself that after the crap with Matthias? Clearly, interpersonal stuff was not her forte—
The sound of keys in a lock was followed by the front door opening, and as light flared in the hall, her mother’s diminutive form was spotlit from behind. She was carrying a yoga mat and talking on the phone as she shut herself in and came down the corridor.
“—oh, I know she did, and I really do believe the best of people—up until they prove me wrong. So, yes, I think you should cut this off and stop talking to her.” Her mother paused to wave hello and put her things down on the counter by the refrigerator. Then she frowned, as if sensing all was not well in Mels-land. “Listen, Maria, may I call you back? Okay, thanks. Talk to you soon.”
She ended the call and put the cell down next to her Go Organic! canvas bag. “Mels, what’s wrong?”
Mels eased back and thought of her father doing the same thing. The chair had always creaked under his weight, but with her, it was silent.
“Can I ask you something really bizarre?” she said to her mother. “And please know I don’t mean to offend you.”
Her mom slowly sat down beside her. “Sure.”
“Do you remember when Dad was still with us—how he used to sit here and pay bills?” Mels patted the surface of the wood in front of her. “With that checkbook open, the big one that had three checks a page? He’d sit here and write out the bills and put them in the envelopes and record everything in the registry.”
“Oh, yes,” her mother said sadly. “Every month. Like clockwork.”
“He had those reading glasses—they’d fall to the end of his nose, and they’d annoy the crap out of him. And the entire time, he’d squint like his toes were in a vise.”
“He hated the whole thing—he made sure it got done, though. Every month.”
Mels cleared her throat. “How do you…I mean, you pay the bills here now. But where? When? I’ve never seen you write a check.”
Her mother smiled a little. “Your father wanted to do everything by hand. He didn’t trust banks—I used to think that monthly ritual was a physical expression of his suspicion of First National Bank and Trust. I’m not like that. I have everything from my car payment to the electric bill to my insurance on automatic deduction. My accounts are linked online—I look at them once a week and keep track of it all that way. Cuts down on stamps, paperwork, and visits to the mailbox. More efficient.”
Mels felt surprise ripple through her—but come on. Her mother wasn’t a child. “What about…like, the lawn care? Dad used to mow the grass, but who does it now?”
“Right after he died, I asked the neighbors how they handled it. Some have their husbands or their kids tackle the yard, and that obviously wasn’t an option for me. I gave it a go a couple of times, but it was so much work, I knew it was better to pay someone. I went with a professional service, because I don’t want to worry from week to week if it’s getting done—plus they do a cleanup in the fall and the spring. Mels, is there something you’re worried about?”
“Yeah, actually, there is.” She smoothed the table again, running her palm over the place where her father had taken care of things his way. “I—ah, I’m concerned that I’ve spent the last few years trying to be Dad for you, and not only hasn’t it worked—I haven’t been very supportive on any level. And you’ve managed to take care of yourself quite nicely.”
There was a long silence. “You know, I’ve wondered,” her mother murmured, “why you stayed. You’ve been so unhappy here—and it’s pretty clear you’ve resented me.”
“Which is not your doing—and a bad call on my part, all the way around.” Mels tapped the table. “I just…he would have wanted me to look after you. Or someone to.”
“That was his way.” She shook her head slowly. “He was always old-fashioned, a real man’s man with values that were very traditional. I loved him, so I let him love me the way he saw fit.”
“But you didn’t need it, did you.”
“I needed him. I was very happy with him.” A sad light came into her eyes. “He was the type of man who had to be in control, and I married him and had you when I was young. But I did grow up.”
“Were there…problems about that?” God, that seemed so personal.
There was a long period of quiet. “I loved him, he loved me—at the end of the day, nothing changed that.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“For what?”
“That he died and left you alone.”
“I’m not alone. I have a life now that is rich and full with friends and things I like to do. And what has worried me most about you is that that doesn’t seem to be happening for you. This is your time to do what you want, succeed where you wish, choose your own path. It’s what I did with your father…and I was so glad I didn’t hesitate because he and I got shortchanged out of a good thirty more years. You deserve the same the thing, with whoever or wherever or whatever you love.”
Tears pricked. “I’m not sure why I haven’t figured this all out until now. I’m a reporter—you’d think I could get to the bottom of my own life.”
“Things are not always so easy and clear.” Her mother reached over and covered Mels’s hand. “These last few years have been really hard. But I’m building my own place in this world…and I think you need to do the same.”
“You are so right.” Mels brushed her cheeks and laughed a little. “You know what I’ve been working on these last few months?”
“Tell me.”
“An article on missing persons. I haven’t gotten anywhere with it—after hours and hours at my desk, staring at the statistics, tracking down the sources, questioning and requestioning everything, I’m no closer than any of the other journalists to what the real story is.”
“Maybe you’ll find the answers eventually, though?”
Mels met her mother’s eyes. “I think I should have been looking into the mirror, instead. It’s going to sound weird, but…since he died, I’ve been missing in my own life. I don’t know if that makes sense?”
“Of course it does. The two of you were peas in a pod—I’m sure you know this, but he was so proud of you.”
“It’s funny…growing up, I always wondered if he wouldn’t have preferred a son.”
“Oh, not at all. He wanted you. He used to say you were the perfect child for him. Nothing made him prouder and happier than you did, and that was among the main reasons I loved him so. That father/daughter bond? It’s so important, and I should know. I was a daddy’s girl—I wanted that for you, too, and you had it with him. I only wish it had been for longer.”