Eve and I are not speaking. It’s been a month since we fought at Aunt Sarah’s and the house is cemetery quiet. Papa tries to get us to make up.
“Little scoop! Big scoop! What’s this about? Don’t you think we’ve had enough drama for one summer?” He says on Friday morning as Eve and I do silent dances around each other in the kitchen.
But this just makes Eve explode. “AND WHOSE FAULT IS THAT?” She yells in Papa’s face before storming off to the sunroom to eat her oatmeal and read an enormous volume of Shakespeare’s plays she’s been burying herself in since we got back.
“WELL I’M HERE NOW OK?” Papa yells back. “You need to adjust your attitude young lady! We’re all doing our best.” He sits at the table. Crunches on his toast and gulps his coffee down in two swallows. “You girls are killing me.” He says to me before getting up to gather his scores and cello. “I just have one more rehearsal this morning and then we can spend the holiday weekend together. This has got to end. You cannot be fighting like this when Mama gets back next week.”
Even though we all came home together from Boulder Mama left again only a few days after we returned. She voluntarily checked herself into a recovery clinic in Taos.
“What’s Mama recovering from?” I keep asking Papa. “I thought she was doing better?”
“She is. She is. But it’s complicated. She’ll tell you herself when she’s back. You just need to trust that she’s doing this to be healthy.”
I don’t understand why Mama can’t recover at home. I still wake up at night and check the locks. The doors. A good little soldier. Can’t we help her heal?
Ain’t a storm you can stop. Except your own. The Georgia Belles keep reminding me. But it’s hard to let go. Everything is familiar but different. The chickens are bigger. Fireball crows and crows and crows in the morning. Before the light creeps in. Eve and I take turns looking for eggs. Dumping the compost. Homeschool group doesn’t start up again for another week or so. So we read more books. I poke around the yard for treasure. I sing made-up songs. Eve memorizes all of Hamilton. We practice piano. Each morning I pick out my TWA that’s more like a full-on Afro these days. I stuff the messy edges into a headband and try to pat it down. Papa drives us to the grocery store. We shop in silence. The Sandias glow pinker than ever at sunset.
And Mama recovers. She does not write or email. She does not call. And even though Papa has circled September 6th in red pen on the fridge calendar. I am starting to believe she may never come home. That maybe she’s across the world. Playing concerts in her red sequined dress. That somewhere on a stage she bows and bows and bows. And people clap and clap and clap. And her playing is so beautiful. So clear. Nobody can tell. That she’s left us all behind.