Chapter Eleven
Angela
Sunday is usually my chore day. I do housework, finish homework, and get groceries for my mom. But this morning, when I wake up to light pouring in through my bedroom window, it feels like it should be more than that. I climb out of bed and dive into a new painting, even before having my first cup of coffee. I feel invigorated, confused, and still reeling from last night.
Reds and yellows contrast against wide strokes of teal and white. They swirl together in some spots, creating a blur of color and texture. I don’t even think about the piece as I create it. The brush is just an extension of myself. Music pumps through the speakers, giving the whole room a pulse as I paint. This is my happy place. It gives me the ability to work through my thoughts and feelings.
I drop onto my stool, my breath coming quick, and study my canvas. The likeness captures Logan’s smile exactly as it is—crooked and mischievous, punctuated by dimples on each side. Those eyes lock me in place as I grin at my masterpiece. Of all the doodles and sketches I’ve done of Logan, nothing has ever captured him more honestly than this one.
I leave it on the easel to dry and hop in the shower. The water around my feet is rainbow colored as the paint is washed from my body and hair. It pools together, combining into a murky gray color that would belong nowhere on that canvas, and slips down the drain.
…
“Momma, I’m here!” I shout from the front door. I have more than ten grocery bags on my arm and in my hands. I’m a break your wrist, dislocate your shoulder, one trip kind of girl.
She comes down the hall and grabs a few bags from me, leading me into the kitchen. We set everything down and get to putting all the groceries away. I take care of the pantry items while my mom does the cold stuff.
“What did you need with coconut milk?” I ask, turning over the can in my hands.
She shrugs. “I found a new brownie recipe I want to try out.”
When all the food is put away, we both sit at the kitchen table with the last two pieces of her famous chocolate cake and a glass of milk.
“Mmm, this is so good,” I moan.
“Mayonnaise,” she says. “Secret ingredient.”
I push my plate away and make a face. “What? That’s disgusting.”
“That’s not what you were just saying,” Momma says in a singsong tone.
“Whatever.” I swipe my finger through the icing of my abandoned cake and lick it off.
For a full minute, there is silence. The only sound is the clinking of her fork against the plate and the occasional yelling from the kids playing next door. Our previous talk of my dad’s death and his case being closed has brought up so many awful feelings that I have to make myself force them down. I want to tell her what I know, but I don’t want to be responsible for setting off another episode. It’s times like this where I miss having my mom, the lady who raised me, not this shell of a woman who is so broken by grief that she’s lost touch with the rest of the world.
Some days I feel like she’s the strongest woman alive, dealing with the loss of my father. Other days, I feel like she’s so fragile that one wrong word will shatter her into a million tiny pieces. Today feels somewhere in the middle of that spectrum, so once again, I decide not to say a word. I don’t know who I am trying to protect by keeping my secret. I’m not sure of anything anymore. But I am convinced that I’ve done more damage than good.
Momma sits across from me, her hair falling out of a bobby pin and into her eyes, her expression lifeless. She wears the cardigan my father gave her for their last anniversary in the middle of summer… A pang of guilt hits me. Am I responsible for this shell of a woman, too?
“Do you feel unsafe, Momma?”
She stops chewing and stares at me. “Why on earth would you ask that?”
“Well, because you haven’t left the house in years. And you think there are prowlers in the yard.” I stare at a spot on the wall just over her shoulder and hold my breath. “I know I’ve asked a thousand times, but do you want to talk to someone about Daddy’s death? Like a professional?”
“I’m perfectly safe here,” she says, ignoring my second question.
I rest my chin on my hand and stare out the window. It was Sunday. I was sick with a terrible cold. Camped out on the sofa, I remember hearing the car pull up and a knock at the door. I remember my mother feeling my forehead for fever before seeing who it was.
Sheriff Sawyer stands at the door, his large body and wide shoulders taking up most of open space. The sun pours in around him, making him a silhouette. My mother waits while I swipe at my nose with a tissue.
“Sheriff?” she asks, when he remains silent.
The sheriff steps into the room and removes his hat. He notices me lying on the sofa and gives me a nod. I don’t recognize the look in his eyes and can’t imagine why he’s here.
“Maybe we should talk in the kitchen?” he asks. My mother nods and leads him into the room.
I turn my eyes back to the television only to hear her wail a few seconds later. Throwing off my blanket, I run into the kitchen to find the sheriff trying to help my mother off the floor. I drop to my knees and throw my arms around her, still clueless but knowing that I need to be there for her. “Momma? What is it?” I ask.
She shakes her head, tears painting her face.
“It’s not true,” she says, her eyes focused on the sheriff.
“I’m afraid so,” he answers.
“What is it?” I ask, panic making my stomach lurch. “Tell me.”
The sheriff slides my mom into a chair at the table. She gives him a nod and he looks to me. At that moment, I recognize the look on his face—pity. Something is very wrong. “It’s your father, Angela.”
Fear sinks heavy in my gut; the air seems made of sand and impossible to breathe in.
“I’m afraid he’s dead.”
“No!” I shout.
My mom reaches for me.
“Yes, dear,” Sheriff Sawyer says as he takes a seat across from my mom.
“That’s impossible,” I say, feeling the grief wash over me, drowning me. I fall into Momma’s lap.
“It could have been an accident. It seems he was killed after hitting his head on the combine in a fall. But there was someone else present and we’re still trying to fill in the blanks,” the sheriff says as he pats my shoulder. “With the season over and most of the workers already gone, we have no way of knowing who else was there. But we’ll keep digging. I promise.”
I know who! my mind shouts, but the words don’t leave my lips. I am lost in my grief. I am scared and confused and I don’t know anything for sure. So I just stay quiet and hold my mother as she sobs.
“We’re still investigating. If you need anything, please let me or Connie know, Jean. I’m truly sorry,” he says before tipping his hat and leaving us to mourn my father.
“So, you’re not going to tell your mother about your date? That’s how it is?” Momma asks, breaking me out of my memory.
My eyes go wide and I sit back in my chair. “What? How do you know that?”
“I do have a telephone, Angela. Seems like the whole town knew about your date with Logan Sawyer before your own mother did. I had to lie and pretend I already knew when Rayann called.”
I blow my bangs from my eyes and let out a long, slow sigh. “It’s not that I didn’t want to tell you, Momma. I just didn’t want to make a big deal about it.”
She’s quiet for too long as I study her face. It seems as though she’s aged in fast forward these last few years, her broken heart draining the life from her once vibrant spirit, etching lines into her face. But right now, she looks flawless, painted in the midday light from the kitchen window, and I want to memorize this light to paint it later.
“Sure. What’s the big deal about going on a date with the boy you’ve been in love with for over a decade?” she asks.
My shoulders stiffen and I hide my face behind my hands. “You knew?”
My mother nods and finishes the last bite of her cake as I peek through my fingers before dropping them. “A mother always knows.”
“And I thought I was so slick,” I say with a chuckle.
She shrugs and gives me a smile that’s reminiscent of my childhood. “I don’t think anyone else noticed, honey.”
I squeeze her hand resting on the table. “I’m sorry I never told you.”
“So how was it?” she asks with all the giddiness of a best girlfriend.
I shake my head and shrug one shoulder. “It was…good, I guess.”
“That’s all? Good?”
“Some things a girl just has to keep to herself, Momma.” I get up from the table, my chair scraping across the floor, and give her a kiss on the top of her head. “I’ll see you later.”
When I reach the front door, I hear her yell. “Is there a second date? Can I expect grandchildren?”
“Bye, Momma.”
…
I crawl into bed, my mind racing with thoughts of the weekend. As I lay there, staring up at the gray shadows on my ceiling, my phone chimes. I fully expect it to be my mother and am surprised when it doesn’t display a name. I click on the message, my eyes going wide when I see who it’s from.
I press the phone to my forehead and grin. Still asking questions means he’s still interested in getting to know me. This gives me hope that he’ll let me in and I’ll get to know him, too, the real Logan.