9:45 a.m.
“Hello?” Her voice is gravel under my feet. Pulling the phone back, I stare at the disembodied voice of my mother. Speak. “Hello?”
I revert to a younger self. “Mom?” The following pregnant pause makes my ears ring. I analyze an almost too perfect knot in the wood of the ceiling; there’s a human-made quality to it. The swirls go both ways, from dark to light—the center is lighter than pine.
“Adelynn.” I wince when she says my name. I cannot count the times I have asked her to call me Ada.
Clenching my fist, I respond with the opposite of how I feel. “It’s good to hear your voice. How are you?”
A scrape in the background makes me think she’s gone into the small dining room off of the kitchen. If the chairs are the same as they were a few years ago, they’ll be wobbling as she pulls one out for herself.
“Is someone dead?”
Three eyelashes sear with pain. “No,” I say quickly, so I won’t lose my nerve and to give myself something to focus on; my fingers itch to yank at the burning cilia. “I am in town. I wanted to know if I could see you while I’m here.”
“We haven’t talked in a while.” Since the day after your fifty-fourth birthday, but who’s keeping track? “Why are you here?”
My body temperature flashes from hot to cold and back again, and I wonder why I expected anything but this. I have had a nicer conversation with a waitress at the end of her power shift on a Saturday at a job she hates.
“It’s a long story.” I reach for my water—ignoring its lack of clarity. A stress-induced dryness has filled my throat and made my tongue fat and sticky. I chug the whole glass before I continue. “I can tell you in person.”
“Busy this week.”
Neither of us has mentioned Thanksgiving or the day that follows it.
“I am only here for nine days, Mo—”
She sputters like a dying car. “Fine. How is Wednesday?”
My hands sweat; that’s in two days. Is my house ready? How’s my hair? I mentally pause. Wait... what? “Perfect,” I say, as if I didn’t just wonder if bangs would make me look younger. “Should I come over?”
“Okay. Around 2:30,” my mother snaps.
Before I can respond, the phone goes quiet, and a dial tone follows. I tell the receiver I love it, pretending my mom didn’t just hang up on me. Would she have said it back? Probably not, is what I come up with.
My energy is sapped. I should call Rachael; she would be proud. A loud yawn and grumble in my stomach demand my attention first. I will need a sandwich and an early nap—not in that order. The moment Mom called me Adelynn, I curled up in the nearest blanket. So I tilt against the couch cushions and let emotions and exhaustion take hold.
If only the sun could dim its rays, I would be asleep al—
1:30 p.m.
Silynn is a mountain town with a population of 1,512 and no hope of tourists—only truckers and adulterers looking for a cheap place to overnight. As I drive on the two-lane main street to a downtown smaller than my neighborhood, I pass only one unfamiliar sight—a new gas station, the opening of which must have been a red-letter day. The other shops are exactly as I remember, down to a tree stump near a ‘major’ intersection my mother called an eyesore. It is—and was—just a small broken sapling struck down by lightning before it had the chance to age.
Polly’s Boutique sits at the corner of Trail and Steward Road. I shopped for an Easter dress there when I was five. We weren’t religious, but a man who came around a lot—my mother’s boyfriend, I assume—was. The yellow pastel dress made me look like cupcake frosting, only it crinkled. It was horrible, and I was promised I would never have to wear it again. Even as a child, I could tell she knew the man wouldn’t last, but he was worth another few days.
The icing dress made one more appearance that year—to a cousin’s shotgun wedding. That one was my choice. I still don’t care for Diana or her taste in men. I believe she is on husband number six with nine children spread out between them. She’s only twelve years older than me—now forty-seven. Like my mother, she has never left Silynn; it says a lot about her.
Polly’s has a nearly identical icing dress in the window with pink piping around the ruffles on an adult mannequin—horrifying. Is this the local style? I wonder if my mother owns a dress like it now. If I have another wedding, will she show up in a cast-off gypsy wedding gown?
Few people wander the streets—it being just after church. The five rebel kids skipping lunch with the family or pot luck with the church walk in the same direction ten steps apart—not cool to be friends, I guess. A couple with a baby carriage looks downtrodden, or I could be seeing them through the Silynn-filter: young, already with a baby, and not at church. They seem to be headed the same way I am. Not much open on a Sunday.
I am in search of my favorite soda shop. As a kid, the sandwiches were the best around; as an adult, we’ll see. I hope for better than lunch meat. I forget if I should turn right or left on Thompson; I choose right, because I always choose right first.
The gas station from when I was small is boarded-up—closed due to the new and shiny one, I suppose. Three teenagers with backpacks are smoking in the old parking lot to its left side. A floral shop I have never visited looks as new as it always did as if the owner never stopped painting.
I turn the wrong way. My U-turn is illegal, but no one is around. I see one or two small patches of ice left from what must have been a snowstorm, so I drive a few miles under the speed limit. Good old Silynn.
I pass the gas station again. The teens are gone. Up ahead, I see it: Sodas ’n More—otherwise known as the local soda shop.
It’s busy and loud. There is no street parking for three blocks, and the wait is thirty minutes “or more.” The hostess is a step away from filing her nails she’s so bored with the current happenings. She stands behind her wooden podium in jeans and a hot pink sweatshirt; the black logo across her chest is a bottled soda with fizz bubbling into the first “o” of Sodas ’n More. Wooden pew benches in the cramped waiting area are stuffed with a goodly portion of Silynn’s population, by the looks of it—church-goers and non.
A toddler shrieks, and I check my ears for blood. The mother sees me and glares; I know she thinks, “City woman.” A man pats her hand, and she turns to him to resume their conversation. I can’t help but want to laugh.
Another family, two girls and a mother—presumably—sit in silence squished between two couples. I appreciate how the eldest sister leans over to make the youngest laugh now and again. When the hostess calls for the Redfords, I nab a section of bench beside a canoodling couple and stare at my phone. It’s useless for much other than calls in Silynn, despite being in the heart of the town, but I find comfort in the familiar motion. I check my watch; it has only been six minutes.
While I wait, I marvel at the decorations, the floor, the ceiling, the glass case with t-shirts and mugs in it. There does not appear to be a single new piece of art on the wall. The framed menus look as though they haven’t been cleaned since I was last here. I remember focusing on them while my mother reprimanded Peter for his failing science grades. As a teacher, she had high expectations; as a mother, she had little time, little motivation, and even less maternal instinct to help us meet them. In some ways, I now believe that in her mind, she did her best. At the time, I tried to memorize the old prices of milkshakes instead of listening to her lectures.
I stare at the wall above the hostess’s head and shiver. The photograph of three children with sacks over their faces is still upside down. I was always grateful for that—still am.
When I was thirteen and came back over winter break to visit Silynn, the owner of the joint, Fred, was having a problem with one of his syrup pumps. He decided to try and pour directly out of the twenty-gallon jug with the help of a young guy who had mole-like freckles and a lousy attitude. It went so well that the floor was coated in blueberry syrup. Somehow, the kid stayed clean. Artificial dye that no one wants to think about being in their food stained over a fourth of the cement dining room floor. I smile as I see it’s still here, unabashedly uncovered.
“Ada.”
My stomach growls. “That’s me,” I announce as if it is a different hostess.
Grabbing the plastic menu, she nods; her ridiculous dangling earrings smack the sides of her neck. She leads me to a plain wooden table with chairs to match backed with three unevenly spaced spindles. My back will hurt very soon.
“Your waitress will be with you in a second,” she shouts over her shoulder.
I go to thank her, but she is back to leaning against her station.
“Hey there! I’m Hailey, and I’ll be your waitress today,” I hear from behind me.
Blood running cold, I do not turn.
Three thoughts race through my head. It could be anyone named Hailey. Maybe she won’t be my waitress. She is too old to do this sort of thing; by now she would have a distinguished job. I am instantly ashamed of my third thought.
I am proved wrong on all accounts. Her ice blue eyes give her away. I look nothing like I used to, however.
“Adelynn! Is that you?” Or maybe I do.
I slide my hands under the table before I say, “It’s Ada now. I haven’t seen you in—”
“Around…” She counts on her fingers. “Jeez! Twenty-five years, or so? I heard you were in town. How are you doing? You look terrific. And oh, how you’ve grown!” Hailey laughs as she pulls up a chair; I clench my thighs.
I have managed to avoid her during every other visit thus far, yet this time I see her before I even see my mother. Damn.
Her hair is pulled into a tight bun, much like it often was when she was my babysitter twenty-nine years ago. She has thin, gray, square glasses that fit her face much better than the old plastic brown hand-me-downs she used to wear every once in a while.
I choose not to ask how she had heard of my being in Silynn and answer her other questions in half-truths. “I am really good, thank you. I own a coffee shop in Indiana and am thinking of going back to school. You’ve grown too,” I add. “Aging has done you a serious kindness.”
Hailey blushes. “Thank you, Adely—Ada. A coffee shop, huh? Wouldn’t have pictured that, but you were only in elementary school when you left. I’m glad you’re doing well. What brings you back to small-town U.S.A?”
“Passing through. Thought I would stop to see Mom, check how everything has changed, that sort of thing.”
“Where’s your final destination?”
Now you’re getting a bit nosey. “Haven’t decided actually. Just wanted to drive on this coast for a bit. Enjoyed Portland, swooped by Tillamook, I think I may end up in San Francisco by the end of it,” I lie.
Her eyebrows rise into sandy blunt bangs. “Must be nice. So, what can I getcha?”
With the shifted mood, I order my pimento cheese sandwich and Italian vanilla soda. I add a smile and quick thanks to break the tension.
“Of course, hon. Just happy to see you after all these years. Depending on how long you stay, maybe we could catch up? Been a while since I’ve seen a new face.”
I am stunned by her suggestion. I nod nonetheless. What else can I do? I try not to seem like a liar or too eager when I tell her it’s a great idea. I regret it as soon as I say it, but I tell her, “I am staying at the cabins. Cabin 4.” There are only three places to stay in and around Silynn: the cabins, the hotel, and the motel. “Call me when you get off work tonight or tomorrow.”
“Lovely! Your food will be out shortly.”
It is so quick, I question if said food is pre-prepared. My pimento cheese sandwich is not as good as I remember, but the amount of cheese sticking to the roof of my mouth is the same. The Italian soda is better as if I can appreciate its flavor in a way I couldn’t before. The syrup coats my taste buds and makes the last bites of my sandwich confusing and off-putting. I gulp them down quickly and go back to slurping the dredges of my soda.
“Hailey, can I get another vanilla soda?”
“At least some things haven’t changed,” she says. Her smile would be the same as it had been in 1988 if she still had multi-colored banded braces.
Back then, she snuck me sips of her soda while I had spoonfuls of strawberry sorbet. My mother would not allow me to drink soda. “Rots your teeth,” she’d say. But Hailey had let me do a lot of things I shouldn’t have when I was six, including walk home alone so she that could spend time with her boyfriend, Billy. I believe she ended up grounded for going to Prelk Hill to neck instead of taking care of me, though; drinking soda didn’t rate.
Seeing her, I know I still blame her a little for that day, even though I have long since forgiven her teen stupidity. If it hadn’t been for Hailey, I would not have found Laura Hurst.