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Melissa glances down the path she takes, then back at me. She pauses for a few seconds, then releases a breath and beckons toward the house.
“Let’s go in.”
Without waiting for my response, she turns and heads inside. It’s exactly like I remembered – green walls, patterned couches, her teacup collection, a cluster of colorful seashells on the table. The house has an earthy smell – one thing that’s unfamiliar. Everything else is just the same, including the scratch marks on the couch. They were made by Klaus, our cat. Well, Mom’s cat.
“Every time I look at those scratch marks, I think of her,” Melissa says, holding a tray containing some warm drinks and cookies. She sets it before me. The gesture is…strange somehow. Like I’m some guest, instead of someone who grew up here. The house feels strange and familiar at the same time.
She places her long slender hands over her crossed legs. Willow thin, with a full head of long wavy hair and milky-white skin, Mom has always looked like she’d never age. Even now, after years of not seeing her, she looks almost the same. Not a hair out of place. Nails painted a shade of red – the only color she’s ever worn. Melissa Reynolds has always been a creature of habit, never deviating from her plans or routines. The fact that she chose to be here instead of on her run is still a surprise.
Her large dark eyes hold mine.
“When did you arrive?”
“Three days ago.”
She nods. “How long are you staying?”
Until my mission is complete.
“Not sure yet.”
Her eyes light up. “ok.”
I say nothing.
She gestures to the tray. “Won’t you have your drink? It’s getting cold.”
I stare at the cup. When was the last time I had hot chocolate? I raise the mug to my lips and take a sip. It tastes exactly the same – rich and creamy.
“Never had chocolate like yours, mom. Not even in Paris.”
Her eyes crinkle as she smiles.
“Ah, Paris. Beautiful place.” She sighs dreamily. “Your father and I –”
I drop the mug and clear my throat.
She looks away and sighs. “I’m sorry. Old habits.”
She rubs her hands, biting the corner of her lip. And just like that, the tension creeps back in, enveloping the room. I take another sip of hot chocolate, ignoring the cookies. I shuffle my feet on the soft rug, staring at an orange seashell. Memories of our travels as a family flood my thoughts. Eight-year-old me, playing in the sand, laughing with a tall man with smiling eyes. His hand ruffling my hair. Holding up a seashell and beaming with pride.
“He loved those seashells,” Melissa says. “He was so eager to show everyone he could, but he never gave a single one away, not even the broken ones. He was always so proud of you.”
My jaw clenches. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Don’t pretend everything’s normal.”
She intertwines her fingers and places them on her knee. Her throat moves as she swallows.
“I just want us to work past this. I know it won’t happen overnight, but I want us to someday…I want things to go back to how they once were. Will you come back soon? We could have dinner together.”
I look at her over my shoulder. Her eyes are filled with anxiety, and her smile is strained. The last time I was here, things were so different. Since Dad died, we had no one but each other to hold on to, and everywhere I went, I took her along. She saw so many of the things I saw from here in Gainesville.
“Just like old times,” she adds in a whisper.
“I can’t promise that.”
