CHAPTER 1
Sawyer
Ugh, that ugly orange and brown wallpaper with the recipe for molasses cookies stares back at me from my mother’s kitchen. The seams are peeling away from the wall, asking for someone to save it from its misery. Sitting in this kitchen as a child, I always thought it was such a great idea to have recipes lining the walls, how ingenious, right? I always thought it was odd though that my mother never followed any of those directions until one day in middle school when I tried the molasses cookie recipe myself and ended up burning my mother’s favorite pot. Until the day she died, she never knew what happened to that pot.
My legs get weak at that thought and I pull out a chair from around the kitchen table. What else did she not know when she died? When was the last time I told her I loved her or that I thanked her for everything she did for me? Did she ever find out about the time I told her I was going to the movies with my friend Lydia but we never made it to the movies because her brother got his truck stuck in the middle of a corn field with us riding with him? She made a comment about how dusty the movies must’ve been when Lydia dropped me off late that night but she never asked any questions, although she must’ve known the truth.
It’s not that I lied to my mother often. We were incredibly close, so much so that sometimes I would pretend to my friends that I had to lie to her so that they wouldn’t think I was weird. Besides, my mother knew I would tell her the truth eventually. Our entire relationship was built off trust because it was just the two of us, a single mom raising a sassy little girl who was exactly like her. We both love to sing as loud as possible when we paint our nails, dance around the kitchen as we cook, and we both hate to drive. I sigh as I repeat that sentence in my mind. I guess I should be using the past tense of that because my mom is gone so she loved to sing, loved to dance, and hated to drive.
No, I shake my head and stand up. I don’t want to think of her in the past tense. I want to think that she’ll walk through the front door, holding a box of Casey’s pizza in one hand and an old VHS of Dirty Dancing in the other. I want one more hug from her, one more song from her that’s louder than the kitchen timer, one more “You know right from wrong, Sawyer,” just one more of everything that only my mom can do. I want my mom. I don’t want her to be dead.
My eyes feel watery but I know it’s not tears, it can’t be. I’ve cried no less than the past week straight so there’s no way in hell that my body can produce any more tears. The thought of having to come back to the place I grew up, to pack up the only home I’ve ever known has been wreaking havoc on me since I booked the flight. My mother died at Christmas, her favorite holiday and I wasn’t even able to spend it with her. I can’t help but wonder if I had been here to celebrate Jesus’ birth with her then maybe she’d still be alive today. My therapist, aka my roommate back in New York, tells me every day that it wasn’t my fault but deep down, I know that it is. It’s because of this that I can’t jump that final hurdle of grief—acceptance.
Looking around her tiny house, I’m overwhelmed at what lies ahead of me. I’ve put this off for as long as possible but I can’t anymore. Taking a deep breath, I pick up a stack of mail on the kitchen table, thumbing through it and setting it back down as quickly as I picked it up. The amount of bills that’s collected in six months gives me a fast reality check that I shouldn’t have put this off so long. My anxiety starts to build and I decide maybe I’d better start in an area less overwhelming.
I walk around the table, trying not to look at the other piles of mail that says God only knows what. A few steps later and I’m in the middle of the kitchen, a space where I can reach every countertop from the center of the room. As a little girl growing up, I used to love standing on the wooden stool with my name on it. My mother would push me up to the counter and let me crack egg after egg until the whole dozen was gone. I always thought that was the secret to her famous chocolate chip cookies, not that she was making a separate, edible batch of her own.
Then it hits me. Here I am wondering what all my mother didn’t know when she died when the real question is what all don’t I know? There are still so many unanswered questions that only my mom knew the answers to. She was my encyclopedia lifeline. If I needed to know how many ounces were in a cup, I’d called mom. If I got coffee on my favorite blouse, I’d call mom. If a boyfriend broke up with me and I didn’t understand why, I’d call mom. Not to mention all the questions I didn’t ask her, like what’s our blood type, what’s the meaning of life, and why she never spoke of my father. Now, she’s gone and all of these life mysteries will never be solved.
Food. I need food. That’s the first place to start. A full belly will get me motivated to empty out this house… or take a nap, either option will both be productive. Hanging in the same place as they did when I was in high school, I grab the car keys off the wall hanger that has old keys bent as hooks. One step into my mother’s garage and I let out a groan, remembering why we both hated to drive. The Beast stares back at me, the mud brown paint sandwiching the khaki stripe that adorns the middle of the 1980 GMC Suburban. The two of us never needed a vehicle this big but money was tight so when my grandfather passed away, my mother inherited the Beast. Living in a town that’s less than two miles wide, the Beast has been able to survive all these years and managed to barely have a hundred thousand miles on it.
Biting the inside of my cheek, I debate whether to walk to town so I can avoid driving this monster or not. Memories of bad parking jobs and the dented fender almost has me convinced to start heading toward town on my own two feet but the rumble of my stomach quickly sways me the other way. Ready or not, Beast, I’m about to take you for a ride.
Garrison
The old dirt roads of Memphis, Missouri, horses on both sides of the road, and one rolling hill after another, I love it. To me, this is home, even if I only live here in between deployments. Granted, I didn’t grow up around here either but stuffy penthouses in random cities aren’t exactly what I like to call home. It’s why when I’m back in the U.S., I head straight for my grandfather’s and don’t even bother to tell my parents where I am, not that they care.
“Next left, Jason.” I point ahead of us where there’s a small gravel road leading up to my grandfather’s two-story house.
My buddy Jason slows his truck and makes the turn, coming to a stop at the end of the driveway. “There ‘ya go, Cocuzzo. Enjoy your time off.”
I pat his shoulder as I open the truck door. “Thanks, man, you, too.”
“Should I plan on picking ‘ya up?”
Shaking my head, I grab my duffle bag out of the back of his truck. “No, I’ll get a ride back into town. I appreciate it though.”
He waves his salutation goodbye and backs out of the driveway. Turning to face my grandfather’s house, I grin and make my way up the front stairs. This house is a walking danger zone for a man my grandfather’s age but he refuses to move. Maybe I should push harder for him to move to an assisted living facility but I don’t fault the man for not wanting to give up his freedom so we both look the other way and ignore the proverbial elephant in the room.
The door is barely open and I can hear the old man moving in the living room. The recliner clicks, snapping the footrest closed. I take a step into the house, closing the door quietly behind me. My grandfather stands up, looking toward the ceiling and not making a move. I smile as he tunes into his old military skills, the ones he passed down to me.
“Garrison? That you?”
“Sure is, Cuzzo.”
“How’s my Navy fighter pilot grandson?” he asks, always looking for an excuse to state my profession, even if it is just the two of us.
I drop my bag and make my way across the room. When the old man is within my reach, I throw my arms around him and give him a hug. I close my eyes, inhaling the minty smell of Cuzzo’s chewing tobacco with a slight hint of my grandmother’s perfume. He keeps a bottle of the fruity fragrance next to his chair so he can take a whiff any time he’s missing her. A strong pat on the back, brings me out of my nostalgia and I open my eyes, pulling away from my grandfather.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were coming home?”
Laughing, I shake my head and look over at the old rotary phone sitting on the hall table. “When was the last time you answered that thing? Does it even work?”
“Look here, boy, just because things are old doesn’t mean they don’t work.”
“Yeah?” I cock an eyebrow and walk over to the table, lifting the phone up to my ear. “There’s no dialtone, Cuz. You gonna let me buy you a cell phone now?”
“Pft, now you’re talkin’ crazy.”
Chuckling, I walk into the kitchen, opening the fridge to get something to quench my thirst. Cuzzo follows behind me, knocking on the doorframe to get my attention. I pause, holding the carton of juice in mid-air, not quite to my lips yet.
“I know you were raised better than that, get a glass,” my grandfather demands, throwing it back to my high school days when I used to come visit him and my grandmother.
I shake my head, amazed at this old man and then do as I’m told. Cuzzo clears his throat and I look around, wondering what I did wrong this time.
“Did you let your parents know you’re home safely?”
I scoff and down the glass of juice I poured. “Now, you’re the one talkin’ crazy, Cuzzo.”
“Garrison, they’re your parents. They deserve to know their only son is alive.”
I empty the carton of juice into the glass. “You’re all out of juice, Cuzzo. I’ll run to town and get some more.”
“Garrison,” he says my name firmly but I ignore him, knowing we’ll have this conversation at some point before I leave and and I prefer it not be now.
“Pulp or no pulp?”
“Pulp,” the old man grumbles, irritated at the change in conversation.
“Got it, I’ll be back in a few,” I answer quickly, hoping I’m fast enough to deflect the topic for now. I head out to Cuzzo’s garage, flipping on the light and immediately, I call for him. “Cuzzo!”
From the shuffling of his feet, I can tell the old man is taking his time. When he gets to the garage door, he’s grinning and I roll my eyes.
“Where the hell is the car?”
“Now, Garrison, you know a man my age shouldn’t be driving,” he says, mocking me about the conversation we had last time I was home.
“Well, how am I supposed to get around while I’m here?”
“Maybe you should’ve called first,” the old man says, laughing as he does.
I narrow my eyes at him and shake my head. “Really fuckin’ funny, Cuzzo,” I mutter, walking across the garage and opening the door manually because the man refuses to get an automatic garage door opener.
“Aw, come on, you’re no fun! Look under the sheet in the corner.”
Glaring at my grandfather, who is really more like an older brother with the relationship we have, I walk over to the sheet, fully expecting a Schwinn 10 Speed. I look over at Cuzzo, shaking my head then pull back the sheet. My jaw drops open at the 1980 Kawasaki KZ 900 with red paint and signature yellow writing. This thing is quick, powerful, and easy to maintain and it looks like it’s in mint condition despite being decades old.
“Thought you might like that better than your grandmother’s old Cady,” Cuzzo says with a chuckle.
“Hell yeah!” I run my hand over the seat, excited about the 82 horsepower engine and knowing this baby can get up to 135 miles per hour.
“I’m told it’s almost brand new, barely ridden so enjoy, grandson.”
I glance over at Cuzzo, now understanding why he traded in the Cadillac for this motorcycle. Both my grandparents hate motorcycles, this is a ploy to get me to talk to my parents although I’m not sure why. First things first, I’m going to enjoy my new ride and deal with the why later.