CHAPTER 9
Mama and I had a routine, our life a well-oiled machine that worked. Nights I cooked dinner, she did the dishes and cleaned up. On the weekends, we cooked together. Most of our social life revolved around cooking, growing, or eating food. But that was life, especially for a woman, in the South. Other women might take offense to that, but I liked to cook. And I loved to eat. And nobody made food that compared with what came out of your own garden and kitchen.
I get that living with Mama wasn’t exactly the sexiest concept around. I knew that some people found it odd. But we’d always gotten along, and given our limited incomes, we’d needed the financial assistance of each other.
Mama had grown quiet since I’d gotten the job with Ben. I hadn’t told her about the money yet, but I could feel the wings of my freedom flexing, pushing on the bones of my shoulders.
I needed to tell her about the money.
I needed to tell her about my plan, not that one had been formulated yet.
I needed to tell her that I was going to leave.
She needed to know that, soon, she would be alone.
I could hear her moving in her room, heard the scrape of a hanger on the rod, her floor creaking. It was a good time to tell her, as good a time as any. I folded down the corner of the page I was reading and closed the paperback, before setting it on the table.
Her door was open, and I leaned against the doorframe and watched her, her hair damp and in rollers, her nightgown sticking to her legs, her feet pale, toes that no one but me ever saw painted dark red. She glanced at me when she turned to the bed, the laundry half-sorted, her hands digging through the pile and pulling out socks.
“The movie,” I started. “You know… my job with Ben.”
“Yes?” She paired two socks with quick efficiency and rolled them.
“I’ll get a lot of money from it. Enough to—”
“Leave town.” She set down the roll of socks and looked up at me.
“Yes.” Leave her. That was really what the root of this problem was, and I tried to find the words to explain…
“Don’t worry about me.” She stepped around the bed and toward me. “That’s what you’re doing right? Feeling guilty?”
“You could come,” I offered. “There’s not anything here—”
“Summer.” She stopped me, putting a firm hand on my arm. “Let’s go sit on the porch.”
We turned off the front porch light in an attempt to ward off mosquitoes, the moon beaming at us across hundreds of neat cotton plants. I will miss our porch. I thought about that as I settled into one of its rockers, the tension leaving my shoulders in the first push of my foot on the railing. It was hot as Hades outside, the battle against mosquitoes a constant fight, but still. There was something about the absolute solitude that I loved. It grounded me, calmed any anxiety in my bones.
“Quincy was a great place for you to grow up, Summer.” The words floated over from her rocker, the creak of her chair moving her shadow back and forth beside me. “The people here are good. I know sometimes, with the way you’ve been treated, that it’s hard to see that, but—”
“I know.” I spoke quietly, and the words came out clogged. I cleared my throat and spoke louder. “They are.” I meant it. I’d never really know anywhere else, but I understood, deep in my bones, the beauty of the town, of the people who lived there. Even with the hatred toward me, the disdain I could feel in their looks, this town still loved me because I was one of its own. A bastard child, yes. A non-native, sure. But there wasn’t a person in our county who wouldn’t stop to help me if I broke down on the side of the road. Not a soul who wouldn’t pray for me in church if I fell sick. If Mama lost her job tomorrow, our fridge would be stocked with casseroles and our mailbox filled with donations. I didn’t think there were a lot of places in this country like that. I thought it took a town of a certain size, of a certain mindset, to be that way.
“It was a great place to grow up,” she repeated. “But you are a woman now. And you need to find your own place. I know that. I wouldn’t be a good mother if I tried to hold you back. I’m just sorry that I couldn’t, financially, put you on this path sooner.”
“I could have left before, Mama. Plenty of times.” And I could have. I could have gotten a job in Tallahassee. Or taken advantage of the Hope Scholarship and gone to Valdosta State or Georgia Southern. Gotten student loans and been on my merry way. I didn’t really know why I didn’t. It just never felt right. And my desire to leave Quincy wasn’t ever strong enough to prompt action. Then Scott and I started dating, and any thoughts of leaving were discarded. Funny how love could spin your life in an entirely new direction before you even realized what had happened. And when you did realize, you didn’t care because the love was bigger than you and your wants.
Our love had been bigger than me. That’s what had made its crash so devastating.
“Where will you go?” Mama’s voice was calm, as if I hadn’t just taken her world and broken it in two.
“I don’t know.” It was the truth. I had no idea where I’d go. “Do you want to come?”
I felt her hand find mine, her grip strong and loving. “No sweetie. But you will always have a home here, and with me. Let that give you the confidence to take risks.”
It was a sweet sentiment. I continued to hold her hand, our rockers moving in sync and tried to figure out how much, out of the twenty thousand, I could spare and how long that small amount would last her.