The brides were beautiful and refused to allow a downed tree to ruin their wedding. Tom snapped several candid shots of both women helping friends and family relocate the chairs and arch to the smaller lawn on the not-so-picturesque side of the restaurant. They wouldn’t have quite the same view, the one now bisected by a massive oak that had tipped sideways, pulling up roots and all from the sodden ground. And the side garden would be prettier in the late summer, when the vine crawling over the terrace thickened and greened. But they would have flowers and an arbor and a nice expanse of velvety green lawn—and from the unique perspective of his viewfinder, Tom could tell that these two would be happily joined in an alleyway behind the kitchen. They just wanted to be married.
Eh, he wasn’t the only one who could tell that. All the guests could. It was clear that they were equally happy to be here, and why not? Two women marrying was still a new and wondrous thing.
As Tom snapped pictures of indulgent and philosophical smiles, he pictured the back lawn of Bossen Hill lodge bedecked with wedding finery. The vista wouldn’t be quite as spectacular as the now-ruined view across the valley, but the surrounding forest and foreground of renovated patio—assuming the cottages were in good repair—would give any event a serene atmosphere, as though the party were enclosed in a bubble of green, tucked away from the world at large.
He’d entertained such thoughts before and had even discussed them with Robert when they put their heads together, trying to figure out a future for the lodge. The final and most important consideration had always been the same, however: where would they get the money? The resort carried no debt; Robert’s investments had made sure of that. But the money he had saved for retirement hadn’t been enough to improve Bossen Hill, merely maintain it. Sort of.
Stowing such thoughts away, Tom checked back through the candids he’d just taken and decided he had enough to fill an album the brides might not want. He made his way over to the larger back lawn to look at the tree. The light wasn’t quite right for the compositions he wanted of roots and sky, but he was able to take some nice abstract texture shots along the trunk.
He was switching out his lens when a voice spoke up beside him.
“Pity about the view.”
Tom turned around to find an older man. One of the fathers. No one was dressed too formally, including the brides, who were outfitted as woodland faeries in all shades of green and fawn.
“I don’t think they’ll let it ruin their day.”
The older man glanced toward the side lawn, a bemused smile slipping across his mouth. “No, probably not.” He looked back at Tom. “You get many requests like this?”
“To photograph faeries on their wedding day?”
The smile happened again. The man shrugged and reached up to worry the back of his neck as though embarrassed by the fact he might have to rephrase his question.
Tom decided to help him out. “They’re obviously very happy.”
“They are. My wife—” his eyebrows dipped down “—tried to talk Emily, she’s the faery with wings, into wearing something more traditional. I think she thought that would somehow make sense of it, you know? Two women . . .” He gestured vaguely.
“You know what your daughter will remember ten years from now?”
“What’s that?”
“It won’t be the tree, or even her wings. Probably not the wings, anyway.”
The older man chuckled and waited for Tom to continue.
“It will be that you’re both here. That her family was with her on her wedding day.
Eyes shining with tears, Emily’s father ducked his head. He nodded, his chin bobbing toward the ground. “Yes. You’re right.” Without making an attempt to wipe his eyes, he motioned toward the side garden. “I think we’re getting ready to start.”
Tom smiled. “After you.”
Weddings often left him mildly depressed, but later, as he tucked his equipment away, Tom only felt unsettled. Not down, not up. Not somewhere in between, either. His emotions were in a state of flux. Uplifted by the energy of the wedding in a false sort-of high, perhaps elevated by the depth of his uncertainty regarding his own future, but tethered to a reality he’d rather not face, even if that face—light-brown eyes and strawberry-blond hair—had drifted through his thoughts all morning.
Tom heaved his bulky camera bags into the back seat of his Toyota and went to offer his final congratulations. He would likely never see the happy couple again. They’d view the proofs through his website and order prints and albums by clicking impersonal little buttons. That was the weirdest part of the job, the disconnect between the event and the product. But his website was definitely more attractive than the “office” he maintained in the basement of the lodge.
By the time he pulled up to the McDonald’s drive through, it was after two and his stomach was eating itself. He couldn’t remember when he’d eaten last, which was usually a good indication that he needed a meal. He ordered a couple of items from the dollar menu and waited with some trepidation to see if his debit card would be rejected. Letting out a sigh when it wasn’t, Tom collected his order and poked French fries in the direction of his mouth as he followed Main Street through Stroudsburg. The road took him past the high school, where he deliberately blanked all memory, and on to the aged-care home where his mother resided. He usually visited on Sundays, but wasn’t sure what he’d be doing tomorrow—except maybe hiding from Frank and everything he represented: dreams dashed and perhaps the most ill-calculated punch of his entire life.
Mountain Manor was the third assisted-living facility he’d moved his mother to since she’d lost the ability to care for herself—or, perhaps more accurately, to care about herself. Long-term alcohol abuse, among other things, had stripped her down to two basic functions: drink, sleep, and a constant desire for both.
The first facility had been a state-run home farther south. Between the distance and lack of personalized care, Tom had been quick to relocate her somewhere closer. Proximity cost more, though, as did the level of care she required. He shrank inwardly as he passed the Manor reception desk, against the fear he might be called to question over an unpaid bill. The woman at the desk smiled and waved, but Tom didn’t relax and start breathing until he was two corridors away.
“Tom!” He glanced up to find Sandra Chen, his ex-girlfriend and favorite nurse, exiting his mother’s room. “It’s so great you’re here! Wendy is with us today and feeling really good.”
“I wasn’t sure if I could make it tomorrow, so, um, here I am.” Tom gave Sandra a peck on the cheek, and she kissed the air on the other side of his face.
She squeezed his arm. “I know Wendy doesn’t always show her appreciation, but she knows you’ve been by. It’s all we hear about for three days afterward. ‘My Tommy came to see me’ she says.”
And not much more than that, probably. There were days when that was all he got out of her too, leaving him with the uncomfortable feeling he should look over his shoulder for his younger self. But Sandra was trying to be kind. She was adhering to the cheerful and optimistic attitude that had made Mountain Manor the best choice for his mother’s accommodation and care. He’d be forever grateful Sandra had helped him place her here, even if his mother had been the straw that broke them.
“Do you think she’d like to go outside?” he asked.
“Oh, sure. She hasn’t been out today. Why don’t you take her for a walk on the lawn? Want any help getting her into the chair?”
He waved her off. “I’ll be fine.”
He knocked and pushed open the door without waiting for an invitation. Sandra wouldn’t have left his mom “undone.” Although there had been the odd occasion when he’d surprised his mother trying to undress herself. She’d gone through a period of being horrified by her clothes—sure they weren’t hers. It’d been his fault. He’d bought her a handful of shirts in light, bright patterns, thinking she’d find them cheerful. Not so much.
Three years ago, she’d broken her neck and hadn’t been the same since. Two weeks in a coma, then she’d had some sort of miracle recovery. That was his mom. She’d ruined all her internal organs with pills and booze. Had had so many pieces of her gut cut away, it was a wonder she managed to digest anything. She’d fallen through windows. Crashed cars. Taken enough sleeping tablets to kill an elephant. Had been caught drinking Windex for Christ’s sake.
But something or someone watched over Wendy Benjamin. Cigarettes might burn to a scorching ember between her fingers, leaving her with scars, but they never dropped onto the bed. Even cancer hadn’t managed to kill her. It was as though she’d spent so much time poisoning her body that the cells couldn’t take a proper hold.
After she’d woken from her coma, a part of her had disappeared, though. She seemed diminished. More content to sit and do nothing, talk about nothing. On the days she didn’t remember much about her life, she was little more than a faded copy of herself.
“Hey, Mom.”
She glanced up with a smile that damn near broke his heart. “Tommy!”
“Saved this for you.” He handed over the sundae he’d bought for her. It was close to being a strawberry milkshake, but she’d enjoy it either way.
“Sweet boy.” She gave him a once-over and narrowed her eyes. “Have you been eating?”
“Now and then.” He grinned.
Clucking her tongue, she held out a hand for a straw and set it into the top of the sundae with a delighted expression. While she sucked down the melting ice cream, Tom looked around her room. It was small, and beneath the slim veneer of “bedroom,” it looked exactly as it was: a hospital room. The windows didn’t open, but the view was nice. His mom’s room faced the rear of the property, where a line of trees hid the highway.
If he allowed his vision to fall out of clear focus, he could almost imagine it was the same view they’d had out of the back of their trailer at Pocono Court. Except the lawn wasn’t as scrubby, and the trees had hidden a creek instead of Interstate 80.
He turned back to his mom. “Want to head outside for a walk?”
“That’d be nice. Maybe we could go to the store while we’re out. I need a few things. Milk, bread. What do you want for dinner?”
“I’m sure we’ve got something here,” he answered. It was easier to go along with her plans and hope she forgot them than explain he wouldn’t be here come dinnertime, or that if he did stay, they’d be eating in the dining room. “Walker or chair?”
She looked from her frame to the wheelchair. “Chair, I suppose. It’s a long way to the store.” She glanced up with a quizzical expression. “Isn’t it?”
“We’ll be fine,” he assured her.
Helping his mother into her wheelchair always upset him a little. Though soft-cheeked, she weighed nothing and her frailty was frightening. If he dropped her, he might break her.
The late-May sunshine crowned his mother’s silver hair as they made their way along one of the paths circling the home. For a while, she seemed to simply enjoy the outing. Then the questions started. She did better with questions than answers for some reason.
“How’s work?”
“Good. Had a wedding today.” He described the brides’ costumes and all of the ceremony, hoping she’d have a good reaction. Her mood could swing abruptly from “isn’t that lovely” to something less charitable in a nanosecond.
After listening, she nodded her head gently. “Maybe I should have tried that.”
“What?”
“Being with a woman. Then you might have had two parents.”
Tom leaned down to kiss her temple. “I had you.” In an effort to direct their conversation away from potential pitfalls, he asked about the storm. “Did the power stay on here?”
“No idea. I was asleep. How did you do? Where are you living?”
“Still out at the lodge.”
“What happened to your place?”
For a minute, Tom couldn’t remember what he’d told her about his house. He tried to stay close to the truth so this sort of thing wouldn’t happen, but the late night and long day were starting to catch up with him.
“Robert needed more help getting around after his second heart attack. I moved up there a while back.”
“How is he doing?”
“Robert passed away two weeks ago.” Sometimes her talkative days were more trying than her quiet ones.
His mom turned in her chair to look up at him. Reaching over her shoulder, she gripped his wrist. “Tommy, I’m so sorry. I know he was like a father to you.”
With a lump blocking his throat, Tom could only nod.
She patted his hand before letting go. “I suppose that will mean Frankie might come back.”
“What makes you say that?”
One shoulder shrugged. “Whatever happened to him, anyway?”
“He’s a journalist.” There was no point in reminding her that he’d told her this several hundred times. “He travels all over interviewing interesting people.”
“That’s right. He’d be good at that. He was always a talker, Frankie.”
Tom smiled. “Yeah, he was.”
“You were so sad after he left.”
He answered with a shrug.
“You never found anyone else like him, did you? I liked Sandra, but she didn’t understand you the way Frankie did. He knew you needed someone else to do the talking and the walking and just all the doing.” She patted his hand again. “And that’s okay. We’re not all able to do it for ourselves. Look at me.”
“You did okay, Mom. You always did okay.”
She hadn’t. His mother was too much like him. Not strong enough to cling to what was necessary and too closed off to admit it hurt when they were left behind. He didn’t often contemplate the pattern of his life in her reflection, but when he did, Tom couldn’t say he was surprised by the fact he owned nothing and lived nowhere. That he relied more on the kindness of strangers than his own talent for anything. But if he’d done one thing right, it had always been this. He hadn’t always loved his mother, and she often frustrated him to the point of madness. But he hadn’t left her behind. No. He’d always been there and he always would be.