Kristan Higgins - Now That You Mention It

I opened the car door, the smell of pine and wood smoke thick and rich.

Though I wouldn’t go so far as saying it was good to be home—not yet—I knew this was where I needed to be.

I tried to get out of the car, but since my knee was in a brace and I couldn’t bend it, I flopped right back onto the seat, jarring my collarbone, pain flashing all the way into my fingertips.

Being helpless sucked.

Also, my mother wasn’t the world’s most loving caretaker. She was halfway to the house with my suitcases. “Mom? Can you give me a hand?”

“Poe!” she yelled. “Get out here and help your aunt!” She went inside.

The wind gusted, cutting through my jacket, pressing me back into the seat as I struggled. The Dog of Dogs came up to check on me, and I patted his head with my good hand. Dogs beat people every time. “Are you my pretty boy?” I asked. He wagged in the affirmative, then trotted off again.

Finally, the door opened, and out came my sister.

No. It was Poe, but the resemblance was shocking.

My niece was beautiful. Her hair was dyed blue, shaved on one side, jagged on the other. She wore torn leggings and a T-shirt with a skull on it. As she got closer, I could see she was bedecked with black rubber bracelets and more ear piercings than I could count and had a tattoo on her neck.

She looked far, far older than fifteen. But her skin was pure and sweet, and her eyes were the same shade as blueberries, just like Lily’s.

“Hi, honey,” I said. “You got so big.” My voice was husky. The last time I’d seen her, five years ago, she asked me for piggyback rides, which I happily gave. She’d had long black hair back then, and I taught her to French-braid it.

She gave me a dead-eyed stare, looking more like Lily than ever.

“Uh, can you just...” I held out my hand. “Take my crutch, okay.”

She did, and I hoisted myself out, then hopped, grabbed onto her with my good hand and steadied myself. Took the crutch back. “Thanks, Poe.”

“What happened to you?”

I blinked. “Gran didn’t tell you?” Wasn’t it important enough for a mention? “I was hit by a van.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep. I broke my collarbone, got a concussion and dislocated my kneecap. And bruised my kidneys.”

“Gross.”

“Yeah.”

“Can you sue them or something?” she asked with a flicker of interest. “Like, if it was FedEx or the cops?”

“It was Beantown Bug Killers, and no. I was jaywalking.”

The interest faded, and the disgust returned.

We went inside, though she was faster than I was, obviously, and failed to hold the door for me. “Come on, Boomer,” I said, and he trotted in, nearly knocking me over, unaware that he no longer weighed twelve pounds. I followed awkwardly. Poe was already slumped on the couch, engrossed in her phone. Mom was in the kitchen, her yellow parakeet on her shoulder.

The interior of the house was the same. I looked into the little den, almost expecting to see my father there, clacking away on his computer, or Lily, playing with her Barbies on the floor in the living room. The woodstove sat on the hearth of the stone fireplace, a more efficient way to heat the house. Same brown plaid couch, same old recliner, same coffee table where Lily and I had colored and chattered.

Of course, it was the same. My mom wasn’t the type to throw things away, and she could fix anything.

I thought of my apartment—not Bobby’s, but mine, the one I’d had before the Big Bad Event. The pale green couch, the balcony, the pretty throw pillows on the bed. All those lovely things, packed away in a storage unit in Brookline.

“Get away from me, dog,” Poe said. “Is he really going to live with us?”

“This is Boomer. He loves people.” He whined, echoing my message, and licked Poe’s hand. She turned away without looking up from her phone.

I crutched it into the kitchen. Same creaky table where I’d done so much homework.

Mom was pouring herself a cup of sludge. “Want a cup?” she asked. The bird was sitting on a shelf. Near food.

“Does that bird ever go in its cage?”

“Sometimes. At night. Mostly, he flies around where he wants. Coffee?”

“Sure.”

When I was in medical school, my mother came on one of her annual Visits to Boston because I Have to See My Daughter and informed me she’d gotten a bird. Tweety, not the most original name. She taught it (him? her?) tricks, such as eating a cracker held between her lips or sitting on her head while Mom drank coffee. Tweety could give kisses, which made me shudder and envision my mother dying an agonizing death from bird-borne encephalitis. When I called twice a month, I could often hear Tweety in the background, sounding much like a knife scraping against a plate.

But my mother loved the bird and sometimes laughed while describing Tweety’s intellect, so who was I to judge?

Mom set a mug down in front of me. Scupper Island Chamber of Commerce, as boring and unimaginative a mug as could be. Again, I pictured my pretty things—my green-and-blue coffee cups, packed, hopefully, in bubble wrap. I hadn’t been able to do it myself.

I sat down, my knee flashing with pain. “Mom, can I have an ice pack?”

“Bag a’ peas okay?”

“Even better.”

She got one and propped my foot up on an extra chair, then laid the frozen peas on my knee. “How’s that?”

“Great. Thank you.” I took a sip of the coffee (black; Mom didn’t believe in half-and-half or sugared beverages) and tried not to shudder.

She sat down across from me. “So what are your plans, Nora?”

“I thought I could stay here until I was a little bit better. And then...well, I don’t know, really.”

I want us to be close. I miss Lily. I want to love Poe. I was hit by a car, and according to the Hallmark Channel, I’m supposed to come home.

I want to find out why Dad left us, and where he’s been all these years...and if he’s still alive.

“How long till you get better?”

She meant how long till I could move out. Tweety screeched, probably wondering the same thing, and I eyed the bird warily. “I’ll probably need help for a week or two.”

She nodded. “All right. And after that? You goin’ back to Boston, I imagine?”

“I thought I’d stay here for the summer. I took a leave of absence.”

“Now, why’d you do that? You’re a doctor, Nora!”

“I’m well aware of that. But, Mom, come on. I was hit by a van. I almost died.”

“That’s not what Bobby said.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Should I have gotten more hurt for you? Being knocked out cold and lying broken in the street wasn’t quite dramatic enough?”

For a second, I thought about telling her about the Big Bad Event, but I doubted that would impact her. I’d lived, after all. How bad could it have been?

“Well, I’m just sayin’ we don’t have a lot of room here. What with Poe and all.”

“I’ll rent a place in a couple weeks, okay?” I took a slow breath, remembering my resolutions, my new take on life. I was going to be sunshiny again, goddamn it. “I’ve missed you, Mom. I want us to spend time together.”

I sensed she wanted to roll her eyes, but she didn’t. “So we’ll hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s my favorite song.”

That got a tiny smile.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” I said. “And a Vicodin.”

“Don’t get hooked on those,” my mother said.

Wrong daughter to be lecturing about drug abuse. “Thanks for the advice.”

I stood up, positioned my crutch and hobbled into the living room. “Poe, could you bring my suitcases upstairs?”

She inhaled a very long, slow breath, exhaled and raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Sure.”