Kristan Higgins - Now That You Mention It

My computer pinged. Another email...this one from Bobby.

Hey there. Missing you. The place seems too big without you and Boomer. Are you doing okay? Doing your PT? Sleeping all right? Maybe we can talk tomorrow.

Bobby

Damn. I wanted to hear his voice, and I absolutely didn’t want to hear his voice. Was he dating Jabrielle already? Why was he saying he missed me? I hoped he missed me. I was so glad he missed me. I hoped he was suffering and had explosive diarrhea.

But no. I was a bigger person now. Near-death experience, et cetera, et cetera.

Doing fine here! I typed. Boomer loves the island and finds something dead to bring home almost every day. I’m feeling much better and really love getting to know my niece again. She’s fantastic!—Lies, all lies—Boomer misses you, too—Truth—Mom sends her best—Lie—Sure, give me a call tomorrow. I have plans for dinner—to eat survival food with Mom and Poe—but am mostly free in the afternoon.

I hit Send.

It seemed so long ago that Bobby and I had been that couple. That couple in neck braces I’d seen in the ER—okay, fine, not the most romantic image, but you know what I mean. That couple who’s connected by a shimmer of energy. Whose love made other people disappear so that they were the only two people in the world.

He dumped you after you were hit by a car, Nora, said my smarter half.

Chances were pretty high that he’d blow off tomorrow’s call. If history was an indicator, he’d have a patient or coworker who needed him.

I sighed. Then I glanced in the den, where my mother was still working, opened Google and typed in the same words I’d typed a hundred times before.

William Stuart, Maine, obituary. From the little den, Tweety screeched, channeling Edgar Allen Poe’s raven. Boomer whined. Tweety had pecked him on the head the other day, and now he was terrified of the bird. Like owner, like dog.

For some strange reason, my father didn’t have a middle name, something Lily and I had tried to remedy, everything from Toad, as in Frog and Toad Are Friends, to Denzel, as in Washington. It would’ve been helpful in tracking him down, that was for sure.

There were plenty of dead William Stuarts out there and Bills and Wills. But the ones who had the same birth year as my father never seemed to fit.

This time was no different. If my father was dead, I had no way of knowing.

Sitting here, in the house where I had once felt so loved and safe, it was hard to believe that my father had never come back at all.

Never even called.

But maybe, now that I was back on the island, I could find out what happened.

6

On the ninth night of my convalescence, my mother told Poe and me to get out of the house. “I have something going on here,” she said. “Can you two go out for ice cream or something?”

“I’m injured,” I said. “And I just took a Vicodin, so I can’t drive.” Also, Game of Thrones was on, and like any good viewer, I was in love with Jon Snow.

“Then go upstairs and close your door,” she said.

“I’m a little old to be sent to my room.”

“Believe me, you’ll want to go,” Poe said.

“Why?”

“It’s work,” my mother said. But her cheeks flushed.

Now that was odd. My mother never blushed. Ever. Nothing embarrassed her. Once, when I was in high school and Mom was in the throes of a particularly gruesome menopause (or meno-go, as the case was), she’d bled so much at the grocery store that she left a red trail in her wake. She’d opened a package of paper towels, cleaned up and added an economy-size box of adult diapers to our cart. Didn’t so much as flinch.

So her blushing now... Was this one of those sex-toy parties? “What kind of work?” I asked.

“It’s a new venture,” she said, putting Tweety in the cage. At least there was that.

“What kind of new venture?”

“Nora, just get upstairs,” she growled.

“It’s hug therapy,” Poe said.

I snorted. No one else cracked a smile. “Seriously?” No answer. “Mom, if you need a hug, I’m right here.” I tried to remember our last hug. Failed.

“I give the hugs, Nora. I don’t get them.”

“Really?”

“People pay for it,” Poe said.

“Like prostitution?”

My mother frowned. “It’s a recognized therapy—”

“Recognized by whom?”

“—and people are pathetic and will pay for just about anything,” my mother said.

“That’s beautiful.”

“And sometimes, they take a nap here.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Just fix your face and get upstairs. Take your dog with you.”

“Don’t you want him for pet therapy? Which is actually a recognized therapy?”

“Nora, get.”

I glanced at Poe, who, for once, made eye contact. “Does she turn into a pillar of salt when someone touches her?” I asked. “Get!” my mother said, her face redder now.

Boomer raced up the stairs, then back down, then up again as I hobbled up the stairs. Rather than going into our room, I paused. “Let’s spy,” I suggested.

“It’s gross,” Poe said.

“All the better.”

I stationed myself just off to the side of the stairs, where I was hidden but could peek. Poe went into our room and emerged with the pink velour beanbag chair, sat in it, then looked at me. She sighed, hauled herself out and shoved it my way.

“You’re a good kid,” I whispered.

She rolled her eyes.

“So Gran does this every week?” I asked.

“Just in the last month.”

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. “Hello there, Hazel,” Mom said. “Bawb. Jawn.”

Who were Bob and John? I peeked down. Holy crap! There were eight or nine people there. For hugs! From my mother!

“How much does she charge?” I whispered.

“Twenty bucks,” Poe whispered. She almost smiled.

My mother was about to make almost two hundred dollars giving hugs? Huh. Maybe she was onto something.

“You’re all very welcome here,” she said. Holy crap, there was Amy, who’d dated Sullivan Fletcher in high school! She needed a hug from my mother? And Mrs. Downs, who had the best example of resting bitch face I’d ever seen. I worried for my mother; Mrs. Downs seemed like the type to bite the head off a baby polar bear and eat it. Mr. Dobbins, the first selectman of Scupper Island for the past twenty years. A widower, if I wasn’t mistaken.

A thought occurred to me.

My mother needed a man.

“Does Gran have a special someone?” I whispered to Poe.

“A what?”

“A boyfriend?”

“Oh, Jesus, Nora. No.”

“I think we should find her one.”

Poe’s phone buzzed, and she stood up and went into our room, closing the door. I guess we weren’t going to bond over making fun of hug therapy.

I sighed, then turned my attention back downstairs. This was the same spot where Lily and I would spy from on Christmas Eve, waiting for Santa Claus to come. We never did manage to stay awake.

A yearning for my sister squeezed me so hard I couldn’t breathe for a second. My skinny little sister of the milky-white skin and big blue eyes, who used to always be so affectionate, always touching me in some way—snuggled at my side or holding my hand or with her arm around my shoulders, her sweet, sleepy smell that made my heart swell with love every time.

Lily. My little flower.

How had we lost that? How had so many years passed without us being close?

My mom started talking, jolting me out of my memories.

“Welp, you’re all here for hug therapy, so let’s get stahted.” Mom’s accent thickened. “Amy, sweethaht, ovah heah.” I saw slim legs clad in skinny jeans and ballet flats make their way over to my mother’s sturdy Naturalizers. I tilted my head down, making my collarbone flare with pain, but I had to see.