Page 9 of Forever & Always You

“ Please stop screaming every time I appear.”

The shriek dies in Mom’s throat and she flies across the patio, wine glass in hand, oversized sunhat bobbing on her head.

“What happened to you, Gabrielle?”

There’s genuine concern in her panicked eyes as she studies me, whipping off her sunglasses for a better look at the dried blood in my hair. I flinch when she brushes her manicured nails over my fresh sutures. She gasps, horrified.

“ Gabrielle! Are you on a bender? What have you taken?”

She really needs to drop this drugs agenda she keeps pushing. I’ve never touched a narcotic in my life—unless the two puffs of a joint in my freshman year of college counts—so Mom’s constant accusations are way off the mark.

I sigh and dodge her investigative hands. “I’m not high. I’m not drunk. I’m just laughably clumsy,” I explain. “I’m concussed, so don’t lecture me, because that’ll only delay my recovery. Capisce? Good. I’m going to grab a shower, then I’m heading back to Durham later.”

Mom nudges her sunglasses back over her eyes and sips her wine like it’s not the middle of a weekday. Oh, to be a lady of leisure, drinking wine on the patio lounger under the sun while reading a steamy romance novel. “And when you go back to Durham, hmm?”

Clearly, she hasn’t taken heed of my warning about the no lecturing allowed.

“Yes, Mother?”

She purses her lips and says, “Don’t be so sarcastic. It’s not ladylike. Have you considered re-enrolling at Duke yet? I think it’s time you finished your final year.”

The sting of the anesthetic injection hurt less than this.

To be fair, my mother’s questions are valid.

I dropped out of Duke University three years ago when I was twenty-one and Dad passed, and I was a mere twelve months away from graduating with my bachelor’s degree in economics.

My mental health was in the depths of hell and I needed time to heal before I could resume my studies in a productive, positive way, but my break from school slowly spiraled into something much bigger.

Now, after three years of enduring my bad karma, I’m not sure where to even begin with my return to Duke.

I absolutely want a career, something to build and become successful at, something fulfilling. A little like Austin.

“I’ll work on it,” I tell Mom, and I ignore the doubtful arch of her eyebrow behind her sunglasses as I head into the house.

I’m not entirely sure how she fills most of her days without Dad around anymore.

She sunbathes in the yard, attends the country club and heads out for power walks to keep fit, but I’m not sure how truly happy she is.

With both Zach and me out of the house for years now, I wonder if she’s lonely.

This is a big house to be so silent all the time.

“Zach?” I call out, but I get no response. He’ll be off trying to fix things with his fiancée, I bet. At least I’m not the only one trying to repair damage around here.

I spend far too long in the shower, because it’s easy to take advantage when I’m not the one footing the utilities bill. My back pressed to the wall, I stand for an eternity under the heat of the water, and I grit my teeth as I rinse out my hair, the sutures nipping.

By the time I’ve dragged myself out from my incubator of warmth and calmness, I’ve replayed this morning’s events with Austin a thousand times over in my head.

There were fleeting moments where it seemed he still cared about me a little.

Like holding my hand at the hospital, and paying my parking fine, but I’m not sure if those count when he was cursing at me in the same breath.

I pull on some clothes from the bag I packed last night and call up my property manager again, chasing an answer as to whether or not he’s sent a plumber round to my apartment yet.

The answer is no, so now I’m left with the same three options I had yesterday: stay here over the weekend, live in my apartment with no water, or get a hotel.

As I’m debating my options while blow-drying my hair, my bedroom door swings open. Like, what ever happened to privacy? I turn off the hairdryer and stare at my mother expectantly.

“Gabrielle, I’ve been knocking. It’s rude to ignore me.”

I pointedly glance at the hairdryer in my hand, then back to her, wondering if she’ll realize on her own that I clearly can’t fucking hear her knocking, but her disapproving frown never falters.

She notices my small suitcase on the bed, zipped shut.

I’ve already told her I’m going back to Durham, so she has no idea I’m still considering the option of crashing here all weekend.

“Will you at least stay for dinner before you hit the road? I’m preparing salmon,” she says, and I honestly don’t know what shocks me more: her asking me a question that isn’t related to my disaster of a life, or her preparing dinner herself.

And I do love salmon. Damn it.

“Yes, of course. Thanks, Mom.”

“Ready in fifteen,” she says, then closes my door on her way out.

Growing up, dinner was always prepared, cooked and delivered.

Gourmet recipes that my mother picked out weekly in advance from a whole catalogue of choices, and late every afternoon, our dinner would arrive, with only a quick heat-up required.

As I got older, it dawned on me that we didn’t have our meals prepared by chefs because we had money—it was because Mom can’t cook for shit.

Maybe that’s how she’s filling her time these days.

Maybe she’s been practicing her cooking skills.

She was always very conscious when it came to nutrition, and as a result Zach and I were well-fed, healthy kids.

If Mom saw the crap I eat on a daily basis these days, she’d feel aggrieved that all her hard work of counting macros was for nothing.

Hell, I even grabbed a cheeseburger from McDonald’s on my drive home from downtown.

Okay, fine. Two cheeseburgers. I’d been through an ordeal.

I blow-dry the rest of my damp hair, work some mousse through my curls so they have at least some degree of texture and style to them, then head downstairs. I decide, just in case I need to ask for her permission to stay here another night, that I’ll be nice to my mother.

“Can I help with anything?” I offer as I enter the kitchen.

Classical music fills the room, candles flicker, and Mom sips yet another glass of wine while simultaneously searing salmon steaks in a pan over the stove. Over her shoulder, she says, “No, honey, just take a seat at the table.”

I head through to the dining room and find Zach already seated, drinking the same white wine as Mom, while texting at rapid speed. He sets the phone down with a sigh.

“Oh, you’re back,” I say.

“And you’re still here.” Zach suggestively lifts the open bottle of Chardonnay, and I hold out my glass for him to fill.

As I sit down, my stomach twists uncomfortably.

Dad always sat at the head of the table, and I think this may be the first time the three of us have sat down for dinner together since he passed.

An image forms in my mind of Mom sitting at this dining table all alone every single evening.

She may not act like she’s happy to have both us kids intruding upon her solitude, but deep down, I bet she’s glad of the company.

My mother has her faults—her many, many faults—but the one thing I can’t criticize her for is how deep her love for my father was.

She loved him fiercely, as he loved her, and their marriage was perfect despite their differing personalities and morals.

“No luck with Claire yet?” I ask Zach, tasting the wine.

“Getting there. Things are cooling down, so I’ll hopefully be back in my own bed tomorrow night. Ain’t relationships fun?”

I snort, because my longest relationship since high school lasted approximately four months and was a complete and utter waste of my time. Dating hasn’t exactly been at the forefront of my mind. “How the hell would I know?”

Mom breezes up to the dining table with trays of food. She sets down a pan of gorgeous honey garlic salmon steaks topped with lemon wedges, complemented by sides of steamed asparagus and rosemary potatoes. I’m seriously impressed.

“You made this yourself?”

“She cooks now,” says Zach.

“Zachary, no phones at the table,” Mom scolds, and he rolls his eyes and compliantly stuffs his phone in his pocket, because even at his big old age, he still has to follow his mother’s rules. “So, you aren’t driving back to Durham tonight, then?” She nods to the glass of wine in my hand.

“Guess not,” I say, taking a large gulp.

Having Zach around might make staying here again tonight that tiny bit more bearable. Especially if we just get drunk on Mom’s expensive bottles of wine. Maybe it’ll even be fun, like a very grown-up sleepover.

The three of us begin filling our plates, and just when I’m about to take my first mouthful of salmon (and I’m practically salivating with hunger at this point despite my two sneaky cheeseburgers in the car earlier), the doorbell rings.

The house is so huge, the sound reverberates from room to room.

Mom looks at Zach, Zach looks at me, and I look at Mom. Our expressions are equally blank.

None of us are expecting anyone.

“Excuse me, you two,” Mom says, scooting her chair back from the table and smoothing out the crease in her pants. “Let me see who that could be.”

I take my first bite of salmon and smirk at Zach across the table. “Maybe it’s Claire begging for you to come home.”

“One can dream,” he says.

We eat silently, listening out for any tidbits of conversation, but we hear precisely zilch until footsteps make their way back to us. Mom pokes her head into the dining room, toying nervously with her pearl necklace.

“Gabrielle, there is a man at the door asking for you,” she says, and of course I get shot down with her infamous look of betrayal. “I didn’t know you were involved with anyone right now. Why don’t you ever tell me things?”