Page 25 of Right the Wrongs (Broken Vows #5)

“Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,” by Cyndi Lauper blasts from the stereo in Bess’s SUV. The windows are down, and Bess and Dolores are singing all the lyrics at the top of their lungs. You’d think we were on some kind of girls’ trip the way they’re partying it up in the front seats.

I appreciate that they both want to be with me today, but a big part of me just wants to be alone. It’s hard to sulk with company. I think that’s the point, though. I’ve had plenty of days spent feeling sorry for myself. It never changes anything.

Bess and Dolores spent some time with their heads together before we got in the car. I just know they conspired as to what the itinerary for today is. It would be nice if either of them would share it with me.

I start to get an inkling when they turn down a street I’d know like the back of my hand.

There are different cars in the driveways.

Some of the houses have new paint, while others look like they’ve been neglected for years.

But I can still see it as it was when I was seventeen.

This has been my vision of what home and happiness are.

Bess pulls in front of my old house and puts the car in park.

It’s been so long since I’ve been down here.

After I had to sell the house, because as a high school senior I couldn’t afford the bills it took to run it, I couldn’t face coming back down here.

I lived in this town for seven more years before Griffin and I moved to Centralia. Not once did I come down this road.

There’s nothing out here except houses. Audrey didn’t live in this neighborhood, so I didn’t have to come down here to see her. There was no reason for me to come here, and I couldn’t face the memories, even though most of them were good, so I didn’t come.

My eyes sting as they fill with tears. I can feel my face twist in that way you do when you’re trying not to cry. It never works, though, not for me at least.

A hot tear slides down my face, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand.

The mind is a weird organ. We talk about the heart when we describe love, but that organ is muscles, vessels, and blood.

Nothing in it contains the ability to love.

It doesn’t hold on to the images of the people after they’re gone.

It’s only fitting that the place where my parents live in my mind is also where my capacity to love them resides.

In front of me is just a house. Nothing but wood, nails, and glass. It’s not alive, and certainly can’t give me the thing that I want more than my next breath at this moment.

Another tear escapes, but I don’t even bother getting rid of it.

It won’t be the last one. Through a watery vision, I can almost see them.

In the driveway, there’s a tan truck. The hood is open, and my father is bent over, tweaking things in the engine.

Charlie moves behind him and fixes whatever he messed up.

My dad really, really wanted to be a car guy, but bless him, he did not have the skills.

I close my eyes, and more tears squeeze out. At this point, I should just admit I’m crying. It’s not an errant tear here and there. My face is blotchy, and I’m one memory away from snotty crying.

The wind blows across my face from the open windows up front.

It’s warm, and somewhere down the block, someone is barbecuing.

In my mind, I’m six, playing tag with other kids from the neighborhood in my backyard while my dad mans the grill.

My mom flits around talking to the wives and girlfriends of my dad’s teammates from his community softball league.

Charlie is there; he was always there back then. Hattie lived with us at that time. I thought she was the coolest person alive, because she was always disappearing with her friends.

I groan and drop my head back against the headrest.

“What’s wrong?” Bess asks.

“I feel like an idiot. Being here, all these memories are coming back to me. I can’t believe I forgot that Donovan and Hattie were best friends back when she was a teenager.

I can’t remember the name of her other best friend.

I think they lost touch over the years. And Charlie, I should have seen it.

I mean, not when Hattie was sixteen, although I think I knew that she had a crush on him.

Don’t tell Griffin I said this, but so did I. ”

Bess’s mouth falls open. “Shut up. Was he really hot?”

“Both of those boys were lookers. So was your dad,” Dolores says with a smile on her face.

“Martin Parker was one of the purest souls I ever met. I was friends with your grandmother, Rebecca, so I watched Elisa grow up. Then I watched her fall in love with Martin. When Rebecca got sick, way too young, she was comforted knowing her girls would be taken care of by such a good man.”

My lip starts to quiver. One after another, memories rush at me.

I press my hands against the window, trying to get a better look, but also knowing that this isn’t my house anymore.

We had our time here, and it was beautiful.

There should have been many more years, but no one is promised tomorrow.

That’s a lesson I’ve tried to remember so I never take for granted that the people I love will be there forever.

“You know that my grandson is a realtor, right?” Dolores asks. I’m thrown by the change in subject, and turn away from the window to give her my attention.

I nod. I’ve met her family as they live just a short drive north of Centralia.

Having a mother and grandmother like Dolores is a gift that they haven’t overlooked.

There isn’t a day that goes by that Dolores doesn’t have a visitor from either her blood relatives or one of our stitched-together family.

“Well, I have been debating whether this would be a good thing to tell you or not, until today. Your old house came back on the market, and my grandson gave me a key so that we can come and see it.”

My breath catches, and I feel my heart stall for a second. In that infinitesimal blip of time, I let myself believe that behind that door, my parents are alive and well. They never went out that night, never tried driving home in the rain, and therefore they never went off the road.

I don’t know what my life would look like if that were true, but I doubt it would be anything like it is. I love my life, and I hate to think that my parents had to die for me to be where I am today.

Without saying a word, Dolores sets the key on the center console.

I don’t hesitate to take it. “You aren’t coming with me?” I ask them both.

Bess shakes her head. “Nah, Wrenegade, I think this is a trip down memory lane for one. We’ll be out here when you’re ready.”

Dolores said that the best way to find what you’ve lost is to start at the beginning. It is the best way to retrace your steps. This would be a lot easier if I already knew what I was meant to look for.

There have been a lot of changes made over the almost seventeen years since I was forced to sell the house. The carpet has been removed and hardwood floors installed in their place. The paint has been updated from the creamy beige everyone had in the nineties to a soft gray with bold accent walls.

I think I understand that saying about how you can’t go home again now. This might be the same house where my family lived, but it’s just not the same home. I guess home isn’t four walls and a roof, but the people who inhabit it. Without my parents, all that’s left is wood and plaster.

Dropping down on the third step from the bottom, I put my head in my hands. “What am I doing?” I ask myself, my voice muffled by my hands.

I take a breath and release, then repeat the process a few times until I’m settled enough to lift my head. Looking around the room, I try to see past all of the changes that have been made since this home was mine.

Try as hard as I can, nothing here remains of my parents.

I’m not sure what I was expecting to find anyway.

Even if our memory has been erased from this house, being here is a gift I never thought I’d get.

When I sold the house during my senior year of high school, everything was so overwhelming that I barely remember much of that time.

I’ve often regretted not having said goodbye to the house.

Not something that an eighteen-year-old would think to do.

Using the banister, I pull myself up to my feet and slowly climb the stairs.

The changes continue on the second level, but it doesn’t have the same effect up here.

My feet start moving before it registers where I’m going.

It hits me when I cross the threshold for the primary bedroom.

Without even meaning to, my instinct is to seek out my mother.

Inside the room, I close my eyes and let my mind wander. Even though it has been years since my mother has stepped foot in this room, I let myself remember the soft floral smell of her perfume. I go into the ensuite bathroom and sit on the closed lid of the toilet.

I know that I’m in an empty house, and that my mom has been gone for nearly twenty years, but I’ve been told over and over again that the ones we love live on in our memories.

If that is true, then I should be able to visit them by stepping into one.

I can’t think of a better place to do it than the scene of the memory.

“Hey, Mom,” I say in a whisper. I have to look up for a moment to keep from crying. If I start now, I don’t think I can stop.

“It’s been a while since I’ve talked to you. Not sure if you can hear me or not, but I really miss you. When the police told me that you were gone, I wasn’t sure how I’d even breathe from one moment to the next. They brought in grief counselors, and they all told me that it would get easier.”