She pointed at the counter. “Someone had to gather the fresh eggs from the chickens. Used to be your job. Do you want them scrambled or fried? Grits and biscuits are cooking, and I’ve got bacon.”

  “Already slaughter a pig this morning?”

  “Store-bought. Sorry to disappoint.”

  “No, of course not. It’s just…” I struggled to explain how things had changed for me. As kids, we’d eaten whatever was put in front of us, or we did without. “I don’t normally eat like this for breakfast.”

  “What do you eat? Or do you even get up for breakfast?”

  I opted not to answer the second question. Explaining a musician’s late nights and subsequent late starts to the day was more than I was ready to tackle. Besides, I reasoned, breakfast was the first meal of the day, even if the day started after noon. “I usually just have some fruit when I get up.”

  She paused with her hands on her hips, her lips pursed in thought. “Too early for apples, but we’ve got some fresh strawberries. Good crop this year.”

  “That’d be perfect.”

  “Good. I’ll get them ready while you chat with Skeeter.”

  I froze. Discussing the hours I kept with my mother was scary enough. Talking to Dad was a whole different level. “He’s awake?”

  “I told you. He’s better in the mornings. Go talk, and I’ll have your breakfast waiting when you’re done.”

  To my surprise, I’d already drained my first cup of coffee. I refilled it and carried it into the rear parlor.

  The window was open a few inches, and a fresh, cool breeze wafted in. The golden hues of the morning sunlight filtered through the sheers, chasing the shadows out of the corners. I could hear songbirds cheerfully greeting the morning. The vibrance of life just outside the window seemed out of place with the dying in the room.

  Dad’s eyes fluttered open and locked onto me as I entered the room. He motioned for me to sit in the chair beside the bed. “Libby tells me I called you Dean yesterday. Sorry about that.”

  “It’s okay, Dad.”

  “It’s just that I see him a lot lately. In my head, I mean. At least, I think it’s in my head. That morphine does a job on your mind.” He shifted on the bed, a bony rustling under the covers. “Not just him. My parents. My sister. Old friends. It’s like they’re waiting for me.”

  I looked at the shadows congregating in the corners of the room and wondered if they watched from just outside my vision. Dean had loved telling ghost stories, but it’d made for many a sleepless night as I warily guarded against evil spirits after the lights went out. It seemed strange to me that they could be a source of comfort.

  Dad brought me back to the present by saying, “Right now, though, I need to talk to the living. So I’m sorry I called you Dean yesterday.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. I couldn’t remember him ever apologizing to me about anything. I sat in stunned silence and waited.

  After a pregnant pause, he continued, “So, tell me about you. Still playing in bands?”

  When had Dad ever asked about bands and music? Haltingly at first, I told him about how I felt on stage, lost in the music and the cheering of a crowd. I explained how Exploding Oatmeal was right on the cusp of a world tour when the randomness of Covid snatched it away. He listened, nodding and his eyes bright as I painted the picture of the other band members. His slight smile hinted he could see the band and feel our excitement for the tour. The shake of his head showed he shared my distaste for the lead singer and his overbearing ways. He grumbled when I told him about finding out a replacement had stepped into my spot on the stage.

  I’d never thought he would been interested at all, but that scrapbook suggested something different. The way he listened to my tales confirmed it.

  When I finished, we lapsed into a comfortable silence. I thought he had drifted off to sleep. Then his eyes fluttered open, and he focused on my face. I couldn’t remember him ever looking so directly at me. “So what’s next? What are you doing now?”

  “I play whenever and wherever I can.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Are you having fun?”

  The question threw me more than the apology had. I wasn’t sure I could answer it. I hadn’t put much thought into it, but doubts swirled. When was music last fun? I tried to speak but could only shrug in response.

  Dad’s hand slid out from under the blanket and gripped my wrist. The fingers were warmer than they had been the day before. “Life’s short, son. I sure know that. And Dean does. You gotta have fun. Promise me that.”

  “Did…” I hesitated, not sure I wanted to ask—or should. Dad, though, looked at me intently, so I plunged ahead. “Did you have fun?”

  A smile spread over his gaunt face. His hand released its grip. “Being out in those fields under the summer sun, walking rows of crops, fixing a broken fence—nothing made me happier. Except your mother, of course. And both my sons. So, yes, I was doing exactly what I wanted to do with my life.”

  “Just like Dean.”

  The smile faltered. “I hope. Sometimes, I worried he was just doing it because he thought I expected him to.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  Silence haunted the room. I worried I had pushed too far. I wanted to take the question back, but I was also curious what the response was. Skeeter replied quietly. “Yes. I always just assumed he would.”

  “But not me.”

  The smile returned, though more wistful than before. “No, not you. I always knew you were going to leave. You did your chores and everything you were supposed to, but this life wasn’t for you.”

  “And that disappointed you?”

  “Not for one second.” Skeeter closed his eyes, and his head sank back into the pillow. With a sigh, he continued in a hushed voice. “That’s not true. Time’s too short for lies. Truth is, yes, I was disappointed. For a bit.”

  That stung. I leaned back in the chair, not knowing how to respond. He saved me by continuing, “Growing up, I itched to leave this place and go out into the world, just like you always did. A few years in the army cured that curiosity. I came back with my tail between my legs, but your pappy took me in like I’d never been gone. He said he always knew I’d return.”

  “And you thought we’d do the same?”

  “Dean, yes. I figured he’d go sow his wild oats and then show up on the doorstep someday.” Breath wheezed in and out. The conversation had zapped the little energy he had. He was fading. “But not you. By the time you were ten or twelve, I knew you’d leave forever.”

  “I was barely playing guitar then.”

  “Not as a musician. I didn’t know that yet.” He turned his head sideways so he could look me in the eye. “Just that you’d go do something else.”

  “And that bothered you?”

  “At first. But then…” He shrugged.

  “What changed?”

  A snicker slipped from him. It sent him into a coughing fit. I grabbed the glass off the table and held the straw so he could get a sip of water. When he’d recovered, he said, “Your mother told me to get over it.”

  “And so you just did?”

  “How did defying your mother ever work for you?”

  It was my turn to laugh. “Not well.”

  “Nor for me, son. Nor for me.” His eyes slipped shut again. He was fading back to sleep. “As always, though, she was right, so I just accepted it. Scared the bejesus out of me, but I accepted it.”

  “Scared?” I couldn’t fathom him being scared of anything other than not getting a good harvest. “Why did it scare you?”

  He slid his tongue across his lips. “I was scared I’d never see you again.”

  His fear had almost come true. If it had been left just to me, it would have. I would never have returned if my mother hadn’t called and told me to. I leaned forward and clasped my hands over his. My voice breaking, I said, “I’m here now. I’m glad I came.”

  Only soft snoring answered.

  17

  When I returned to the kitchen, Mom ushered me to the table and placed a bowl of sliced strawberries with a dollop of whipped cream in front of me. Then she added a plate filled with scrambled eggs, grits, bacon, and fluffy biscuits. When I tried to protest, she retrieved a jar of honey harvested from their hive behind the barn and slipped it into my hand.

  Some people thought eating a spoonful of local honey to keep allergies at bay was an old wives’ tale. As she always joked, she was an old wife, so she knew the truth. She had been giving me honey since before I could walk.

  Besides, I had a sweet tooth, so she had her secret weapon. She knew I couldn’t resist. I didn’t.

  I started with a few bites of strawberries. Then I slathered butter onto the biscuits and poured that thick honey on top. I bit into the warm fluffiness dripping with sweet. My eyes closed in delight as I savored the flavor exploding over my tongue.

  With my appetite whetted, it didn’t take me long to dive into everything. A forkful of eggs was followed with homemade grits, nothing like the lumpy, store-bought instant. Besides, I knew from watching her cook when I was a child that her secret sauce was a jar of fat drippings kept near the stove for flavoring. The chomp of bacon ended the last of my resistance. I ate like I’d been rescued from a deserted island.

  She had learned to cook from her mother and grandmother. Preparing meals for Dad had always been easy. He came in from a hard day of work, hungry and ready for whatever she put in front of him. Dean, with his ravenous appetite, had been just as simple to please.

  Me? I’d challenged her. In my early days when I had been so sickly, I often tried to skip meals. She’d never forced me to eat but always tempted me with flavors and smells.

  She traded recipes at church. When in town, she would swing by the library and check the magazines for meal ideas. She wasn’t bragging when she said she went from being a good cook to a superb one just to please my picky palate. In the years I’d been away, I’d forgotten the joy of a home-cooked meal.

  When people asked what it was like being a musician, I would brag that we ate in fancy restaurants. I didn’t want to admit that truck stops were as good as it got, although many of them were pretty good. More often, though, it was bland fast food. Or worse, day-old bread and sandwich meats on sale at a discount grocery as their expiration dates loomed. More than once, I’d made a meal of stale pretzels from a bar because I didn’t have any cash.

  After several minutes of gluttony, I mopped the last tasty morsel off my plate. I leaned back in my chair and stared at the empty plate in front of me, surprised at how much I’d eaten. The smile on her face and the twinkle in her eyes suggested Mom wasn’t.

  I offered to help clean the dishes, but she shooed me out of the kitchen to the front porch. She suggested I wait in a rocking chair and enjoy the fresh morning air. She assured me she would join me to talk when she was done.

  I stood at the top of the steps and stretched. As stuffed as I was, I would have fallen asleep if I’d followed her directions. My eyes drifted around the yard and settled on the flower beds. Memories of my childhood chores bubbled up in my mind. At the time, I’d thought of them as drudgery, a necessary task to complete so I could move on to something more fun.

  But I also remembered the satisfaction in seeing the fruition of my work. A little sweat produced an obvious result. And since the work was so rote, so mindless, my thoughts would pick at a composition I’d been working on. How many songs had I written while plucking unwanted plants from her gardens?

  I found myself descending the steps to the flower beds and dropping to my hands and knees. I pulled weeds without thinking about it. The cobwebbed memories came back to me, how to grab each growth as low as possible so I could pull it out by the root. The pile of weeds beside me grew as I worked to expose the flowers.

  After some time had passed, the screen door squeaked open and slammed shut. Mom’s coffee mug clinked as she settled it on the table and descended the steps to join me. Without a word, we worked side by side, clearing her flower beds.

  The June sun rose in the sky and warmed the morning. Between it and the steady work, sweat broke out on my body. I stripped off my sweatshirt and hung it from the porch railing. I felt her eyes studying the tattoos running up my exposed arms, but I focused on my task.

  The flowers were increasingly unmolested in their soil. We gathered the detritus and dumped it into a bucket she’d retrieved before moving to the next section.

  Finally, she broke the silence. “Did you have a good chat with your father?”

  I rocked back on my knees and studied her. My suspicions said she’d stood just outside the door and listened. She’d probably suggested what he should say. It certainly was out of character for him.

  Then I decided it didn’t matter if she had encouraged him. After all, she had encouraged me. No matter the impetus, the conversation felt more real than any we’d ever had. “I wanted to ask him about the scrapbook.”

  “Maybe tomorrow.”

  We returned to work and settled back into the old routine of my childhood—exchanging a few words, passing some time in silence, and resuming the conversation again. It was less awkward than the day before. I felt more able to say what I thought to her, just as I had as a kid. “He never paid much attention to my music when I was growing up.”

  “Not true. He went to your talent shows at school.”

  I chuffed. “That’s because you made him.”

  “Not true.” She avoided my accusing look. “Well, not totally. But he bought you that guitar for your thirteenth birthday.”

  That stopped my work. I sat on my haunches, a dandelion dangling from my fingers. I loved the acoustic guitar that Anna had given me, but I’d wanted to go electric as I entered my teens. She’d had one hanging on the wall in her store. I’d been allowed to take it down a few times and play it, but she couldn’t afford not to sell it to a paying customer. “I thought that was you.”

  She smiled. “Every time we went to town, you had to go by there and look at it again.”

  “I wanted it so bad.”

  “I know. I wanted to buy it for you myself, but times were tight. I told Skeeter about it one evening. He went down the next day to haggle over it with Anna.” She laughed. “You should have heard him squawking about how much it cost, but it didn’t matter. He was determined to get it for you. It was a present from both of us, but he bought it.”

  I remembered the day I walked into the store and stared at the empty spot on the wall. I’d tried to feign happiness for Anna as she wished me a happy birthday, but all I could think of was that someone else had the guitar I wanted.

  When I arrived home that evening and mounted the stairs, Dean showed off the new baseball glove Dad had bought him. I opened the door to my own room and froze. The guitar lay on my bed, adorned with a giant red ribbon. The small amp rested on the floor.

  Dean looked over my shoulder and exclaimed, “Cool.”

  I picked it up and played a few chords. Then I raced down the steps, threw my arms around my mother’s neck, and cried, “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

  My father had watched from behind his desk in the rear parlor, never saying a word about his involvement.

  “I never knew.” I focused on my work. My pride grew when I saw the results. The simple pleasure of working in the dirt soothed and relaxed me. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “Because your father’s never been good at talking about things.”

  “He talked to Dean all the time.”

  She chewed on her lip. “About the farm. Sports. Surface stuff.”

  “But he never talked to me about those things.”

  “Because you weren’t interested in farming or sports.”

  I let loose a deep exhale of frustration. “I never understood why it was so easy for the two of them. It’s like they had something special between them I didn’t have.”

  Mom stood and brushed the dirt off her knees. She motioned for me to join her on the porch. “Let me tell you something.”

  18

  I thought I knew the story. How Dean was born forty-two minutes before me. He was healthy, and I wasn’t. But I didn’t know the details. Dean was born a full pound and a half bigger than me. He exited the womb healthy and strong, ready to command the world. His cries filled the delivery rooms. The nurse cooed over him. Mom watched Skeeter hold him, beaming with pride.

  Minutes later, the jubilant atmosphere in the room grew somber. Smiles slipped from the faces of the doctor and nurse. A quick call brought reinforcements, and others crowded in, people she had never met. A nurse snatched Dean from Skeeter’s arms so he could hold Mom’s hand. He did his job, reassuring her that everything would be okay, but she could see the truth in his eyes. They were filled with worry.

  When I slid into the world a few minutes later, just after midnight, I didn’t cry or scream. I didn’t make any sound at all. The doctor snipped the umbilical cord, and a nurse whisked me from the room before Mom could even see me.

  The doctor tried to reassure them. They had neonatal specialists working on me, he said. The team was excellent. I was in capable hands.

  The more he tried to act like everything was okay, the less she believed. She and Dad clung to each other, hoping and praying. They took turns holding Dean, but they worried.

  An hour or two later—though it seemed like an eternity to them—a neonatologist came into the room and introduced himself. With tears in his eyes, Dad held Dean close to his chest and paced the room as the doctor patiently described the issues. Mom’s head spun in confusion. She remembered only snippets. Struggling to breathe. Currently residing in NICU. Neonatal intensive care unit. Great staff. Round-the-clock care. But…

  They wanted to move me to Mission Hospital in Asheville. “Just a precaution,” he assured them, but they thought it would be for the best. “Probably be there for a week. Maybe two. Hopefully not three. But…”

  Another but.

  The specialist lowered his voice and warned that things were touch and go. “We’re doing everything we can,” he assured them, “but…”

 

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