Bittersweet Homecoming (4 page)

“Yeah. I write plays.”

I could make more money writing for a TV show or adapting someone else’s novel into a movie script, but the theater was my first love. I remember getting bused to Canada in high school for a class trip to see
West Side Story.
I’d never seen a live professional production of anything before, having grown up in such an isolated area. The production, which—looking back on it now—was probably nothing more than community theater rather than a traveling Broadway company, had blown me away. I’d sat in that darkened theater, enraptured by the drama and the emotion and the beauty of it all. For weeks after, I couldn’t stop humming about having just met a girl named Maria.

“Fancy,” she remarks.

“Not really.”

She jerks her thumb toward the Grand Marais Hall of Fame display behind her. “You’re on that wall, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, but so is Mike Ballister for winning a pie-eating contest at State Fair.”

“Good point,” she chuckles. “Maybe we should be a little more picky about our local celebrities.”

She reaches beneath the bar and produces a bottle of Labatt Blue Light. She twists the cap off and throws it a few feet where it rattles against the back of a metal garbage can.

“Nice shot,” I admire.

“I’ve had a little practice,” she returns with a sly grin.

I take a quick drink from the long-necked bottle. I haven’t had a Labatt in ages; the taste instantly brings me back to hot summers in high school.

My purse begins to vibrate, followed by the obnoxious ringtone of my cell phone. “I’ve really got to change that,” I mutter as I fish around my bag for the missing phone.

Charlotte chuckles. “It’s certainly an interesting choice.”

I half expect the caller to be Kambria, her girlfriend radar sensing me eyeballing an attractive woman, but instead it’s my friend Anthony. I met Anthony at a fundraiser where he’d been performing in a drag queen fashion show. The man knows more about makeup application than I could ever hope for. Even though we’ve only known each other for a few months, I consider him one of my closest friends.

“If you need anything else, just flag me down,” Charlotte offers.

“I will, thanks.” I hit the answer key and press the phone to my ear. “Hello,” I answer, my eyes still on the attractive bartender as she walks away to wait on another patron.

“Hey, girl,” the warm voice on the line greets me. “I wasn’t sure if you’d have cell reception up there in Canada.”

“I’m in Minnesota.”

“Same difference,” Anthony defends. “All magical talking moose and Vikings, right?”

“You know it,” I chuckle. I pick up my beer bottle and tip it back. I’m nearly at the bottom of my beer already. I’d have another, but then I’d have to make eye contact with Charlotte again, and that feels like a bad idea.

“I’m doing my best not to be upset that I had to find out from your
agent
that you were out of town,” Anthony complains. “That’s like getting your local news from TMZ.”

“I had to leave in a hurry,” I explain. “And it’s been kind of nonstop since I got here.”

“I know. But don’t forget you’ve got people here who love and care about you.”

“Have you been watching the Lifetime channel again?” I lightly tease.

“Can’t a girl be a little sentimental without you getting all judgmental?”

“I’m sorry, Anthony,” I apologize. “Compassion makes me a little itchy these days.”

“Think there’s a cream for that?” he jokes.

“Don’t worry. Once I get back to LA, I’ll be cured.”

“Which is when?” he asks.

“I’m not sure. I’d like to hang around until my sister starts acting a little more like herself, but I don’t know when that will be.”

“You take all the time you need. I’ll make sure your jungle doesn’t die.”

Anthony calls my collection of house plants a jungle. I haven’t reached hoarder status, but it’s pretty close. It’s telling, I suppose, that I don’t trust my own girlfriend to water my plants. My friends get that duty whenever I’m out of town.

When I hang up with Anthony, Charlotte makes another pass. “Can I get you another one?”

“I probably shouldn’t. I’ll take the bill whenever you get a minute.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says with a dismissive wave. “Consider it your Wall of Fame complimentary beer.”

“If everyone on that wall gets a free drink, Roundtree’s is gonna go out of business,” I joke.

A wide smile carves across her beautiful face. “I’ll be sure to let the boss know.”

+ + +

Dinner that night with Emily and my dad is somber and uncomfortable. We don’t talk much except to politely ask for things to be passed around the table and a mentioning of the unseasonably warm weather. It’s early July and swimming in Lake Superior might actually be tolerable soon.

“May I be excused?” Emily asks when conversation has entirely fallen flat.

My dad looks in my direction, almost as if he’s asking me for permission. I can only shrug.

“Yeah,” he grunts out.

Emily picks up her plate and fork. She hasn’t eaten much, but I don’t take offense. Even though it’s only spaghetti, I’m not a very good cook, and I’m sure she hasn’t had much of an appetite these days.

My dad and I watch in silence as Emily drops her dirty dishes into the kitchen sink and walks out of the room. He drinks the rest of his bourbon and then begins clearing the table.

“I’ll wash if you dry,” I say, picking up my plate.

My dad waves me off. “You made dinner. I can handle dishes.”

“Then I’ll keep you company,” I offer, hopping up to sit on the edge of the kitchen counter. I look up at the ceiling when I hear my sister’s footsteps creaking above us. “How is she doing?” I ask. “For real.” Admittedly I haven’t spent much time with Emily since I left home for college so many years ago. The girl I remember is different than the woman pacing upstairs.

My dad sighs and slides the marinara-stained dishes into sudsy water. “She’s been more quiet than usual,” he admits. “Since she’s been back it’s been the same every night. An awkward dinner and afterwards, she immediately goes back to her room upstairs. It’s like the World has grounded her or something.”

I keep staring up at the ceiling as if I’ll be able to see my sister through the floor. “I feel like I should try talking to her,” I think out loud. “But I have no idea what I’d even say.”

My dad shakes his head. “I don’t know what’s going to snap her out of this funk.”

“Alcohol?” I unhelpfully supply.

My dad purses his lips. “That sounds like a horrible idea, Abby.”

“I know,” I nod. “Hence why I’m not the person to get her out of her room. Any ideas on who might?”

My question causes my father to fall silent and look thoughtful. The soft sound of dishes clinking and moving around in the water-filled sink fills the emptiness.

“Why do you live in this big house all by yourself?” I ask.

“What would you have me do? Get roommates?”

“No.” The thought of my dad in a
Real World
scenario makes me snort. “I’m just surprised you haven’t sold the house. You could always live above the store again.”

“This is your and Emily’s home. I could never sell it. As long as I’m alive, you’ll always have this house to come home to.”

“Yeah, but don’t you ever get lonely?”

“I’ve had time to get used to it.” I know he didn’t mean to, but his words make me feel like crap.

“What about dating?” I ask. “Is there a special lady in your life?”

“I’ve already got two favorite girls in my life. You and Emily.”

Oh, Dad.

“This was nice tonight,” he says. “And I don’t just mean me not having to make dinner for myself. I’ve missed you, kid.”

I cast my gaze down to my hands. “I know. I should visit more.”

“That wasn’t meant to be a guilt trip,” he says. “I was just making a comment. I know you’ve got your own life out there.”

“But I should still come back more often,” I note, shaking my head. “It shouldn’t just be funerals that bring us back together.”

“How long are you here for?”

“I booked a one-way ticket. I’m not here forever,” I clarify, “but I’d like to stay until Emily is feeling more like herself.”

“That’s really nice of you, Abby,” he remarks. “I was thinking about closing up the shop so I could keep an eye on her, but I don’t know how much of a comfort I can be. Time heals all wounds, right?”

“So I hear.”

“How’s Kambria?” he asks.

I lay my hands flat on the kitchen counter. “She’s good,” I say, staring down at my tanned hands. “She had to work, otherwise she’d be here.”

The truth is, I’d had to convince her to stay back in Los Angeles. Kambria had wanted to be there for my family, but I didn’t want her here. Things had been falling apart for us in recent weeks and privately I’d thought this space, this unexpected distance, might do us good. When I returned to LA, we’d either break up or we’d take the next step in our relationship and move in together.

I’d met Kambria a handful of months ago at a party in LA. The company my agent, Claire, works for—a multi-media organization with clients in all veins of the entertainment industry—was hosting the event, and I’d begrudgingly agreed to go. I really despised those kinds of events because I wasn’t traditionally famous. I’d published two plays and the royalties were enough to pay the bills, but I certainly wasn’t a recognizable name or face, so small talk was hard to find. Those polite or bored enough to ask my name and what I did for a living always got confused when I’d tell them I wrote plays.

“Screenplays you mean,” they’d say with some confidence. “You write for TV or the movies.”

“No,” I’d sigh. “I write plays for the stage.”

Inevitably they’d scrunch up their brow and then leave me for more shrimp cocktail or to take covert photographs with their smart phone of real celebrities. The hint I’d received early on was not to gawk or start a small riot when you saw the hot new actress from your favorite primetime drama standing by the punch bowl. Not that there were actual punch bowls, just stacks of sugary-sweet energy drinks and unlimited bottles of whatever vodka company was sponsoring the event.

Kambria had been hanging out with a group of people, and she’d immediately caught my eye—small, pixie features and a bright, effervescent smile. She was the living incarnation of Tinkerbelle, and I’d actually wondered if she might be employed in Anaheim as a Disney Princess. I’d had no idea how to separate her from the herd—Claire loved to point out how much Game I didn’t have—but when she’d broken away from her friends to stand in line for the bathroom, I’d followed. We’d made the mandatory chitchat about how lucky guys were and how there should be two women’s bathrooms for every one men’s restroom. It wasn’t romantic or a unique meet-cute by anyone’s standards. It wasn’t a grand love story to tell our hypothetical grandchildren years later. But I wasn’t thinking about those non-existent tykes. I was too distracted by her light accent, which I had trouble trying to place.

She’d wrinkled her cute little upturned nose when I’d guessed the United Kingdom, and she’d vowed she would stop humoring my company if I guessed Australia. I gave up too quickly for her liking, but she told me later that night when I had her pinned against an Audi TT coupe in the parking lot that she’d grown up in South Africa. Under normal circumstances I would have grilled her about Apartheid and blood diamonds and Zola Budd, but it wasn’t everyday I had a gorgeous blonde challenging me, pressing her lithe body against mine. Geography was far from my mind.

“You know she’s more than welcome to come and stay at the house,” my dad says, albeit looking a little uncomfortable to be broaching the topic.

I can’t resist toying with him even though he’d been really great when I Came Out to him over the summer of my junior year of college. “Would you let her sleep in my bed?”

“Of course,” he says without hesitation. “And you’d sleep on the pull out couch in the den. I’d never make a guest sleep on that death-trap.”

My jaw falls open. “Dad!”

“What?” His bushy eyebrows rise on his lined forehead. “Call me old-fashioned, but if you’re not married, you sleep in separate rooms.”

That night, I lay awake, staring at the single dome light above my bed. The model airplane is still there. I’d gotten into World War II history some time in middle school, and my dad had helped me build a model plane—a Curtiss P-40 Warhawk with a working engine that spins the single propeller affixed to the nose of the plane. Next to the plane and overhead light is a single glow-in-the-dark plastic star. Emily had stuck it there when we were younger to drive me crazy. Her own ceiling was an elaborate design of planetary systems my dad and she had tirelessly worked on. I had gotten a single star. It was annoying, but over the years it had transformed into a battle of wills between that solitary star and me. It’s amazing that after all of this time it’s still there, and that after all of this time, it still annoys me. I roll over on my side and shut my eyes to sleep.

CHAPTER THREE

I smile when I push the door open and hear the tiny bell jingle above my head. Simply by walking into my dad’s store, my senses are assaulted with memories. Part hardware store, part service center, the shelves of the small shop are stacked with basic tools and home improvement accessories. Emily and I had once played Supermarket Sweep with my dad’s inventory; we’d spend the good part of a week putting everything we’d dumped into our shopping carts back on the shelves.

Grand Marais is too small and too remote to ever attract a big chain store that could put my dad out of business, but even if people do the bulk of their shopping in distant Duluth, they still require my dad’s expertise whenever something breaks. He does it all—plumbing, electrical, construction, even fixing the small motors on things like lawnmowers, weed whackers, and the occasional snow blower.