The Opposite Of Tidy (38 page)

“And call me when you get there. And don’t let yourself get too chilled if you’re going in the river. And be careful.”

“Thank you, Mom! Thank you!”

Junie ran upstairs to get a few things. She passed the room where Thomas had died. It was a guest room now.
The Kendra Show
designer had furnished it with a new bed, and a comforter that played on the burgundy walls and the custom drapes. Three square picture frames hung above the bed. In them were black-and-white shots of Thomas. Nigel had helped her mother pick them, and then had sent them away to be restored and blown up. He’d had a set made for Junie’s father, too. When the photos had shown up at his place, he’d called and spoken with Junie’s mother for over an hour. Now they were in counselling together, talking through what they had not even been able to mention just weeks before. Junie wasn’t naive. She didn’t think her family would ever go back to the way it was. And she didn’t want it to, anyway. But it was nice that they were being human to each other. Gentle, even. Even if it was years overdue.

This was an adult room now, maturely decorated, but Junie could see Thomas there if she closed her eyes and took herself back. She wasn’t sure if it was a memory or a creation of her mind, but she could see the blue curtains dotted with clouds, the crib with the bird mobile above, the little baby kicking his chubby legs, turning his head to look at her as she stood on her tippy-toes, fingers gripping the wooden slats.

There was a moment while
The Kendra Show
was
there that Junie had known things were going to be okay. The camera crew had been wedged into the corner of the room, right about where there was now a small leather chair sitting at a smart angle, a reading lamp leaning over from behind. Nigel had been at her mother’s side while she went through boxes of old books. She’d slowed down, wanting to keep most of them.

“You can’t keep this much,” Nigel reminded her. “You need to get rid of at least 90 percent of everything in this room, 90 percent of everything in this house. I’m going to give you five minutes, and I want you to get what you want from this room.”

Junie’s mother just stood there, looking around, a book in each hand. “I can’t.”

“Four minutes.”

“That’s not enough time!” Panic filled her voice. Junie stood in the doorway, wanting to go help her, but knowing better. Her mother had to go through this on her own. “I can’t!”

“Three minutes, Marla. Think. What in here is truly important to you?”

“Thomas,” she whispered at once. “But he’s gone.”

“He is gone. You’re right. He’s not here any more.” Nigel softened his tone, but persisted. “Your house is burning down, Marla. You have a minute to get out of here, what do you take?”

She looked at Junie just then, her eyes clear, her gaze solid, expression warm. “Junie. She’s all that I would take. Everything else doesn’t matter.”

Junie and Wade drove along the highway, not saying much. Lulu and Ollie and Tabitha sat in the back. Lulu and Ollie shared a pair of earbuds, heads together. Tabitha had fallen asleep five minutes into the trip.

It grew even darker as they left the city behind them, crossing the bridge, the traffic thinning on the other side, stars dotting the sky over the farmlands. Wade fiddled with the stereo, and on came Patsy Cline, singing “Crazy,” the same song that had played when he’d first driven her home. He glanced over at her and smiled. Junie took his hand, and held it while they passed under the slices of light from a highway exit ramp.

This was what it was like, she thought, when things were normal. Room to breathe. Room to screw up. Room to be right. Room to wonder. Patches of darkness, and patches of light, and the moon overhead.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you to my agent, Suzanne Brandreth! Here’s to our first project together. And thank you to my editor, Lynne Missen, for all the work you’ve done to make this book shine. Many thanks to Mary Ann Blair, for her care and attention to the manuscript, too. Thank you to my mom for providing free child care so I could write, and thank you to Esmé for going along with it. Thanks also to Jack, for being the best partner and personal chef and co-parent. Without her, I could not write at all. And thank you, Hawksley, for being an easygoing baby who happily nursed while propped on my lap while I wrote.