Wildwood

5. Remember Me

Remember MeThe sun rise is blood red today. I swirl my black coffee in Dad’s travel mug, and watch the sky go through the spectrum of pinks and oranges before yielding to a clear, cloudless morning. It’s the first day of spring, and Mom isn’t watching it begin. Her bedroom windows face west and south. There’s no way she can see it from inside her room. If the spring sunrise can’t draw her from her room, I’m not sure what will.

While my mother has yet to agree to a memorial, Dana has arranged one for the equestrian community, to be held at Wildwood this afternoon. I have tried to drive to Wildwood on my own more times than I can count, and have reached the turn for the driveway, but each time, I turn around.

Today, I will drive down the drive way.

I will park my car.

I will turn off the engine.

I will open the door.

I will get out.

I will.

I walk down the hall to my mother’s room. “Mom? Are you up?”

She doesn’t answer.

“They’re honoring Dad’s legacy today, remember?” I wait a few seconds. “You need to be there.” I tap on her door. “It’s going to be a beautiful day, first day of spring. So many people loved Dad. They just want a way to pay their respects. It’s not a real memorial. It’s a… It’s something else.” I wait a full minute this time. She still doesn’t answer. “Mom, I need you to be there.” I rest my head against the wood, my mind already heavy, what ifs beginning to pick trails down my spine. “I don’t think I can do this alone.”

“I can’t, Tanzy,” she says from the other side of the door. I look down, and can see the shadows her feet in the sliver of air under her door. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“Why not?” I regret asking the question the second it leaves my mouth. Mom hasn’t left the house since the day she knelt at the river. But if the river drew her through her walls once, maybe it could do it again. And if she’s in the car with me, I will make it all the way to Wildwood. If I can’t finish the drive for myself, I know I can finish it for her.

“I don’t believe in it,” she whispers.

“Don’t believe in what?”

“They’re going to sit around and talk about Travis like he’s dead. But what if he’s not?”

“It’s been five months. He’s gone, Mom. Dad is dead! He’s not coming back!”

The door jerks open. Mother stares at me, her eyes dark and narrow, her lips pulled back in a snarl so feral I almost expect her to bite.

“How dare you.” Her black hair spills over her shoulders. “Tanzy Leigh Hightower, you go to that memorial if you want, but don’t you ever call your father dead in my presence ever again until I have put my own eyes on his body. Do you understand?”

I step back on trembling legs. “Mom—,” I start, but before I can finish, she slams the door. I spin and run down the hall and out of the front door. The service doesn’t start for three more hours, but I can’t stay here. I hop in the truck, crank the engine, and roar up my street. Before I know it, the turn for Wildwood appears in my windshield. My breath quickens. The edge of the pasture is visible from here. Its trees sway with a gust of wind. I will my foot to press down on the gas pedal. My leg locks at my knee, refusing to release the brake. I strangle the steering wheel, and even though I can hear myself breathing, I feel like I’m suffocating.

A horn blares from behind me. I jump at the sound, and then turn the wheel and let off the brake enough to roll onto the shoulder. I shift the engine into park and sit back against my seat. I won’t turn around. I won’t drive back home. If I can’t make myself drive, I will get out and walk from here. I turn the key, and touch the door handle with my fingertips. I close my eyes. Just open the door, Tanzy.

Someone taps on the window. I gasp, and my eyes fly open. Dana peers at me through the glass.

“Are you okay?” she asks, and opens my door from the outside.

“I don’t know.” I wipe my eyes with my sleeve.

“Leave your truck and ride with me,” she says. “You can park it over there.” She points to a level place several yards off the road. “No one will bother it.”

I unbuckle my seatbelt and slide out of the car. The wind whistles as it slices a path across the valley. Dana shields her eyes with her hand.

“This wind better not knock down all my decorations,” she says.

“You decorated?” The absurdity of decorations is a welcome distraction.

“I mean, decorations fit for your Dad.” She rolls her eyes. “You’ll see.”

I follow Dana to her truck and climb into the passenger seat.

“I’m glad you came,” she says, cranking the engine. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”

“I almost didn’t,” I mutter.

“You made it far enough.” She moves to shift the car into drive, and then hesitates. “I need to tell you something. We brought in a new trainer at the beginning of the year. We didn’t want to. It didn’t feel right, and I haven’t known how to tell you. I still don’t really know how. But she’s going to be there today, so I don’t want it to come as any more of a surprise.”

“What’s her name?” I stare ahead, imagining someone else standing in the middle of Dad’s arena, teaching lessons on horses he brought in, arranging the jumps he built.

“Kate. She’s nice. She’s different, and the way she teaches is different, but she’s really nice, and she’s doing a good job. We’ve had to hire a few new people. Your dad could do the work of ten men.”

I smile despite the sensation of my face becoming liquid.

“I’d hoped one of those people was going to be you,” she continues. “It still could be. You can have any shift you want. I can work around your school schedule.”

“The school is letting me complete the year online.” I exhale through my nose, wishing I hadn’t told her.

“Tanzy, you can’t stay in that house forever. The kind of help your mom needs, I’m not sure you can give her that,” she says softly. “Is there anyone you can call?”

“You.”

Dana looks away from me. “What do you think you’ll do after you graduate? What will she do?”

“I don’t know.”

“It sounds like you two have some things to talk about.”

“She doesn’t talk. It used to be at least she’d roam the house, but now she barely leaves her room, and if she does it’s at night.”

Dana lets out a sigh. “I thought you were just refusing to come to the barn because of the accident. Tell you what, I will make a couple calls for you and see if we can get a professional to come talk to your mom. I can’t imagine what she’s going through, and five months is not a lot of time to adjust to losing your dad, but you also shouldn’t have to try to carry her grief on your own. You have enough to handle.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, already feeling like a traitor. What will Mom do when a stranger rings our doorbell? Do they make house calls, or will I need to drag her to the car? Either way, she will have betrayal in her eyes when she figures out what I’ve agreed to do.

“Remind me to give you something when we get to the barn,” Dana says as she pulls back onto the road.

I nod, and watch the trees blur by, forcing my eyes to not train on the shadows, to not wonder at the clear.

The parking lot is already full. Dana pulls into her customary manager’s spot; it’s the only empty place let. My chest constricts. Dad was well known, but I hadn’t considered how many people would want to come tell him goodbye. The absurdity washes over me; Mom is right, Dad isn’t here. There isn’t even a body or ashes. What if there’s a big photograph? Is that what we’ll talk to? Will people look at it and smile like he can hear what they’re saying through the canvas?

“Come on,” Dana says, sensing me stalling. “I know a horse who would really like to see you.”

My racing heart calms the instant I think of touching my horse. I slip out of the truck and hurry down the barn aisle. I didn’t think to bring a treat. Harbor’s silvery head and neck appear over the top of the stall door, and her ears prick when she sees me. I break into a run. She snorts and bangs her hoof against her door. I let myself in her stall and slide my arms around her neck, breathing in her salty, warm scent. She nuzzles my pockets, looking for peppermints.

“Not today, girl,” I whisper, and scratch her under her chin. She tosses her head and lips at my hair. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve come out before now. I… I…” I stop, recognizing in this moment a fraction of how my mother must feel. I couldn’t force myself to drive here, just like she can’t force herself to leave. What can I use to make Mom remember that life is still going, the world is still turning, and she’s still a part of it?

“I don’t think she’s minded the extended vacation,” Dana says from behind me. “I’ve had the staff treat her like royalty. But don’t worry, no one else has tried to ride her. I know how particular she can be.”

“Thank you.” I run my fingers through her mane. Her coat glows with health and care, evoking a pang of guilt. Dad always said a horse was a reflection of a person’s integrity, but I can take no credit for how good Harbor looks today. She counts on me, and I am lucky people were there to care for her when I couldn’t.

“I think your dad would want you to have this,” Dana continues. I turn around. Dana’s fist is outstretched. I hold my hand out, and she puts something cold and metal against my palm. I recognize the feel of them immediately: his dog tags. “I found them in his office when I… when I was organizing his drawers.”

“It’s your office now, isn’t it?” I murmur.

“It is.”

I slip his dog tags into my pocket. “Well, if it had to be anyone else, I’m glad it’s you and not Kate.”

Dana gives me a wry smile. “You haven’t even met her yet. You might like her. She’s not much older than you.”

I purse my lips.

“No, no you probably won’t.” She rolls her eyes. “She’s been well received, all in all. It took a little while for everyone to get used to, but I think it helped that she’s so different than your dad. Except she brings a chair to sit in when she teaches.”

“She what?” I raise an eyebrow. “The only time Dad sat down was to drive or ride, or if we forced him to take care of paperwork at his desk.”

“I know, right?” Dana laughs. “I’m sure he’s rolling over in his…” she stops and clears her throat.

My dad doesn’t have a grave. A lump rises in my throat.

“Dana, they need you in the barn yard,” someone says from beside her. A man I’ve never seen before appears in Harbor’s doorway.

“Sure.” She turns to me. “Do you want to come with me?”

I lean into Harbor, drawn to the warmth of her, and stare across the barn and out of the big double doors on the other end. Silhouettes mill around the opening. From here, they look like moving shadows.

“I don’t think so,” I say.

“Okay. Well you know where to find me,” Dana says, and pushes off the stall door. “It’s good to have you back,” she adds, before disappearing down the hall.

All of these people have accepted he’s gone. They’re here to honor who he was and what he meant to them. They are ready to move on in their lives without him. They don’t need me to be here to do that.

I pull his dog tags from my pocket. If I can’t bring Mom to the service, I’ll bring the service to her.

“I’ll be back, girl. I promise,” I say, and give Harbor another pat before stepping out of her stall. The hallway is clear. I jog out of the barn.

“Tanzy!” Dana’s voice calls from behind me.

“I have to go. I’m sorry!” I shout over my shoulder.

“Tanzy, wait!”

I don’t stop until I reach the top of the long driveway, panting and sweaty. A breeze pushes at my back, urging me on, and I don’t rest again until I reach Dad’s truck.

“Mom?” I call out as soon as I open the door. I cradle the tulip I bought on the way home against my side and walk into the kitchen. There’s an empty glass on the counter. She must’ve come out of her room at some point. I head to her room. Her door is open, and her room is empty. “Mom?”

A movement in the window draws my eye. Mom is standing in the yard in one of dad’s plaid shirts and the dress she wore for their wedding, and there’s a picture frame in her hand. Panic buzzes inside of me. What is she doing out there? I whirl around and race for the back door. I half expect her to be vanished or lying flat in the grass when I get to her. But she’s still standing there, eyes closed, bathed in sunlight.

“Hi, Mom,” I say quietly, and tip toe down the wooden porch stairs. “You look really pretty.”

“I’m not ready to say goodbye.” She doesn’t open her eyes.

“We don’t have to say goodbye.” I walk out onto the grass. “What if we just make some place somewhere in the yard where we can go when we want to talk to him?” I squirm; the idea had sounded better in my head, and when I rehearsed it in the car on the way home.

She opens her eyes, and her focus zeroes in on the tulip. “It will die in the winter.”

“I… I should’ve bought a tree,” I say, flushing.

“No, no. This is good.” She takes the pot from me. “Because it vanishes in winter, but then it always comes back each year even more beautiful than before.” She turns the flower around, studying it from all sides. With her this close to me, I smell a faint, warm aroma of Dad’s bourbon on her breath, and I wonder if that would explain the empty glass at the sink, and my mother’s sudden willingness to walk outside. I stare at her, a storm of emotions brewing in my chest. In this moment, the fact she’s out here is more important than whatever it took to make it happen.

“Is the memorial already over?” She furrows her brow.

“No. It’s probably just now starting.”

“So it was a memorial.”

“Maybe.”

She peers at me from her peripheral for a few seconds before asking, “Where should we plant it?”

“You’re the gardener here,” I say.

She moves around the yard. I can’t help noticing that the path she walks traces the border between the light and the shadows in our yard, and I tell myself it’s because tulips need the sun.

“Here.” She points at her feet. She’s returned to exactly where she stood before: a random spot off the right hand corner of the house. As I approach her, I realize she’ll be able to see it from her bed, and I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.

“Should we get a shovel?”

“No.” She drops to her hands and knees, and begins prying at the earth with her fingers. She tears out the grass, and then claws at the dirt. A wet, brown stain creeps up the front of her dress. I want to stop her, but the look on her face makes me reconsider. Instead, I reach my hands in, and scoop out more dirt. Mom squeezes the black plastic pot, loosening the soil. I fiddle with Dad’s dog tags behind my back for a few seconds, wondering if I should try to sneak them into the ground or if I should tell her I have them.

“Go ahead,” she whispers. “Whatever it is that you have, just go ahead.”

I bring my hands to my front. Sunlight flashes on the metal plate.

“If that’s what you need to do, go ahead,” she repeats.

I drop the tags into the bottom. Mom tosses in a few handfuls of loose dirt before gingerly places the tulip, and then we fill in the rest of the hole.

“I can go get some water,” I say, standing.

“No need. The ground is plenty damp, and it’s going to rain in about an hour.”

I peer at the sky, which is streaked with a few wisps of white clouds.

“You go on in. I want to stay out here a little while longer,” she says.

“Do you think we should say anything?” I ask.

“No. This isn’t a memorial, remember? This is here so we can come say what we want to say when we want to say it.”

“Okay.” I stare at her, bewildered. This is probably the most she’s spoken in five months. What changed today? What brought her outside? It couldn’t have just been a consequence of a glass of bourbon. There was something out here she needed bad enough to walk through the door. But what?

“Go, Tanzy. I want to talk to my husband.”

“Okay, Mom.” I move up the stairs and into the house, tempted to look back. It takes all my will power to keep my eyes trained straight ahead.

I walk into the kitchen, exhausted and relieved. Dana had been right. This is exactly what we needed, we just needed it here, where Mom can visit it whenever she wants. I smile to myself and pick up a glass and the bourbon bottle off the kitchen table and carry them to the sink. I stop in my tracks, and my gaze travels from the glass in my hand to the glass on the counter.

Why are two glasses out?

I smell both glasses, both scented with bourbon residue. I hold up the glass from the table. A smudge of silver lipstick is imprinted near the top of the glass. Mom hadn’t been wearing makeup, and I’ve never seen anyone wear silver lipstick. Who would have come by that mom actually would’ve let in?

She’s not family. My mother’s words from the day Dana visited echo in my mind. I turn and stare through the door way to the screened in porch, and peer at the sliver of her I can see from where I stand. I’ve always assumed my mother’s past was an island made up of just her and her parents. But what if there’s someone else?

I set the bottle on the counter, and arrange the two glasses in front of it, twisting one so the lipstick mark shows. I’m not sure if she’ll acknowledge what I found, but she’ll know I found it.

I take a backward step, and run into something solid. I whirl around.

“Mom, you scared me.” I press my palm to my chest. “I didn’t hear you come in. Who was here with you?” I blurt.

“I… I’d rather not say.”

“Why? Was it… was it family?”

“No.” Mom hangs her head. “It was a psychic… the kind of psychic who talks to the dead.”

“Oh, Mom.” My heart sinks. I glance at the two cups, seeing them in a completely different light. I never should’ve left her alone. “Did the psychic suggest a drink?”

“It seemed like a good idea. It helped with everything.”

“I’m sure it did.”

“I feel better.”

“I’m glad.”

We stand in silence for several seconds.

“What did the psychic say?”

“That your father is somewhere beautiful.” A sad smile pulls her eyes down. Fresh grief, warm and thick, trickles through me. “There’s more though. She said she got a message, and it’s about you,” she continues.

“What is it?” I ask, tensing.

“She said you should never go to Wildwood again.”

“That’s… that’s a little extreme, don’t you think?” I try to keep my tone light, but my heart begins to race.

“No, not at all. I think she’s right. Tanzy, I don’t want you to go to Wildwood anymore.”

My mouth falls open, and I rock back as if I’ve been struck. “Mom, no. That’s insane. Dana offered me a job. I can still live here after graduation. I can stay with you. I can help pay bills. It’s…. it’s where I belong. I could feel it out there today. It’s where I’m supposed to be.”

“Your dad left plenty behind. We’ll be okay for a while. And you, you don’t belong there. After you graduate, you need to go somewhere new, go start your life away from all these shadows.”

“What did you just say?” I narrow my eyes.

“Go start your life.” She frowns.

“No, about the shadows. You said to start my life away from all these shadows. What shadows, Mom?”

She sighs. “Not this again. I mean the shadow of your father and his accident. Start your life free from all that weight and darkness. I don’t want you to turn into me. I don’t want you to be a prisoner of what you think might happen if you step left or right. I want you to leap, Tanzy. To run. And I want you to do that somewhere brand new, where none of this will follow you.”

I study her. “It’s inside of me. How can it not follow?”

She rests her hands on my shoulders. “So take him with you wherever you go, but don’t let the end of his path be the end of yours, too.”

“You got all this clarity from a glass of bourbon and a psychic with silver lipstick?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Spoken like your father. God, I miss him.”

“I do too.” I gnaw on my lip, a cocktail of emotions swirling in my chest. “You can’t ask me to never go back to Wildwood.”

“I mean what I said.” Mom’s expression hardens.

“So do I.” Heat touches my cheeks. “Wildwood is all I have left of Dad. Harbor is there, too. It’s not like she can live in our back yard.”

“No, you are not to go back there.”

“I’m eighteen. I graduate in two months. I don’t mean any disrespect, but I’m pretty sure it’s up to me after that.”

Mom lifts her chin. “Be very careful here, Tanzy. You’ve never been one to sass me and I don’t recommend starting now.”

Something inside of me, taut and fraying from holding up the weight of both of us for too long, finally snaps. “Well then don’t get advice from a psychic,” I mutter.

“Tanzy Hightower, you get to your room right now.”

“Or what? You won’t cook dinner?”

“I am doing the best I can!”

“You’re not doing anything at all!”

The kitchen falls to silence, and even though everything in the room is exactly the same as it was before, it feels blown to pieces.

Mom reaches past me and grabs the bottle of bourbon. “Today was going to be my first good day,” she says through her teeth.

“I’m sorry I ruined it for you,” I retort.

“You did.” She walks out of the kitchen and down the hall. I race upstairs to my room and shut the door before sliding down against it. How have we come to this? How do we fix this? I can’t leave but I can’t stay. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. Outside, thunder rumbles. I drop my hands and blink, recalling my mother’s prediction. The light in my room falls to shadows, and the sky begins to pour.