nine years, so clearly there was no point in trying now. Still, she worked to think, instead, about her mother’s idiosyncrasies, which made her laugh and sometimes drove her crazy, even though she loved her to bits.
From the time Rory had been barely more than a toddler, she vividly remembered her mother insisting that she call her Twinkle-Toes or Twinkie instead of Mom. Possibly because she adored wearing dance and fairy costumes, but mostly because actually acting like a mom had never been on her radar.
There were memories of the two of them doing all sorts of unorthodox things—like painting every lampshade in the house neon so they’d glow in “pretty colors”; like deciding that creating rock sculpture Voodoo talismans all around the house would keep them safe after Rory’s father died. Rory had helped with all that to make her mom feel more comfortable even as she had inwardly rolled her eyes—as she had when her mother danced spontaneously whenever the mood struck, not caring if there were other people around or not.
So many of the things her mother did were adorable and funny. But sometimes embarrassing—especially once Rory had become a teen. She found herself managing to smile in anticipation of what might greet her today at the house she’d grown up in, knowing that spending time with her unique mother was the only thing that would make this trip bearable.
The moment the plane touched down at the Fairbanks Airport, Rory felt like a ten-pound weight had dropped onto her shoulders. Looking out at the snowcapped peaks of the Alaska Range, she felt the memories she’d tried to stuff down flood back. They forced her to think about what had happened the last two times she’d been home.
One thing had turned out to be the biggest mistake of her life, which had left her with a shredded heart she knew would never be repaired. The other had been her father’s funeral, two years later. He had bravely suffered through diabetes, then kidney failure, for more years than she could remember. Neither one of those memories were things she wanted to revisit and remember, but being here again thickened her throat even as she promised herself she wouldn’t fall apart.
The forty-five miles from Fairbanks passed way too fast, and soon she was driving into the city limits of Eudemonia. The moment she saw the familiar stores and homes, and the trees which were now mostly naked except for a few straggling golden yellow leaves still clinging to the branches, her chest squeezed even tighter.
Finally the tiny house she’d grown up in came into view, surrounded by birch, aspen and spruce trees that were bigger than she remembered. Cozy and charming, in a worn sort of way, the house stood atop the small hill she’d rolled and sledded down as a kid, her mother rolling and laughing along with her while her dad watched and applauded—the hill she’d run down nine years ago, stumbling and falling, somehow getting in her car, tears making it hard to see, grief making it hard to breathe, to leave for LA.
God, she had to get these feelings under control before she went in to see her mother.
She hit the brakes and sat there, waiting for the sickly feeling to pass. She gulped in a few breaths, admitted she was as ready as she’d ever be, then turned her rental car off the road to bump across the uneven grass.
She could do this. She had to. She had to find a way to get through the next week without becoming a weeping mess all over again.
A single bulb dangled over the crooked wooden front porch, and a giant stuffed rabbit wearing a green army helmet sat on an overturned bucket to greet visitors. Why a rabbit, Rory had no clue—since it was early October, not Easter—but, boy, she couldn’t wait to find out. Though it was likely her mom didn’t have any reason other than she liked the way it looked.
The whole place appeared even more dilapidated than it had when she’d last been here for her dad’s funeral. She’d called regularly, but she knew it had been cowardly of her to avoid this place, and consequently her mother. She felt bad about it—she did—except that being here made her feel even worse. Maybe someday she would be able to face what she’d done and deal with the pain.
Nine years hadn’t accomplished that—which meant that “someday” was still a long way off. If it ever came.
She knew she was beyond blessed that her mom had lots of friends to spend time with. Close friends who always looked after one another. People who were a big part of the reason why her mother sounded like her happy self whenever they spoke.
But what her mom had gone through with her surgery wasn’t normal, everyday stuff. Rory knew her mother was supposed to be doing all right, but she might still be in a lot of pain. How on earth would her mom have coped if Rory hadn’t come home?
She had no idea. Which made her realize all over again that, despite everything, she felt glad to finally be here for her mom.
She planned to nurse her mom with lots of TLC. Then, with any luck, she’d be close to her normal self by the time her mom’s sister, Rory’s Aunt Patty, came to take over. Much as she dreaded spending time at home again, getting her mother healthy enough for Rory to feel okay to leave her had to be the goal.
She stepped up to the front door and paused to pick at the paint flaking from the side, making a mental note to call a painter to get it done next summer. She knew it was too cold to paint now, but getting it on the schedule would be better than nothing.
Her job as a resident pediatric orthopedic surgeon provided her with enough money to live on and pay for this kind of repair stuff. And now that she’d passed her boards she’d be making a lot more. Assuming she got the permanent job—which was another reason to get back to LA as quickly as possible for her interview, before someone else snagged it away from her.
Even though it was barely six thirty, the vibrant golden sun was already setting in Eudemonia, Alaska—long before it would be in LA. She gazed at the fading orb, loving the way fingers of light slipped through the branches and lit the yellow leaves and hills. Up on the mountains the brilliant reds of the moss and lichen in the tundra glowed beneath the setting sun, and Rory was surprised at the warm nostalgia that filled her chest. It was so completely different from the warm temperatures, the concrete roads, the masses of cars and buildings and people that made up LA.
Thinking of the warm temperatures made Rory shiver as the chilly air sneaked down inside her jacket, and she shook her head at herself. Her friends here would laugh at what a wimp she’d become, thinking it was cold now, in early October. They’d probably all still be wearing shorts and T-shirts and thinking it felt downright balmy—but, hey, when she’d left Southern California earlier that day it had been almost eighty degrees. Anyone would feel the contrast, right?
She turned the knob and the door squeaked open. No surprise that her mom hadn’t locked it, since Rory didn’t think it had ever been secured in her whole life. In fact, thinking about it, she wasn’t sure it even did lock. And wouldn’t her California friends be flabbergasted at that?
“Hello? Mom? Twinkle-Toes?”
The light in the small living room was so dim it was hard to see, and she peered at the worn chairs, not seeing any sign of her mother’s small frame. Sounds of marching band music, of all things, came faintly from the back of the house, and Rory had started to move toward her mother’s bedroom when she appeared in the hallway outside the living room, with a small, curly-haired brown dog trotting beside her. Rory hadn’t met him yet.
“Aurora! I’m so happy you’re here! Come give your mama a big hug.”
She hurried toward her mom, partly because she looked a little unsteady, walking with the pink cane she held in her hand. “Mom. Twinkie.”
She
