“I like your necklace.”
“This old thing?” I smile. “I felt like I needed a little extra protection.” I touch the Leland Blues. “And, well, the fractured are the most interesting, right?”
Mason smiles and open his arms. He hugs me, and I hold on. He doesn’t release me until I pull back.
“Let’s just blame all those fault lines on the San Andreas, okay?” he asks. “You can do that. You’re a California girl.” He stops and tilts his head. “I mean, are you? Or should I be using past tense?”
“Don’t know,” I say. “Maybe I was just California dreamin’ on a winter’s day.”
Mason smiles.
“It’s still winter here, you know.”
“I know,” I say. I look at this man I barely know who I suddenly feel like I’ve known forever. He makes me feel like I’m home. Is that what it feels like to open your heart, let down your guard, allow people to see the real you? “Thanks for picking me up. I didn’t want to bother my mom this late. I couldn’t call Lisa or Icicle. I was hesitant to call my old girlfriends I’ve avoided like the plague. I didn’t know who else to call.”
“Gee, thanks,” Mason says.
“That didn’t come out right. I just meant…thank you. Truly.”
Even at midnight, he looks good. No, scratch that. Great. Like Tom Brady after a game. He looks like, as my grandma used to say, good looks grew on a tree.
Mason puts his hand on my back to guide me through the airport to the luggage claim, exerting enough pressure to make me feel calm and safe but not enough to make it feel uncomfortable.
Ever the gentleman.
As we walk, I’m captured by the quaintness of Cherry Capital Airport. While arriving in Palm Springs feels like you’re on a tropical vacation, Traverse City’s airport truly capture’s the state’s natural beauty. It’s like a Pure Michigan hug.
The terminal is akin to walking into a Frank Lloyd Wright home. The Arts and Crafts interior is the antithesis to most airport designs, meant to parallel the natural beauty of the Grand Traverse region. The overall feel is that of an Up North lodge, with its stone fireplace, cherrywood, copper fixtures and stained glass.
When I hurriedly hightailed it from Michigan, I sneaked into my mother’s house, while she snoozed soundly in front of a blaring TV and roaring fire, and packed as if I were never coming back. I felt like the Grinch stealing everyone’s Christmas as the happy family slept. I took everything, even the funny Michigan gifts she got me for Christmas. And now I’m hauling it all back like, well, the psychotic meteorologist I am.
“Nice vacation?”
Mason asks this loudly. I jump and immediately begin to scan the group around me, worried that someone might recognize me or be filming me on the down low yet again. But there are only about a dozen people, and everyone is bleary-eyed from the late flight.
“I’m teasing you, Ginger Zee,” Mason says, referring to my meteorology hero from ABC news. “No paparazzi around right now.”
“I’m not worried about Hollywood Gossip or People magazine,” I say. “I’m worried about whoever is doctoring videos to make me look bad.” I look at Mason and scrunch my face. “I guess I’m already doing a good enough job of that without anyone’s help.”
We gather my luggage and head to his SUV. Though we landed in a near-blizzard, nothing shuts down an airport in Michigan. Palm Springs would have canceled flights for a decade with this weather. The cold smacks my face outside, and I’m suddenly slapped back into the reality of living in northern Michigan instead of Southern California.
No hot tub tonight, Sonny, I think. No pool in your future.
And yet there is a stunning beauty to this winter world. The snow is falling in big, wet heaps, and the world—even at the airport—is hushed. Mason and I drive in silence until he pulls onto the highway.
“So, what are they saying about me?” I finally ask in the dark.
“You didn’t look?” he asks.
“I couldn’t.”
He glances at me as if I were lying.
“I couldn’t, for my own sanity. It was just too much. I only turned my cell on to listen to my mom’s messages.”
“The station didn’t call?”
“They did. I didn’t call back.”
“Well,” he starts, “the station stated publicly that you were taking a short leave of absence in order to deal with some personal family issues.”
“That sounds crafted by an attorney and publicist,” I laugh. “And what are people saying about that? That Sonny is funny in the head?”
Mason is silent for too long. “Well?” I ask.
“The local press is having a field day. Social media is worried about your mental health. The other stations are saying you aren’t a true Michigander. Polly Sue is filling in for you, and…” Mason stops.
“And?”
“And I noticed last night her graphic stated ‘TRVC Chief Meteorologist.’”
“What?” I say, too loudly. My voice echoes in the quiet. “Sorry. I’m just wondering if that means I’m fired, replaced, demoted, demonized, defeated…” I stop. “Should I go on?”
“I think you’ve covered the bases,” Mason says.
The wipers can barely keep up with the snow, and I can’t even see a road in front of us. I grip the handle on the passenger door, and push my feet hard into the floorboard. Mason glances over but doesn’t say a word.
“I’ve driven in the snow my whole life,” he finally says.
“That doesn’t matter,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says. “And I’m so sorry.”
We drive in silence for a long time, M-22 meandering out of town and along the water. The snow refuses to slow.
“I’m happy you’re wearing the necklace,” Mason says. “And I hope my note didn’t cross any lines.”
I glance over at him. “I know it must have been hard to write. I know it must have been hard to give me something that meant so much to you and your wife.” I wait until he catches my eyes. “But I’m glad you did. It was sweet, heartfelt and courageous, and it actually made me see things a bit more clearly.”
“I was worried the gift was a bit too odd,” he says. “It’s not every day a fella gives a girl a necklace from his dead wife.”
I don’t laugh.
“Supposed to be a joke,” he says, squinting out at the road. “I know it’s a strange thing to send you. I know there’s a lot of history. I know I probably shouldn’t have sent it, but I also knew that if I never saw you again, that necklace would have a new life.” He stops. “Maybe even save one.” His voice breaks and there is silence for a long while, only the clop-clop of the wipers. Finally, Mason whispers, “I like you, Sonny. A whole lot.”
My heart is thumping, but I’m so, so exhausted. I can’t find any words, much less the right words.
“Okay then,” he says softly. “I’ll shut up now.”
“I like the necklace, Mason,” I say. “I do. You know, I used to wear a lot of my sister’s jewelry, and I turned my dad’s rings into earrings and some of his tie tacks into a bracelet. I like when things tell a story.” I stop. “I like you, too, Mason. A lot, I think.”
I realize I am touching the necklace. Mason looks over, sees that I am and beams.
“Well, I’m glad you’re home,” he says. “Michigan needs some sun.”
As we near the house, Mason asks, “What are you going to say to your mom?”
“I have no idea.” I sigh. “I just pray she’s sound asleep, so I can sneak in and get some rest before we talk. Otherwise…” My voice drifts off.
“She loves you,” he says. “More than anyone else in this world. Just remember that.”
“What did she tell you?” I ask. “About me. About Joncee. About what happened.”
“She told me you’re still haunted,” he said. “I just wanted to know you were okay.” Mason pulls into the driveway. “I want you to tell me in your own words what happened to your sister when you’re ready. Talking about it is important. Believe me.”
I don’t answer.
“Thank you for the letter, for the necklace, for the ride…for pretty much everything since I’ve arrived. I may need your help finding a new job.”
“You won’t need my help.” I open the door. “Let me help you with your luggage.”
Mason drags my bags through the snow and onto the front porch. I find the key and ever so slowly and quietly as possible unlock the door.
“I’m like a cat burglar,” I whisper. “And there’s a big dog waiting for me inside.” I stop and put my hand on Mason’s arm. “Thank you again.”
I begin to turn but Mason says, “Would you like to go out on Thursday? It’s Valentine’s Day.”
“It is?”
“It is. I was thinking I might cook for you.”
“Embarrassed to be seen with me in public?”
“Do you want to be seen in public?”
I shake my head.
“That’s what I thought,” he said. “So, is it a date?”
My heart skips.
A proper date? I want to ask. An old-fashioned date? What’s that?
“Yes,” I say.
“Great! I can pick you up at seven.”
“I can drive,” I say. Mason looks skeptically at me. “I can. My mom put snow tires on my car.”
He laughs.
“And seven is perfect,” I continue.
“What do you like to eat?”
“Surprise me,” I say. “But not chili. It’s sort of left a bad taste in my mouth.”
Mason chuckles. “No chili.”
“Good wine,” I say. “And I don’t share dessert.”
“A woman after my own heart,” he says.
Mason leans in and kisses me lightly on the cheek. “I can’t wait.” He walks down the snowy steps before turning. “Get some rest, Sonny. And good luck.”
“I’m going to need big doses of both.”
I watch him drive away. Before I head inside, I turn and see our footsteps in the newly fallen snow.
Like me, I can’t tell if they are coming or going.
The house is dark, save for the roughly hundred night-lights my mother has plugged in. My childhood home has always resembled, ironically, an airport runway. My mother, ever the nurse, used to regale us with horror stories about household accidents.
“People trip in the dark, or fall down the stairs,” my mom used to tell us after a day at the hospital. “All they wanted was a glass of water, and next thing they know they’re in the emergency room with a broken leg or a candlestick that got lodged in an unsavory location.”
My mom took every necessary precaution, and it still wasn’t enough.
I silence an emerging grunt as I—gingerly as possible—lug my luggage across the bumpy threshold and park it atop the big rug in the foyer.
What will you think when you see this in the morning, Mom? Happy? Sad? Hopeful? Mad?
I tiptoe up the stairs holding my breath. My mother has always been a light sleeper, so I’m still amazed I could make it out of the house when I was on the lam without her hearing me. She must have been so exhausted. Growing up, my mom could sense when Joncee was a having a nightmare before she even yelled for her. The roar of the wind across the bay kept her awake. It was only when it snowed and the world was silent did my mother’s mind quiet.
She and Joncee always loved snow. Winter was their favorite season.
Squeak!
Dammit! I forgot the seventh step always squeaks when you’re moving slowly.
I used to joke that my parents built this house just to torture me. Their bedroom was just off the top of the stairs, which made it impossible for me to sneak in or out, much less even slink down for a piece of cherry pie in the middle of the night. And the seventh step squeaked. I truly believe that—right before the carpet was installed—my mom and dad removed a nail in this stair to make it squeak. It was their secret children alarm, their auditory Bat-Signal.
I realize I am still paralyzed, one leg hiked above the stair in midair like a frightened flamingo. I hold my breath. And wait.
Nothing.
I finally exhale in silence. I can see that my mother’s door is wide open. I hit the ground and crawl the last few steps and then into my bedroom. I slide my door shut, an inch at a time, while still seated on the floor. When it finally closes, I stand, grab my cell and turn on the flashlight.
This is ridiculous, I think.
A fifty-year-old woman sneaking into the childhood home she ran away from only to return—her life in shambles—terrified to wake up her mother. I want to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but it’s just too darn sad. I feel dirty from the flight and desperately want to shower, or at least wash my face, but I know the sound of a running faucet—much less a single drip of water—would wake Sleeping Beauty and cause a scene that I am just too exhausted to deal with right now.
I pull back the covers and begin to crawl into bed but think of Mason and his winding, dark drive home in the snow. I tiptoe to my window and look out. Even in the middle of the night and heavy snow, the icy bay shimmers. I scan the road left and right. I shut my eyes, count to fifty and visualize Mason arriving home safely. I then rub the lock on the windowsill ten times.
You can’t, I think. You’ll wake her up.
I try to get in bed without finishing my routine, but I can’t. I walk to the light switch and turn it on and off twenty-five times and then touch every object on my dresser.
Finally, I feel safe.
“You’re home.”
I scream.
“What are you doing? You scared the wits out of me! Are you insane?”
The lights come back on in my room. My mother, who looks great, mind you, in the middle of the night, lifts a brow and gives me a look that says, Do you really want to go there with that question?
“It’s my house, remember?” she says.
I crawl into bed.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I say. “I’m sorry. Can we talk in the morning? I’m bone tired.”
My mom is leaning against the door frame, arms crossed. She is wearing navy blue flannel pajamas with big white snowflakes on them.
The irony is literally too much to bear.
“Sorry, but I need to talk about this,” she says. “You scared me when you left without telling me. I mean, you sneaked into my home and left without even talking to me. You only left me a very panicked message from the airport and then you didn’t return any of my calls. I was worried sick. I was scared you might hurt yourself. I…” She stops and doesn’t just close her eyes, she squeezes them shut. When she finally reopens them, they are wet with tears. “…am your mom. Why would you do that to me?”
She takes a seat on the edge of my bed.
“You’re not the only one who lives with pain, my dear,” she continues. “I am haunted every single day of my life. Do you know how much effort it takes just to push away all of that anguish and all of those memories? You don’t think I worry about you every second of every day? And then to be treated as if I don’t matter?”
I look at her. My heart shatters.
Have I been only so focused on my own pain that I’ve forgotten about the woman who lost her daughter?
“I know how hard it is for you to be back here,” she says, her expression still pained. There are shadows under her eyes. She doesn’t just look tired, I realize, she looks utterly exhausted. “Not just back in Michigan but back home.” She takes a big breath. “I told you, I know all about your routine, honey. The counting and touching and clicking. I’ve secretly watched you do it for decades, after Joncee died, when you’d return home to visit, after your father passed. It rips me apart inside. I think of everything I should have done. We should have gone to therapy. We should have talked about it more as a family. That’s why I try to be so open. I wanted you to open up to me. I know that’s why you moved so far away. You wanted to be as far away from those memories as possible.” She stops. “But none of that—the rituals or the running away—will bring your sister back. It won’t protect those who are still here. And it won’t help you heal.”
I cannot hold my emotions inside any longer. I am raw and exhausted. I bawl, heaving waves of tears, as if I’m a spring thunderstorm releasing a torrent upon the earth.
“How do you do it?” I finally ask. “How have you been able to go on?”
“Because I have you!” Her voice rises with each word. “You!”
I sob anew, holding on to my mother with all of my might.
“You’re my only daughter. You’re my entire world. You’re my everything. My whole life centers on you, don’t you know that? I am strong for you. I am funny for you. I get up every day and do my damnedest to be happy and make the world a better place because of you. You’re all I have left. I—” My mom stops and begins to sob as loudly as I did. “I love you so much my heart aches. I love you so much that I never wanted to guilt you into moving back to Michigan to be close to me.”
I look at my mom as if for the first time, as if I’ve never seen her before. I feel a mix of guilt and relief, as if my soul has released a sigh it’s been holding forever.
She continues. “It’s not like you were just down the block, and I could check on you every day. I had to let you live. Do you know how hard that is for a mother? To let their only surviving daughter just go? You lived across the country. I worried about you every minute.” My mom sighs. “I don’t want anything else in this world except for you to be happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. And not just happy or at peace, sweetheart, but blissfully, insanely happy. I know you act the part—Sonny the meteorologist, bright and bubbly—but you’re not. Stop acting. You deserve every ounce of happiness in this world. You do. I want you to hear me. You had nothing to do with Joncee’s death.”
“I did, Mom. It’s my fault.”
“No, it’s not. Stop it. It’s not. It was just an accident. You were sixteen. You were a kid. I wish we could erase everything that happened that night, but we can’t. And we never will. But how long are you going to punish yourself?”
“I’m scared, Mom,” I say. “Of losing you, of losing someone else I love. I… I… I don’t know if I could actually go on living if that were to happen again.”
“I know, angel. Life is so hard. And losing someone you love is the hardest part. When your father got sick, I was so angry at God. I asked Him how He could do this to me, someone who had so much faith, someone who helps so many other people.” My mom looks out the window at the snow falling. “I finally realized I had to stop viewing it as a punishment. I had to view it as a blessing.”
I shake my head. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“I watch someone die every week,” she explains. “I actually prepare them and their families for death. None of us gets out of here alive, honey. Some are taken way too soon, and that pain—that searing hole in our souls—never goes away because it’s just not fair. But each life is a gift, especially to those who remain. We are forever touched by someone else. That changes us. That is such a grand blessing.”
She stops and wills herself not to cry.
“But too many of us, I’ve learned as a hospice nurse, live as though we’re dying. We’re trapped in fear. We let that define us. But our lives should be defined by our joy, passion and happiness. One day, very soon, you will look in the mirror and be my age, and I beg of you right now to promise yourself that you will not be trapped in regret like too many of my dying patients are.” She inhales deeply. “No, I want you to promise me. Promise me you won’t regret not falling in love, you won’t regret not finding joy, you won’t regret…”
She stops. Her chin is shaking, and her lips are quivering.
“…not forgiving yourself.”
“How do I do that, Mom?”
“You say, despite all the pain, ‘Thank you, God, for blessing me with the best sister I ever could have had. I would not be the person I am without her. I would not be doing what I do without her.’ You are you largely because of her. You don’t want to erase that or forget that, do you? No! You want to celebrate that.”
I reach out my arms, and my mother holds me, rocks me until my sobs subside. “And I would strongly urge you to continue the counseling you once said you were getting in California here in Michigan. I can refer you to one of the best, a dear friend of mine. I send families to her every week. You need to heal. And you can’t do that alone. No one can.”
“Thank you, Mom. I will do that.”
She stands. “I better let you get some rest. I’m glad we were able to talk…really talk…for once.”
“Mom?”
She turns.
“Would you stay?”
She smiles the saddest, sweetest smile I’ve ever seen, turns off the light and crawls into bed next to me. I put my head on her shoulder, and she strokes my hair. Her breathing slows, and, eventually, she begins to sleep.
I look out the window at the snow falling. The world is quiet, and, for once in my life, my mind is, too. Stillness settles over my body as it has over the world outside. I begin to drift off, my mother holding me, and I can feel my sister on the other side of me, just like we used to do when it was snowing and my mom would read to us in bed.
For the first time in a long time, I feel safe.
I am home.
“You look beautiful, sweetheart.”
“Thank you.”
“That red dress is just magnificent,” my mother says. “Where did you get it?”
“From your closet, Mother. Very funny.”
My mother laughs, and I do, too. It feels good to laugh. It feels good to have a home filled with laughter.
“You’ve always looked beautiful in red. Joncee always looked best in blue.”
“And you in anything,” I say.
“Thank you,” my mom says. “Oh, here.”
She hands me a glass of red wine from out of nowhere, and I give her a look. “You’re like a drunk magician,” I joke.
“When was the last time you had a proper date?” she asks.
I stare at her like a ventriloquist’s dummy. “Well…” I start.