Page 40 of The False Flat

I didn’t unbuckle when Arthur pulled his green Ford Explorer into my mother’s driveway. I opened the car door, closed it again.

“You gonna get out?” he asked, twisting his body toward the back seat.

It was entirely possible I’d walk into my mother’s house and get tied to a chair until I agreed to move back to Minnesota.

And Arthur didn’t care. “I’ve got another ride,” he said.

To look out at the greenest grass on the block—not even a whisper of a weed—swaying slightly in a late-May breeze, the multicolored, adequately hydrated flowers, the freshly painted porch swing with the plush, navy blue curtains that matched the shutters on the whiter-than-reasonable two-story, you’d think this was where I wanted to be.

Reluctantly, I exited the smelly vehicle, smoothed my blouse, and straightened my jacket, both pieces of clothing my mother would approve of. In fact, I think she’d given them to me, a not-so-subtle reminder that appearances mattered.

I climbed the three steps to my mother’s pressure-washed porch, then went back down again. I took a deep breath, climbed the stairs once more, went back down again.

Just as I was about to leap into the holly bushes after my earring—the one I was about to throw into the bushes—Aurora Auberge materialized in her doorway.

Stalling was over.

Framed by the perfectly painted wood with crystal clear side windows, my mother was the picture of stability. Age was even commanded by her hand. Surgery, expertly applied makeup, night creams, and face masks were all tools in her arsenal of deception, melting her sixty years to forty, barely older than me. I knew her routine because that’s what she’d passed on to me. Comfort and understanding be damned, but ways to keep crow’s-feet at bay? Now we’re talkin’.

I let myself be held by my mother. Not a hug. She held my shoulders in her hands while she inspected me.

One perfectly plucked eyebrow arched. “You’re not drinking enough water. Your skin looks dry.”

I gave her a complacent smile. “Then I’d better get a bottle of water.”

And after eight months of not seeing each other, there was our hello.

After the first bottle had been downed, compacted, and neatly placed into the green recycling container, I sipped on a second bottle and listened to my mother tell me how great Chad was over a sparkling countertop so shiny I could easily use it to apply a second coat of lipstick.

Chad was working on a high-profile obstruction of justice case and anticipated a late night. I wouldn’t get to witness his greatness until tomorrow.

My finger slid down the bottle. Condensation trickled onto the granite.

“He’s happy you’re here, Penelope.”

I nodded. Hearing her say my full name made me think of Grant. My friend Grant. After I’d blubbered about the dark secrets of my past, we’d entered a new relationship phase. Grant was officially my friend: mustache, cereal aversion, and all. I’d continued to hang out with Deanna, and he was frequently there.

“When are you coming back to stay?” A microfiber cloth appeared in Aurora’s hand, and she used it to wipe up the water that had pooled underneath my bottle.

The gesture irritated me, and I ignored her question. “Have you talked to Houston, found anything out?”

Her face went red. Not a good sign.

“Chad and I are working on a plan, but Houston is using the fact that you had an affair with a married man to taint your reputation.”

I let my head flop onto the counter; the contact jarred my skull, reigniting my concussion from two weeks ago and giving me an instant headache.

“I didn’t know.” The fact that I should’ve known, could’ve known if I’d even halfway looked at my relationship with Chad, was beside the point.

“I know that. But he’s using your father to further drive the point home because unlike you, Charlie knew what he was doing. Houston’s more than suggesting it’s a familial pattern.”

I raised my head to find her rubbing her neck like the words had caused her throat physical pain, but she, like always, held herself erect, not even a hint of a tear.

“I’m sorry, Mother.” And I was. Despite all my mother’s shortcomings, she’d loved my dad. She’d always taken care of him, put a cold cloth to his head, cleaned up his vomit. Everything had to be perfect, but their relationship had been the one exception. It hadn’t made sense.

She squared her shoulders. “Don’t be sorry. I’m not.”

For a brief second, I thought about asking her why, but instead I asked, “Do you think that’s why the Fletchers have ghosted me?”