Page 3 of Exile
“Come on, give me the deets. Do I need to be standing on your porch with a shotgun when he comes to pick you up?”
A guffaw escapes my mouthful of burger as I hold up a finger, telling him to wait a moment. “Please don’t do that—he’s a cop. I don’t think that would go over too well.”
Kai’s expression turns stony at my confession, and an uncomfortable silence falls over us for a minute.
“You’re going out with a cop?” His voice is clipped, not his usual warm honey baritone.
“Um, yeah? He’s a regular at the shop. Comes in every morning. He asked me out when he came in today,” I stammer out, slightly confused as to why I am having to defend who I choose to go out on a date with.
“He’s not one of the assholes who pulled me over in my own neighborhood, is he?” There is an edge of bitterness in Kai’s voice that I didn’t expect. I hadn’t known he’d been pulled over recently.
“When were you pulled over?”
“Which time?” he responds with venom in his voice.
I raise an eyebrow at him, pulling the same move he just used on me, waiting for elaboration.
“Well last month I was pulled over on my way home from work for a supposed broken tail light even though I just had my car inspected. Before that, it was around Easter. I was pulled over for failure to signal. Then last year, they stopped me right after I pulled into my driveway claiming I looked like a ‘person of interest’ in a home invasion earlier in the evening, while I was at work. Thank God my boss answered when I called and gave me an alibi, so they fucked off pretty quick.”
I suck in a sharp gasp, shocked by Kai’s recent run-ins with the law. Birch Falls, the sleepy college town where we live, where I have spent my entire life, isn’t exactly known for high crime rates. Aside from the disappearance of the Cassidy Grainger, a BFU student, a couple of years ago, Birch Falls is a quiet and safe community.
He lets out a dark chuckle when he continues, “You know what’s most fucked-up? They got the guy who did the home invasion. It was a sixty-year-old white meth head. I know you think the cops are the good guys, ReRe, but they’re not all like your Granddaddy.”
I think about the framed portrait of Granddaddy, hanging in our living room. In it he wears his uniform, decorated in medals from his many years of service. He used to take me for rides in his cruiser as a small child and let me play with the lights and siren. Granddaddy was my hero in every sense of the word, and when he passed away from cancer a year before my parents’ accident, it crushed me. He is where my entire sense of justice comes from. He taught me how to look for the helpers if I got separated from my parents in a public place. He was a good man, and the idea that there are men out there wearing the same uniform as him, tarnishing that reputation, turns my stomach. I’m not dumb, I know not all cops are good, but here in Birch Falls, under the influence of my Granddaddy, I assumed crooked cops would not be tolerated in his force.
Suddenly I’m not so interested in my burger, and the bite I had been chewing turns to sawdust in my mouth. The idea that Kai Roberts, the sweetest, most selfless person in my life, could be harassed by cops, my cop specifically, makes me sick.
I push away my food, and Kai notices. He shakes his head before nudging my tray back towards me. “I’m sorry. It probably wasn’t your Officer Dudley Do-Right. Don’t let me rain on your parade. Just be careful, yeah? It’s been a while since you put yourself out there, and I wouldn’t be doing my job as your best friend if I wasn’t keeping an eye on you.”
He bumps my knee with his and force feeds me a French fry. Relenting, I snatch at the fry with my teeth, chomping down on his fingers as he holds it, forcing a pained, “Brat!” to escape his lips.
We finish our lunch in a lighter mood with no more mention of my upcoming date, then go our separate ways: me to stats, Kai to his photography class. Kai has already figured out his major— he plans on getting into photojournalism once he graduates.
I’m still floundering, taking mostly general education classes while I try to figure my life out. I’m doing all I can, working enough to support Mom and me and trying to keep my head above water while taking a full load of classes. I know I need to make a plan for the future, but it’s hard when I know, no matter what, she will need me to take care of her. I’m mostly just here so I can get a degree that will allow me to get a decent job. If only life would slow down enough to let me figure out what it is I want to do once I get that degree.
After my last class of the day, I head home to check on Mom. While I’m at work and class, our neighbor, Mrs. Gregory, comes by to keep Mom company. I feel guilty relying on her so much, but she insists she doesn’t mind, claiming she’d be bored out of her mind sitting at home alone all day. I don’t argue with her too much since I can’t afford to pay someone to come stay with Mom, but I do try to make sure I feed her dinner on the nights she can stay and eat with us.
“Honey, I’m home!” I call out in my best Ricky Ricardo impression as I walk through the front door. I Love Lucy is Mrs. G’s favorite show, and she gets a kick out of a young millennial like me actually understanding the dated reference. I spent entirely too much of my childhood watching TV Land reruns late at night with my dad when we both couldn’t sleep. He spent a lot of time away from home on business, so when he was home, that was our special time to hang out and bond, just the two of us. I inherited his insomnia gene and his love for old and wholesome sitcoms from yesteryear. I never did understand the latest Gossip Girl or Gilmore Girls reference, but I could quote the Golden Girls from memory.
Walking into the living room, I find Mom and Mrs. G sitting at the table in front of the bay window, putting together a puzzle. Mom suffered a traumatic brain injury during the accident that killed my dad. It left her in a coma for almost three weeks and when she woke up, she had what the doctors described as anterograde amnesia. Like Drew Barrymore’s character in 50 First Dates.
Mom remembers basically everything up until the day of the accident, but she doesn’t remember anything from that day or almost her entire hospital stay. Forming new short-term memories is extremely difficult for her, so she’s unable to work anymore. She does remember Mrs. G though, so having her around to keep Mom company during the day is a godsend. They keep each other busy. On the good days, Mom can tell me what they got up to. On the bad days, she may not remember what they had for lunch.
Mom and Mrs. G always take time each day to journal and take pictures of what they do so Mom can look back and “remember” what she did. Sometimes, she’s lucky enough for certain things to stick, and she retains those memories. She understands her condition fairly well thanks to the journaling and the constant repetition of Mrs. G or me explaining to her what happened.
“There’s my baby girl. How was school?” Mom smiles up at me, eager to hear all about my day. I know she will make a note of it in her journal so if anything important happened she will be able to ask me about it in the future.
“It was good Momma. How was your day?” I drop my backpack next to my favorite chair—where I do most of my studying—and lean down to give Mom a kiss on her head.
“Oh, you know, same old, same old. Gloria and I made some of her famous pumpkin muffins today. They’re in the kitchen if you want one.” Mom waves a hand towards the kitchen before she returning her focus back to the puzzle she and Mrs. G are working on.
I smile, enjoying the aroma of pumpkin spice in the air. I can’t help but think of my upcoming date with Dominick. It must have been a good day for them if she remembers the muffins. Comforted by those two thoughts, I go into the kitchen and snag a muffin off of the counter while I start pulling dinner out of the fridge. “Mrs. G, are you staying for dinner? I have plenty of lasagna I can heat up!”
“Don’t worry about me, ReRe. I’ve got bridge club tonight.” Mrs. G comes into the kitchen to put away the muffins while I heat up dinner. “Laura had a really good day today. It was her idea to bake the muffins. She remembered how much you liked them last fall.” She rests a hand on my back, making me pause to absorb what she just said. She smiles up at me with a kind understanding in her soulful brown eyes. She better than anyone understands the toll Mom’s condition has taken on me.
“She remembered that?” I think back to last fall when I had come home from class one day to find Mom and Mrs. G baking muffins for the senior center where Mrs. G volunteers. I stole a muffin or three and declared they were the best thing ever. Mom then insisted on baking a fresh batch every day that week in an attempt to memorize the recipe. The doctors always insist they can’t tell us how permanent Mom’s memory loss is or if she will ever regain the ability to create new memories, so anytime she does, it feels like I’m getting a piece of her back.
I scoop Mrs. G into a big hug, squeezing her tightly.