Page 17 of The Summer Show
Good thing GPS had my back.
According to the brief rundown about Greek social mores, I was required to wave and greet everyone I passed. So that’s what I did. Some of the island’s denizens grunted at me from their yards, where they were sweeping dust I couldn’t have found with a microscope and a flashlight. Others were more friendly and wanted to practice their English on me. I’m wasn’t completely sure, but one creased and creviced man bubbled over with so much enthusiasm that there was a possibility we were married now. I’d worry about an annulment later.
My impression of Nera was … love. Everything was different, unfamiliar, and yet comforting. The light was a different color here. Whiter. Brighter. It carried a knife in its shirt pocket.
I had to tell someone.
I called my sister.
The phone chimed for several seconds before Brit answered with a bleary “Who’s dead?”
The time difference. Doh. Guess who forgot to check?
“Nobody? At least not as far as I know. Should there be?”
There was a soft thump as Brit slumped against her pillows. “I thought someone was dead, and I was hoping it was her and not Dad or Grandma and Grandpa. Or anyone else on the planet, come to think of it. Except maybe that evil potato in North Korea.”
“As far as I know, she is still kicking.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Brit …”
“Kath …”
“She’s our mother.”
“Maybe she’s your mother, but she was never my mother. Know who my mom was? Dad. And he was your mom, too. He still is.”
Anxiety whipped out its big soup spoon and began to stir my stomach acid. Everything Mom touched withered, especially me. I didn’t want to wither. Not now. Not while I was on my first ever international vacation.
“Can we not do this today? I’m in Greece! It’s nice here. A herd of sheep just crossed the road in front of me. That never happens at home.”
“Does she know?”
I blew out a long sigh that was part frustration and part me trying to air condition my forehead. My warm breath slid up over my sunglasses, where it accomplished diddly squat in terms of cooling. “She knows.”
“And?”
“She said if I paid for her ticket, she could get us free hotels and food because she’s on Instagram, TikTok, and the new app that sounds like a venereal disease.”
Britney busted out laughing, but the sound didn’t have a bright, shiny edge. There was a coldness and sense of inevitability, like when the villain is unmasked and you’re like, Of course that’s the villain. It should have been obvious all along, and you’re just plain disappointed in yourself. “Last time I checked, Susan Hart had a hundred followers. Nobody is giving her anything for free—not even marketing advice.” She perked up. “Hey, I found a doctor who’ll snip me without an affidavit from the husband I’ll never have.”
“That’s great! Did you guys set a date?”
“Not yet. But it’s in the cards. No babies ever for this gal.”
While I was happy for my sister, there was sadness as a mix-in. Our mother had done a number on our whole family and failed to take any responsibility for her role in the trauma. If we’d had a normal, loving mother, maybe Brit would be choosing not to become a mother for reasons beyond refusing to pass on our mother’s DNA. Or maybe she’d want to be a mom. We’d never know. Our upbringing was our upbringing.
“Let me know the date and I’ll take time off, okay?”
“You’d do that?”
“Of course. Anything for you.”
“I wish you’d been my mother.”
I wanted to hug her so hard. Brit was my favorite person in the world, and whatever had forced Susan Hart on me as a parent had made it up to me with my sister. “Call me whenever, okay? Even if it’s the middle of the night.”