“Let’s go down. I’m really craving some coffee.”
Mere looks at my kitchen and asks in surprise, “Aren’t you cooking at all?”
“No, I didn’t get a chance to do any grocery shopping. I’m mostly getting takeout,” I reply in a light voice, trying hard to avoid my rising pulse at the thought of grocery shopping or cooking, both of which are foreign to me.
When we come down, she turns on the coffee machine. “Do you have a lot of work tonight?”
“I’m supposed to start something. But I have no inspiration.” I release a heavy sigh and bump my head on the dining table. I don’t tell her that if I don’t come up with something soon, I’ll have to go back to Cherrywood and lose the freedom I have finally found.
“Do you want to watch TV for a while?” Mere asks as she places a mug of steaming coffee, topped with milk and cinnamon dust in front of me.
I love this girl!
“Sure. Anything to distract my mind.”
We settle on the couch and Mere turns on the TV. A replay of one of my favorite shows, Gilmore Girls is running.
“Oh, I love this series!”
How many nights have Florence and I spent watching Lorelai Gilmore prancing the streets of Stars Hollow, while I secretly wished I had someone like her as my mother instead of…Irene Hawthorne?
“I don’t think I’ve seen this show before.” Mere furrows her eyebrows in confusion.
“Really?” I gasp, looking at her in pure shock. “You don’t know what you’re missing, girl! Turn the volume on.”
We are midway through the scene where Lorelai shows the baby box she prepared for her daughter to her friend.
“Did your mom make something similar for you?” Mere asks.
A sad laugh escapes me at her innocent question. “Irene Hawthorne doesn’t do such silly things. Her time is much more valuable than squandering it on things like a baby box.”
“I wish my mom had made something similar for me. I would love to hold something of her, made just for me and no one else.”
At the sight of her dipped chin and hearing her thickening voice, the coffee mug stops close to my lips. Over the past week, I’ve spent a lot of time with Mere, but the topic of her mother never came up.
“I was three when she passed.”
Her raw confession stings my heart. “I’m sorry, Mere.”
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago,” she says softly.
I know it’s not okay. It never gets okay.
“I understand, Mere. I lost my father when I was three.”
“Really?” Her voice hitches in surprise. I nod and she peers at me with wide eyes. “Do you remember your dad?”
Her question catches me off guard. I forget to breathe for a few seconds in an attempt to hold back my tears.
How many days, how many nights, have I spent remembering Dad?
I compare myself to this sweet girl next to me. I had Gram, Florence, Oscar, and often my mother raving about Dad and all the work he did in Cherrywood. Gram misses no chance to tell me how much I act or look like him. I don’t know how Merida and Keith interact.
“Do you and your dad talk about your mom?”
“We used to. Not anymore.” Her clipped response surprises me but I get the point. She doesn’t want to talk about it.
“I imagine my dad. I don’t think I remember him as such. But I have an image of him based on the stories I have heard from my family.” I close my eyes and see my dad waving at me.