Rekindling the Flame (Smoky Heights #1)

Chapter 15

FIFTEEN

AURORA

Ten days.

An orgasm, then ten days of nothing.

A hands-free orgasm, at that. He didn’t even give me the courtesy of feeling him while he made me come.

That day is where my mind wanders, now that it’s back to its usual mode of all things, all the time.

That lone day of mental stillness and quiet, out on the trails with Wyatt, it was something I didn’t know I needed.

A stark contrast to the one setting I have: always on.

I wish I could recreate that peace in some other way, without giving in, asking him for another round and starting more than I think either of us might be ready for, but this week has proven that’s a feeling I’m not getting without him.

And it’s not just the sex that did it.

I don’t know what it was, to be honest. The environment, the activities, the … company? I couldn’t tell you what specifically did it. Just that that one day, despite the hiccups of the day, was the most at ease my mind has been in a long while.

I wish I could capture that feeling, bottle it, take a snort of it whenever I needed it. Like today. When I’m hoping to get my mom to put some actual thought into her bucket list and tackling some of the other end-of-life concerns. A special sort of hell I wouldn’t wish on anyone, but I’m doing what I can to make it … can I say fun? When it involves her being removed from this plane all too soon? I’m not sure that’s the word I can use, but I really am trying to bring whatever joy is possible to her life and this stage of it.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask her for at least the fourteenth time since we returned from our attempt at a paint and sip. “We don’t need to call your doctor’s emergency line or anything?”

“I’m fine, but if you ask me one more time, I won’t be.”

I roll my eyes and give her some classic Aurora salt. “Excuse me for giving a shit.”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re excused.”

I can’t help but laugh at her retort, and the tension is broken. But my care lingers. “Well, you can’t act like fainting isn’t cause for concern.”

“And I told you, shit happens. It’s brain cancer, Aurora, it’s not a bachelorette party. But I’m fine.”

She’s not. She’ll never be fine again. But if she wants me to ease up, I’ll try. After all, this is all to be expected, according to her oncologist. Fatigue, weight loss, fainting, and eventually the possibility of seizures and even paralysis before the end. It’s not the way I’d choose to go if it were up to me. Nothing glamorous about it. But it’s a chicken and the egg question. Is it better to have the time to prepare, to be able to say goodbye? Or is it better to always wonder what if or carry those regrets, but not have to live with the weeks and months of misery, all those tough times, leading up to their passing?

Tonight’s goal was to let Mom live out her younger self’s dream to be an artist.

I look at our paintings, in the corner of the room, unfinished. Mine, a night sky, moon shining bright, the waterline bisecting the composition, but the ocean below untouched.

Hers, so similar to mine, but a heavy streak of bright white running down the canvas where the brush made contact as she collapsed. Not sure we can say she got to check off being an artist tonight.

“We could still finish those,” I tell her.

Her eyes travel to where mine are still focused. “I’m not sure mine can be salvaged.”

“Or we could do new ones?” I’m sure I could find an instructor willing to do a private in-home lesson. If my mom is going to faint in the middle of a painting, I’d rather it be in her recliner than from a barstool three feet in the air. We’re lucky she didn’t break her nose, or worse. I barely caught her before she hit the ground. Though, now that I think about it, I can’t remember the last time I saw her without a smattering of bruises all over. Has this been what her life has been resigned to? Fainting randomly, everywhere she goes? Could explain why she’s treating this as no big deal.

“Sure,” she appeases me. “We can try again.”

“I’ll set it up.”

Mom takes another sip of sweet tea, using it to down her next dose of pain pills—with an extra one the doctor said she could take as needed—and I do my best not to let my reaction show as I watch. I try a change of subject.

“So, what else is on this bucket list of yours? You ready to finally make it for real?”

She gives me a mouth shrug and lifts her shoulders. “I guess we could do that.”

The Notes app might as well be the background on my phone, I’ve opened it so many times, trying to compile this list for her.

How do you fit decades of life into someone’s remaining time? Can you ever feel like you’ve done enough so that they can pass peacefully? I know I won’t ever hit that point where my last remaining parent is concerned. But this list isn’t about me. It’s about making it worthwhile for her. Whatever she wants to accomplish while she’s still here with us, I will make sure she gets to experience.

“Okay, so can’t check off painting a masterpiece yet,” I murmur.

“But I got to see you take care of the chickens. That was somethin’.” Amusement colors her voice at the memory of me fighting for my life with those accursed birds, and at least I’ve given her a half a reason to smile since my arrival.

“Watch Aurora fight for her life and survive the avian flu. Check,” I read off in a monotone voice. “What else have you wanted to do or see?”

“Always wanted to visit Thailand.”

My jaw drops.

She bobs her head a few times, agreeing with her own statement.

“Thailand?”

“What, did you think I’ve never seen a globe? That travel is only for the rich folks you left in high rises back up in New York?”

I fight to not roll my eyes at her jabs. “No, Mom, I don’t think you’re ignorant, or not worthy of seeing the world, you just threw me there. I can’t believe I’ve never heard of this before. How long have you wanted to go there?”

She thinks to herself for a second before answering. “Second grade, I think it was. We watched some video on geography in my class, and I wanted to ride in a tuk tuk. Try the food, see the sights, hit the markets.”

I force my jaw to close, try to look like I haven’t been trying to catch flies. “See Thailand,” I murmur, narrating as my fingers type into the note. As if typing it into my phone was the key to unlocking the best idea I’ve ever had, a plan forms. An insane one, but I think I love it.

“Anywhere else you wanted to go?”

It takes the better part of an hour to get all the answers she has to give me, there was a lot of thinking to be done, like these thoughts were buried somewhere deep inside her, like she hasn’t had the luxury of dreaming for herself in a very long time. But by the end of it I feel like I know my mom better than possibly I ever have before.

They were largely divided into four categories.

Try new things.

Recover lost items.

Repay misdeeds.

Spend time with loved ones.

And I’m determined to make as many of these happen as possible. Whatever it takes.

I scroll down to the section of the note I’ve been working on in between morose Google searches that make cyanide sound like a better alternative than what she’s in for.

These paragraphs are for the stuff that’s even less fun than watching your mother die: Preparing for it in a logistical sense. Making an itemized list to organize an orderly passing. As gruesome as it is, I’d never want to leave this for her to do alone, or for it to fall to Lexi. And that’s why I volunteered for this in the first place, right? We’re all better at some parts of life than others. The fine print is mine.

“There’s a few other things to consider,” I say delicately, the voice of a woman who’s negotiated countless terms that meant the difference of millions of dollars for her clients, but perhaps never literal life and death before.

“Like what?” she asks.

“I’m not sure what you already have in place, but I wanted to help take care of any affairs that might need to be put in order.”

She stares at me, waiting for more.

“A will and last testament would be a lot of it. Financial matters. The boring stuff life has to offer.” I shoot her a cheesy smile. “Those are where I come in. Aurora Weiss, reader and writer of legal jargon at your service. But also any other … things ,” I try to put it delicately, “that you might want to have a chance to complete, while you still can.” No one knows this woman’s limited remaining time frame better than she does, I don’t need to rub it in. “Remember that research I was telling you about?”

She makes a noise that says she does.

“There can’t be an easy way to discuss this topic,” I try to ease into it. “But I want to make whatever time you have left the best it can be. And from the research I did, one major advice that kept coming up was to help your loved one get their affairs in order, not just the paperwork and the financial bullshit and whatever else, but also giving them the chance to right any wrongs. To not leave things undone, or unspoken. Try to get closure wherever possible, and not leave this world with worries, but at peace.”

“At peace,” she echoes, matter-of-factly.

My head bobs delicately. I know we’ve made a lot of progress this past month, gotten closer day by day, and she clearly trusts me more than she did before, but this is a line to be tread carefully, respectfully. I’m not yet in a position to tell this woman what to do about anything, and I need to be cognizant of remaining helpful, not just be a constant reminder that she’s dying. Feels like my presence is that omen in itself.

After considering the advice, Mom finally shares something. “I stole a dollar from the rec center when I was a kid. It’s been bothering me ever since.”

A bubble of laughter bursts out of me. Something that would bother her even in death is a dollar she stole decades ago? I have opponents of clients back home who routinely gouge their customers, thieving in much larger sums than pennies, impacting lives, taking away people’s means to support their families. But a dollar is what she wants to make restitution for, and so we shall.

“You’re a cold hard criminal who should be locked up, woman.”

That one goes under the repaying misdeeds category.

The other items that she eventually names off are much more innocuous and less exciting, believe me. But eventually we’ve laid out all of the ones we can think of between us, including telling friends, which she says she wants to hold off on until she has no choice. And we’ve added a fifth category that most of the new additions fall under.

Loose ends.

“Anything else you think needs to be taken care of while I’m here to help?”

A lull. Uncharacteristic quiet. I sense the shift and peer up at her. When she speaks, it’s so quiet I have to strain my ears to hear her above the buzz of the last of the katydids, out unseasonably late this year.

“Sure would be nice if my girls got along again. If I knew you two would be okay and have each other, even if I’m not here.”

And if that doesn’t stop my heart.

Because that’s one thing I don’t know how to promise her.

By the time I make it to my temporary home, it’s a surprisingly welcome sight. Somewhere I can let my shoulders droop, the mask slip, and not worry about looking strong.

It’s late enough that even most of the Monday night crowd has gone home for the evening, the bulk of the noise inside of Suds is coming from Ernie as I make my way through the large open room toward the stairwell about three-quarters down the side wall that leads to my studio hideaway. I catch something about a trout, but do my best not to.

An angry eruption stops me in my tracks. “God dammit! Motherfuckers!” It’s a voice I’ve never heard raised before, which is what stops me.

My head swivels until it finds the hole in the wall Duke calls his office. I backtrack and poke my head in the door there to find him standing over his desk, arms outstretched on the edge of it, head hung low. Stress, worry, and outrage roll off him in waves, palpable even from the doorway.

“Duke? What happened?” I ask him gently, not trying to startle him.

He turns to face me, normally kind eyes rimmed in red, like that anger I heard from him is about to pour out through any possible opening, but not at me. At the paper on his desk, I’m guessing.

“These motherfuckers at the bank, that’s what.”

“May I?” I ask, gesturing at the offending document.

“Have at it.” He sweeps his arm, inviting me in further.

A lot of unnecessary vernacular in my professional opinion, but the words that stand out as most important to me are ninety days , final warning , and forfeit . The logo at the top is mighty familiar to me, as well. Brown Stone Bank.

“Have they sent you anything before this?” I ask him when I’m done looking it over.

“Sure they have.”

“Would you let me look it over?”

Duke digs around in a drawer attached to the dingy metal desk for a minute and produces a handful of earlier letters, stored in their respective envelopes.

“May I take pictures to look these over more thoroughly?”

He nods and I take them all out to scan with my phone.

“Do you have representation?”

Duke looks at me like what do you think before shaking his head, lips pursed. That’s what I figured.

“Something about this isn’t right. Give me some time on this, okay?”

“I appreciate it. Take all the time you need,” he says, hands dropping back down to his desk with a loud slap. “As long as it isn’t over ninety days.”