Moments We Forget Page 3

  “They being?”

  “My bosses. The conference is in Denver early next spring.”

  “This sounds like a great opportunity.”

  “It’d be different. I’m used to doing my work, coming home—maybe attending a conference. I’ve never even thought about speaking at one.”

  “You’d be great at it.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “How soon do you have to let them know?”

  “They mentioned it yesterday. I said we’d talk again next week.”

  “I know you need to think about it some more, but my vote is yes.”

  He paused long enough to press a quick kiss on the top of my head. “And thanks for that.”

  This was a chance to support my husband, an opportunity to turn the spotlight off me, my cancer, and put it onto Geoff. Onto something positive. This speaking opportunity was an indicator that things were better. Not perfect, but better.

  We were passing Gianna’s house—almost home. “I reminded Gianna about the kitchen renovation when we were talking earlier today.”

  “Why?”

  “Because workers will be around. Cars and trucks parked in front of our house—possibly in front of her house. I just thought it was the neighborly thing to do.”

  “Right. I hadn’t thought about how the renovation might affect the neighbors—I mean, beyond the fact that they have to look at that dumpster.”

  “Avery, her little girl, loves Winston, but Gianna says she has her hands full with a two-year-old.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “What would you want?”

  “What?”

  “Would you want to start our family with a son or daughter?”

  Geoff adjusted his glasses. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “No preference for a boy or girl?”

  “No . . . no preference.” Geoff stopped by the gate leading into the backyard and handed me Winston’s leash. “Here, take him on inside. I’ll go get the mail.”

  “We can get the mail . . .”

  He jogged away with a quick wave. “I’ll be waiting at the front door.”

  “Okay. Fine.”

  That was a bit abrupt. But it gave me the chance to appreciate my husband as he jogged around to the front of the house . . . a moment to daydream about the day we’d go for a walk with our son or daughter. Of course, I’d learned not to think too far ahead, but it was good to allow myself to dream again, if only for a few moments.

  The Thatcher sisters were together two days in a row—a rare event now that we were all adults. And a risky one, given the interpersonal fiasco during our first-ever book club meeting.

  Also risky considering how I had listened to Payton’s recommendation and hadn’t called and apologized to Johanna.

  Hadn’t made things all better.

  Of course, when Geoff and I talked more Saturday night, he’d agreed with Payton, telling me not to call Johanna—and not to worry so much. So it was two against one opposing me about contacting my older sister. Instead, to resist temptation, Geoff and I had watched a movie, and then I’d gone to bed early and slept late.

  It wasn’t all an escape—sleep was survival nowadays.

  Now my house seemed to overflow with people moving between the main floor, the upstairs, and the basement. The cupboards in the soon-to-be-renovated kitchen stood open, half-empty. Mom faced the fridge, either setting the contents onto what little counter space we had, adding them to a pot of soup simmering on the stove, or throwing them into a big black trash bag. Payton and Zach, who’d come later than everyone else because they’d probably attended church, wrapped and stacked plates and bowls in a large blue plastic bin. They didn’t mention where they’d been and no one asked because Thatchers didn’t “do” God—but Payton seemed to be curious, thanks to Zach’s faith. Johanna staked out her own corner and analyzed my spice rack, tossing outdated square tins and glass bottles into the trash.

  “Where’s Winston? Who let him out of his kennel? Winston?” I stood at the bottom of the stairs that led up to our bedrooms. “Did someone put him in the backyard?”

  “Yes. Dad has him outside.” Mom leaned around the fridge door. “If you’re not careful, he’s going to steal that dog one day.”

  With my mischievous dog found, all I had to remember was what I’d been doing before I realized Winston wasn’t in his kennel.

  “Did you find those other plastic containers?” Payton closed an empty cupboard door.

  “Right! I left them upstairs.”

  “I’ll get them.” Geoff gave me a quick kiss in passing. Zach offered to carry down more storage bins and followed behind him.

  “I thought I’d done more to get ready for demo day.” I pressed both hands to my face. “But what with Geoff and I both working . . .”

  “We’ll get it done.” Payton came and stood next to me, offering me a side hug. “This is a great time to clean house, no pun intended. Mom will wipe down the fridge for whoever is picking it up later. Zach promised to make a run to the thrift store with the giveaway box. Johanna’s going crazy checking dates on all your spices and canned goods, so you’ll be all set when you’re restocking your brand-new kitchen.”

  We all observed the invisible boundary lines, first set up by Johanna dragging the trash can over to the counter and turning her back on everyone. Enough distance so there was no discernible friction—and no real conversation, either.

  But working together was better than arguing.

  “Jill, the fridge is empty and the veggie soup is simmering. Your dad wants to take Winston for a walk.” As I moved away from the stairs, Mom nodded to where Dad now waited by the front door, Winston prancing around his feet on the end of his leash. “Is it okay if I go with them?”

  “Go. Relax. Tackling the fridge was a huge job.”

  “When we get back, we’ll run to the store and get bread to have with the soup.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Soup is always better with bread. I’ll grab something for dessert, too.”

  And it would make Mom happy to feed everyone today and to know Geoff and I would have leftovers tomorrow.

  Geoff stopped beside me. “All the storage containers go in the basement until after the renovation, right?”

  “Yes. We just need to make sure they’re labeled.”

  Johanna spoke up from her corner of the kitchen, still facing the spice rack. “Dishes, glassware, and utensils are labeled with blue duct tape. Food items are labeled with yellow duct tape. Pots and pans—silver. Other cookware items—white.”

  “Okay.” I guessed that rapid-fire announcement counted as talking to me. Sort of.

  “You mentioned you were using a small fridge during the reno, so I made up a box of items for you and Geoff.” She still hadn’t looked at me. “Keurig, paper plates, bowls, cups, napkins, plasticware.”

  I tried to keep up with all she’d said. Colors. The items she’d put in the box. Where had she said she’d put it?

  “Did you tell Geoff?”

  “No.” Johanna tossed a quick glance over her shoulder. “Do you want me to?”

  “No. It’s fine. I just wondered.”

  I would act like I was following along. It was what I did more and more these days—struggle to follow along. Pretend.

  Johanna tilted her head, watching me as if she detected my confusion. I needed to choose to ignore one or the other—the confusion all around me or the confusion swirling inside me. And I needed to remember it was okay to forget things every once in a while. Everybody did that.

  “Where’s the number of the guy who’s coming to pick up the fridge?”

  Geoff. Back with another question.

  “Didn’t I give it to you when we were talking last night?”

  “No. You said you’d give it to me today. I want to call him and confirm when he’s coming over.”

  “Oh. Right.” I scrambled to separate today from th
e details of yesterday and something that happened several weeks ago. “We posted the fridge on craigslist, right?”

  Geoff had grabbed a bottle of water off the counter and gulped half of it down while waiting for me to answer. “We were going to. But then you said that one of Harper’s neighbors bought it to use in his garage.”

  “Right. Right.”

  Now if only Geoff would keep feeding me clues—bits of information that would help me remember where I’d left that phone number.

  “I think his name was . . . Rick . . . or maybe Ron.”

  “Do you want to call Harper and ask her?”

  That would be easier. But I had written the information down. It wasn’t like I could call my best friend every time I forgot something. “Let me find the number. I know I have it.”

  Ten minutes later, after searching the messages on my Facebook page, my texts, and my voice mails, as well as a pile of papers on my bedroom dresser, I found the information Geoff needed. It was like playing a virtual game of Memory with my brain, flipping over different things to find the matching details and put together the question and answer I needed. No . . . no . . . no . . . yes! And behind me, I left a pile of papers strewn across our bed, which I’d have to deal with later.

  What would be the next question that would cause me more mental muddle?

  Dinner was a welcome respite from a day of nonstop activity. And we didn’t use any of the paper products Johanna had brought, thanks to Mom picking some up at the store, along with the bread, butter, a half gallon of ice cream, and a tiny container of vegan Häagen-Dazs for Payton.

  A lull in the conversation as we all sat around the dining room table seemed like the appropriate time to thank everyone for their help.

  “I hope you all know how much Geoff and I appreciate everything you’ve done to help us get ready for tomorrow.” I was careful to scan the table, making eye contact with no one specific for longer than half a second, if that.

  “Beckett’s sorry he got called into work.” Johanna still didn’t quite look at me when she spoke, but at least it seemed that comment wasn’t meant for the group at large.

  “We understand work trumps packing up our kitchen.”

  Johanna offered me a glimpse of a smile. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll check with the guys one last time.” Zach spoke to Geoff. “Make sure they’ll be here bright and early.”

  “I hope not too early. I know you’re not sleeping well, Jillian. . . .” Mom’s voice trailed off as she traded a look with my older sister. “I mean, Johanna mentioned . . .”

  And now glances were exchanged between Mom and Johanna. Payton and me. Mom and me. An awkward game of visual avoidance.

  Somebody had to say something.

  Fine.

  “I know you and Johanna have talked about my . . . my health, Mom. But I . . . I would prefer you didn’t.”

  Now not only was I taking Payton’s advice and not apologizing to Johanna, but I was correcting her and Mom. At the same time. In front of everyone.

  What little soup I’d eaten threatened to rise back up my throat. I tried to swallow, massaging my collarbone.

  “I wasn’t trying to talk about you behind your back.” Mom’s voice wavered.

  “I understand that.” Johanna’s heated stare seemed to scorch my face. “But Johanna shouldn’t have discussed the side effects of my medication and . . . and the fact that I can’t get pregnant while I’m on Tamoxifen without talking to me about it first.”

  I could almost hear Payton cheering me on from the sidelines, adding an invisible cartwheel just for fun.

  “But why didn’t you tell me?”

  Mom’s question, weighted down with the unspoken words “after all, I’m your mother,” silenced me for a moment . . . and then backed me into a corner.

  “I’m sorry, Mom.” The words whooshed out of me like helium from a deflating balloon. “Maybe I should have talked to you sooner. . . . If I had, I could have avoided all this.”

  And with that simple apology, all was as it should be in the Thatcher family again. I’d assumed my expected place, which so often included an apology of some sort. And Johanna and Payton were once again at odds—with me in the middle.

  “Oh, Jill, I understand.” Mom’s smile encompassed my mistake with instantaneous forgiveness. “You were trying to do what you thought was best.”

  And I’d made a mistake.

  Now that I’d admitted it, everything was better—the world was right when I was wrong.

  It looked as if Payton was going to say something, but Zach gave a quick, almost-imperceptible shake of his head. She pursed her lips and exhaled . . . and said nothing.

  I waited for Johanna to step in. Maybe follow my lead with her own apology.

  “I’m sorry this was even a topic of discussion again.” She stood, gathering her bowl and napkin. “I explained yesterday that all I was doing was answering Mom’s questions—not attempting to invade anyone’s privacy.”

  Not quite the apology I’d hoped for.

  “Johanna, don’t try to make it sound like what you did was right.” Payton jumped past Zach’s restraint.

  “We’re family. And like it or not, we are all affected by the fact that you had breast cancer, Jillian. I, for one, would rather talk about things. Not hide things.”

  Oh, there were so many things our family didn’t talk about.

  How Pepper’s death had affected Payton. How it had affected all of us. How Johanna had read Payton’s journal and that led to the decision to send Payton away for medical help when she was sixteen . . . We chose silence over words again and again.

  My sister’s words slammed against me, scattering what was left of any defense I’d tried to muster. I wasn’t hiding when I decided not to discuss every little medical detail with my family . . . I was trying to deal with my life. One day, one reality, at a time.

  If anything, I should have started and finished with the apology. I knew the routine and shouldn’t have deviated from it. What good had it done?

  My family was horrible at respecting boundaries. And apparently the temporary cease-fire between the Thatcher sisters was at an end.

  I COULD FIX THIS.

  Given a moment—one single, uninterrupted moment—I could fix this.

  First I needed to figure out what was wrong. Why my boss was standing in my office asking, “Where were you?” as if he were my father and I were some delinquent fifteen-year-old daughter sneaking into the house after curfew.

  “Jillian, why didn’t you answer my phone calls? My texts?”

  “I was at lunch—” I searched my purse—“and I didn’t get any calls or texts.”

  I ransacked the depths of my canvas tote bag. ChapStick. A metal tin of peppermint Altoids. An almost-empty package of tissues. My car keys. Two tubes of lipstick. My wallet. Half a movie ticket. An endless assortment of crumpled receipts. One of Winston’s chew toys.

  Oh, that would impress my boss.

  Where had I left my phone?

  Harper, my ever-reliable friend, slipped around me, deposited the bag containing my leftover lunch on my cluttered desk, and began opening and closing various drawers, finally producing my cell phone. “Here it is.”

  Mr. Hampton remained facing me.

  “I’m so sorry. I left it . . .” The words stalled in my throat. No sense in stating the obvious. “What did you need me to do?”

  “Where’s the closing package for the Spencers? Everyone’s waiting at Ascent Title—they were supposed to close on their new house forty-five minutes ago.”

  I stepped forward even as heat coursed through my body. “I e-mailed that to the title company right before I left—”

  “They never received it. They sent you several e-mails. Called your office. Your cell. And now they’re calling me.”

  As if on cue, both my cell and office phones rang, the sound traveling up my spine and lodging in the base of my brain. “I—I’ll handle this.”

  “
Do that. Please.” My boss pivoted like a soldier on guard duty and left without another word.

  “What can I do?” The shrill rings of competing phones almost drowned out Harper’s question.

  “Nothing.” I took my cell and muted it as I eased into the chair behind my desk. “This is my problem.”

  “Are you sure—?”

  “Harper!” I stopped. Modulated my voice down from panic mode. “Just let me do this, please.”

  “Sorry. Tell me if you need anything.”

  As Harper disappeared with an encouraging thumbs-up and a smile lighting her brown eyes, I answered my phone. “Jillian Hennessey. How can I help you?”

  “Jillian, where’s the blasted paperwork for the Spencer closing?” The familiar voice of one of the loan officers over at Ascent Title seared my ear. I scrambled to remember his name. Joe? Joseph? Jonas?

  Jonah.

  “I e-mailed it to you an hour ago, Jonah.” I powered up my computer.

  “Never got it.”

  “That’s impossible.” I wouldn’t deny being forgetful, but I knew I’d sent that paperwork. I could even have Harper vouch for me—if I hadn’t just banished her from my office—because I’d asked her to wait while I finished up. “Did you check your spam folder?”

  “I’ve checked everyone’s in-box and everyone’s spam folder. It’s not in this office.” Jonah almost spat the words at me. “I’ve got two angry parents in my conference room. Their three kids are hyped up on soda and cookies and have used all of my computer paper to color on. My receptionist had to take their dog—their very large German shepherd—for a walk to get it out of our storage room! Did I mention my receptionist is allergic to dogs?”

  As Jonah talked, I scrolled through the e-mails in my Sent folder. And there! There was the Ascent Title e-mail with the attached closing package. I switched to my in-box . . . only to find the e-mail returned as undeliverable.

  I’d sent the package to an old, outdated e-mail address.

  A groan welled up from deep within me and escaped through the phone.

  “What? What did you do?”

  “I was right . . . and I was wrong.” Even as my brain wanted to shut down, as my throat tightened, I knew I had to be professional and own my mistake. And then fix it. “I accidently clicked on the wrong e-mail address. Then I left for an early lunch and forgot my cell phone. Which is why I didn’t respond sooner.”