Fly Away Home by - (uplifting book club books txt) 📕

an ambiguous term. Do they represent something good, bad, or otherwise? I’ve had plenty of enjoyable times with my brother. So why is it that all the unpleasant ones float to the surface when we’re together? Is that why I avoid spending more time with him?

“How are you doing?” It’s becoming a frequent question from him. “I know . . . I keep asking.” There’s genuine concern and compassion in his voice. Do I also detect a hint of guilt?

“I’m doing okay.” Pausing for a second, I let more of the truth leak out. “But I’ve been better.” I can’t recall an extended period of positive vibes in my recent past. Every moment over these last couple days has me on edge. Fear consumes me. Everything seems to fall apart once things start going well for me. It’s only a matter of time. I remind myself to hide away for the foreseeable future. It should prevent any of that negativity from infringing upon my world. Then I remember that will be impossible to pull off with Lizzie as my guest. “How’s the business?” Back to safe topics, both of us tiptoeing around the elephant in the room.

“I’m actually quite nervous. I’ve never prepared for anything on this scale before.” He takes another extended sip and stares at his glass. “But I’ve done everything I can.”

“You’ll do great, I’m sure of it. You always persevere.”

“Listen, Claire. About Mom . . .”

“Don’t worry about it.” My response comes quick. “That’s in the past now.” At least that’s where I want it to be. And stay.

“No, this is important, and I’ve wanted to talk about it with you. I just didn’t know how.” He sets his lemonade on the table and wraps his fingers together tightly.

“How can you call her ‘Mom’? That name should be reserved for someone who cares for and nurtures people. Especially her own children.” The bile of irritability rises in my throat.

“There was a time . . . when it wasn’t so bad. Before you were old enough to remember, while she still had a job. Back then, she took care of us in the only way she knew how. It was never perfect, but it was real.” I have no words. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to believe any of this. It’s easier to despise her. I don’t have the emotional space or patience to love and hate her in the same breath. “You know that lemonade recipe?”

“Yeah, the one you taught me.”

“Well, before I showed you, she shared it with me.”

How can I stomach another glass of it now? Those sour undertones will surely overpower the sweetness I used to taste. How can my mind mix these two opposing thoughts? Drinking lemonade on the porch while gazing toward an ethereal image of my garden. It’s perfect. And then these caustic memories from the past pollute that beautiful moment.

“I’m sorry.” My gaze darts across the table to Russell. I’ve never heard him use those words before. At least not while talking about this. “I shouldn’t have asked you to handle everything on your own. Truth is, I didn’t even ask. I just assumed you would take care of all the details, and that was wrong.” Our eyes lock, and I notice his pain. I can only imagine he recognizes a similar suffering in me. “When stuff went bad, I wasn’t sure what to do. I feel guilty for not doing more to help you.”

“You were there, and you did help, by getting me to focus on other things. Better things.” He was young too, trying to navigate his way through a sea of doubt and distrust.

“I didn’t come to her funeral because . . .” He stares over my shoulder, contemplating his next words. "Exposing Lizzie to those thoughts of her grandmother wouldn’t have helped. And there’s a part of me that worried about the negative atmosphere. That it might have infiltrated her through some warped form of familial osmosis.”

“It’s okay. I understand.” I don’t completely appreciate his choice, but I’m a lot closer now, and it is the right thing to say. His hunched body posture reveals deep emotional suffering. I need to help him like he did me. Moving from my position on the couch, I walk around the table and embrace Russell in a full hug. He sniffs, fighting back a sob.

“Truth is, Claire, I knew you could handle it. It’s not an excuse, but it is a cowardly reason. I should have been there.” I rub his back, hoping to wipe away some of that unwelcome pain that has risen to the surface. “You are a stronger person than I could ever be.” His words shake something loose inside me.

I hold his shoulders, release him from our embrace, and look him in the eyes. His gaze speaks nothing but unfiltered truth. There’s a lightness in my chest.

After running shaking fingers through his hair, Russell gets up and grabs our two glasses. “How about a refill? I don’t think she’ll notice.”

“Why doesn’t she already know the secret recipe? About how much lavender to put in the pitcher?” I recall Lizzie’s plea for me to share it with her.

“Don’t you remember, there is no secret. It’s whatever feels right in the moment.”

“I know, but why doesn’t she know that?”

“I thought it might be best coming from you, whenever the time was right.”

As Russell disappears into the kitchen, that right time may be quickly approaching. My thoughts tumble back to his message. You are a stronger person than I could ever be. No one has told me that before. I appreciate the power of words, but these carry an extra potency. And coming from the big brother I looked up to as a child, it means even more. Such a simple thought has improved my self-image in the blink of an eye.

He returns with two full glasses and a smile on his face. “It looks like Lizzie has already found her next subject.”

“What do you mean?”

“She enjoys working in watercolors and oil paints. It’s all mumbo jumbo to me, but she has a knack for it.”

“I think your artistic bent has rubbed off on her, just in a different medium.” Russell’s landscaping efforts are a work of art in a way only flowers can achieve.

“Well, she’s sitting on the porch, staring out at a jasmine plant in the middle of a field. Do you know who owns that?” I’m hesitant to offer the truth, unsure where he’s heading with his comment. I didn’t give much thought to its placement. I wanted nothing more than for it to be front and center through the kitchen window.

“As a matter of fact, I own it.”

“Did you plant that there?”

“I did.” Should I share the magical vision that greeted me yesterday? “I have plans to turn it into an expansive English cottage garden. Arbors. Walkways. Flowers of all shapes, sizes, and textures.” I can’t hold it back. Lost in a dreamy state, I let excitement spill from me unfiltered.

“It sounds amazing. I should help you. I do have a bit of experience in that area.” I smile, realizing his offer is only hypothetical. He has a critical business meeting first thing in the morning. “Lizzie looks up to you. You know that, right? Even though we don’t spend a lot of time together, she knows how strong you are.” He leans forward, resting elbows on his knees and tenting fingers over his mouth. “Can I use your phone?” I nod, pointing to the kitchen, still lost in this new feeling of unfamiliar strength.

I get up, make my way outside, and peek around the corner at Lizzie on the side porch. She’s curled up in the rocking chair, with legs tucked beneath her and a palette of watercolors beside her. I glimpse the spiral-bound sketchbook in her lap. She has turned an overgrown field of weeds into a beautiful work of art. With my jasmine as the centerpiece.

“That’s absolutely exquisite.”

She looks toward me, tucks long strands of hair behind her ears, and smiles. “You have to say that. You’re family.”

“Perhaps, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Your dad is right. You have quite a knack for this stuff.”

She returns her focus to the field, eyes moving back and forth between her subject and the sketchbook. Just like someone else I now know. She dips her brush in the red mixture. I watch it transform into a soft pink hue as it seeps into the paper fibers. “It is nice to see something different. There’s only so many ways to paint a bowl of oranges.”

“Why don’t you try painting some new things?”

She wriggles her legs and repositions them beneath her. “Dad’s been busy with work. So it’s been tough to find the time to, you know, get out and stuff.” My heart breaks a little for her. To have a dream, to recognize exactly what you want, and not be able to chase it. I’m all too familiar with that feeling.

“Maybe your Aunt Claire can show you a thing or two around town?” Russell arrives on the side porch, surprising both of us. “I’d love to see that bridge done in oil paints on a canvas.”

“Dad. I didn’t know you were there. That’s not what I meant . . .” It’s impossible for her to disguise the guilt and disappointment in her voice.

“It’s okay, pumpkin.” His tone evokes empathy embedded in an unspoken apology.

“Dad, pumpkins are fat . . . and orange.” Leave it to teenagers. They discover ways to refute the most tenderhearted show of parental emotion.

“Well, they still remind me of my little Cinderella.” He smiles, and the hint of a grin grows on Lizzie’s face, even if she doesn’t allow him to see it.

“I’m not so little anymore.” She returns to her painting while Russell and I share a knowing smirk.

Lizzie is growing up so fast. And she’s got a gift. “Well, if there’s one thing that’s certainly not little, it’s your talent.”

“Speaking of underutilized skills, do you have a shovel around these parts? I’m itching for some sacred time in the dirt.” My brother flexes his fingers as a writer would before picking up a pen and paper. He’s preparing to tell a story in his own unique way.

I glance at the sun. It has moved more than a few hours across the afternoon sky. “You have to leave in less than thirty minutes.”

“Make that twenty-four hours and thirty minutes. I pushed my meeting back.”

“But . . .” Does he feel obliged to stay? Did I cause that? It’s not the message I wanted to send, and I certainly don’t want him to risk losing the contract.

“It’s okay. I owe you, and as it turns out, the day after tomorrow works better for my potential client.” A mirror image of Lizzie’s infectious smile appears on my brother’s face. Now I see where she gets it from. “So, who’s up for a little time in Mother Nature’s sandbox with me?”

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