All the Little Lights
Page 80

“Waffles?” I sat up, inhaling the aroma of flour, yeast, and warm maple syrup mixed with the new odors of paint and carpet and the old smells wafting from my clothes in the closet.
I stumbled from the bed and opened the door, wearing a ratty white T-shirt and gray sweatpants.
Becca was standing on the other side wearing black-framed glasses, a powder-blue robe, pink pajamas, and fluffy slippers. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun, brunette strands sticking out.
“Waffles,” she said with a bright smile, holding up a spatula. “C’mon!”
We hurried to the kitchen, where she turned a silver contraption, twisted a latch, and then opened the lid, revealing a perfectly golden waffle.
“Butter or peanut butter?” she asked, dropping it onto a plate.
My nose wrinkled. “Peanut butter?”
“Oh my God, you’ve never tried it?”
“We don’t have a waffle maker. It broke last year. But no, I’ve never even heard of peanut butter on waffles.”
She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “You’re not allergic, are you?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Here,” she said, slathering one half with regular butter, the other with creamy peanut butter. Then she turned the syrup bottle upside down and drenched my breakfast with sugar. “Let me know which one you like best.”
She handed me the plate, a fork, and a knife and then stirred the batter, pouring it into the waffle maker. Even when we had one, it didn’t look like that. Mrs. Mason gave it a turn and then escorted me to the table.
Orange juice had already been poured and was waiting for me. I sat, then carved into the peanut butter side, shoveling a square into my mouth. My hand instantly covered my lips as I worked to chew the sticky, sugary, creamy goodness. “Oh, wow.”
Mrs. Mason grinned, resting her elbows on the table and leaning forward. “Amazing, huh?”
“It’s so good,” I said, my words garbled.
She clapped and then stood, pointing at me as she returned to the kitchen. “You’ll never eat them the old way again.”
She yawned as she stood at her post, waiting for hers to cook. The sun was pouring in from every window, making the warm hues inside glow. As inviting as the Masons’ house was at night, it was downright cheerful during the day. I couldn’t imagine them fighting here, certainly not enough to separate.
“Did you sleep okay?” I asked between bites.
“Pretty good,” she said, nodding once. The contraption beeped, and Mrs. Mason twisted it, unlocking the latch and smiling as her waffle plopped onto her plate. Peanut butter and a cup of syrup later, she was sitting across from me.
She hummed as she took the first bite, seeming to savor it. “It’s nice to have an excuse to make these again. It was Milo who introduced me to peanut butter waffles in college.”
“You’ve dated since college?” I asked.
“High school.” She cut into her waffle with the side of her fork. “Fell in love right here in Oak Creek.” She got somber. “Fell out of love here, too.”
“It’s hard here, I think. There’s not enough to distract adults from work and real life. We don’t have the beach or the mountains, just hot wind blowing at us like a heater in the summer and the freezing wind stinging our faces in the winter.”
She chuckled. “You forget about the sunsets. And the lakes. And football.”
“I’ve never been to the lake,” I said, taking another bite.
“Milo has a boat. We will rectify that when it gets warm enough.”
I shrugged one shoulder. “I’m not sure where I’ll be.”
“You’ll be here. Until you leave for college. You haven’t said much about the applications.”
“I can’t afford college right now.”
“What about a Pell Grant? Scholarships? You’re an A student, Catherine. You missed salutatorian by only two points.”
I breathed out a laugh and looked down at my nearly empty plate.
“What?” Mrs. Mason asked.
“It just feels so strange to be sitting in this house with you, being served breakfast and talking about normal things when everything is so . . . not normal.”
“It will take a while to adjust.”
“I don’t think I should adjust.”
“Why is that?”
“It doesn’t feel right to get used to it—to being without Mama.”
“You don’t have to be without her. It’s okay to create healthy boundaries and to live out the rest of your senior year in a stable, safe environment.” She frowned, touching her index finger to the center of her forehead. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound so clinical.”
“No, it’s fine. I understand what you’re trying to say, but I accept that she needs me. My status as a caregiver won’t change after graduation, which is why college is a moot point.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s not ideal . . .”
“It’s not a life.”
“It’s not her fault.”
Mrs. Mason sighed. “It bothers me that you’ve given up. Your whole life is ahead of you. Being born shouldn’t be a prison sentence.”
“I don’t see it that way.”
“Are you happy there? Is that a life you would choose?”
“Of course not, but . . . does anyone choose? Is this what you chose?”
Mrs. Mason nearly spit out her orange juice.
“You know . . . you know his wife left him because he was sleeping with Emily Stoddard, right?”
Mrs. Mason wiped the orange specks from her chin. “I’d heard.”
“She graduated two years ago. She would never admit it to her parents or the administration, but she told all her friends.”
“Milo said as much.”
I sat back in my chair with a smirk on my face. “You didn’t believe him. Just like you don’t believe me now.”
“Actually, I was pretty sure Brad was sleeping with Presley before she disappeared.”
“You . . . what?”
“I saw texts from her on his phone. Pretty graphic texts. I stopped seeing him after that.”
My eyes grew wide. “You don’t think that’s something you should’ve mentioned to the police?”
“I . . .”
“They’ve been looking at Elliott and me, and you’ve had reason to believe the football coach was having an inappropriate relationship with a missing student?”
“He . . .”
“Why wouldn’t you report it?” I said, my voice louder than I’d meant for it to be.
“Catherine . . .”
“Elliott could be arrested any minute if Owen’s parents press charges, and you—”
“Catherine, I did. I did tell the police. Brad was interviewed and polygraphed. He has an alibi. He was here until morning.”
“What? But you said—”
“That I stopped seeing him after I saw the texts. And I did. He was here trying to get me back, and when he realized it wasn’t going to work, he pleaded with me not to go to Dr. Augustine. He’d been drinking. I let him pass out on my couch. It was pathetic.”
I covered my face with my hands. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“Hey.” Her hand touched my arm, and I looked up at her. She was reaching across the table, smiling. “It’s okay. This is a horrible, emotional, stressful situation.” She sat upright at the sound of knocking on the door and then stood, walking over and peering out.