Rewrite the Stars by Christina Consolino (classic fiction TXT) 📗

have decaf?” She lifted her eyes to meet mine. They looked dull and vacant; with time, her light green eyes had turned muddy and gray. Another detail I hadn’t observed.

“Sure do. I drink a combination of decaf and regular these days.” I placed one of the mugs in front of Mom, who took a quick sip before adding milk into her cup.

“Why?” she asked.

“Oddly enough, I get more tired by the end of the day if I drink a cup of fully caffeinated coffee in the morning. And I don’t have time to be more tired than I already am. You know how it goes. It ain’t easy having kids.” A splash of regular coffee would round out my cup. Bringing it up to my nose, I inhaled the pungent scent of the deep brown liquid. In an instant, a placidity pushed at the despair and anger that had settled over me that morning.

“You do too much, Sadie. Why doesn’t Theo help you?” Mom lowered herself to the seat at the breakfast bar, which squeaked under her light form as I slid a plate of steaming pancakes toward her.

The light from the low-hanging pendant lights highlighted my mother’s face. It appeared she didn’t understand what Theo was going through with his PTSD.

I scooped another cupful of pancake batter into the measuring cup and practically threw it against the bubbling butter on the griddle. “Mom, I’ve told you before. It’s complicated.”

“Well, I’m not so sure—”

Chucking any manners and respect for my elders, I held my palm up to my mom, interrupting her train of thought. The last thing I needed to do was get into another argument with or about Theo. The cottage was supposed to be my sanctuary, my slice of tranquility, and so far, nothing had gone as planned. “Mom, I don’t want to talk about this right now. If you have questions, ask him. He’s trying to get better but...Theo left.” I put my hand up again and pursed my lips to signal the conversation was over. “Not sure for how long, a couple days, but again, our situation is...weird, to say the least. So, I don’t want to talk about it, but when I’m ready, I will.”

Perhaps the set of my shoulders told her I meant business or the salty tears clinging to my lashes, threatening to spill over the lower lids of my eyes because Mom looked at me and said, “Okay, what can I do to help?”

Had I heard her correctly? “First, why in the hell did you come up here?”

Mom sipped her coffee and placed the mug on the counter before answering my question. “Something was off, and I wanted to make sure you were okay. You’ve never hung up on me, and when you did that, it hurt. And it’s so unlike you to take off for vacation during the school year.”

“Yeah, it is. Did you ever ask yourself why I might have hung up on you? Did you replay the conversation in your head and try to figure it out?” That day stood out clearly in my memory. I’d felt so empowered with the simple push of a button.

“Yes, but I didn’t understand it. I still can’t.”

“Then why did you wait until now to ask?” The bubbles in the center of the batter popped, and I flipped the pancakes over, one at a time.

“I don’t know, honey. I just didn’t.” Mom placed her chin in her hands and stared at me but had nothing else to say.

“Then you’re welcome to stay, but I don’t have time to explain it to you.” Shaking my head, I handed her plates. At the least, she’d bear a bit of my burden since I still had my own work to finish.

With Mom’s help, I finished preparing breakfast and came up with a plan I thought was best for the kids. I’d shower and get changed while she woke the kids up and got them dressed for the day. We’d all eat said breakfast—Mom had already eaten—head down to the beach for a quick morning walk, and Mom or Lena would take them in the afternoon while I worked on my project. In that plan was buried the moment I’d tell them Dad was away for a few days. Pancakes, syrup, and a dash of “your Dad’s not home, and we might be splitting up for good.”

That plan would work for everyone but Charlie. He proved it later, when I revealed the news.

“Where is he? Why did he leave?” Charlie jabbed a piece of his pancakes—his second serving—and dunked it into a puddle of syrup collecting on the side of the plate.

“He’s over at the Inn, honey. He’s had a rough time lately, and I didn’t think this vacation through...it’s been a lot for him.” Charlie’s big soulful eyes stared at me, challenging and asking without words if I was telling the truth. Children did that to you, kept you honest. What I said was the truth, but I had to be more straightforward with Charlie.

Pulling one of the chairs at the breakfast bar right up next to Charlie, I looked him right in the eyes. “We had a discussion last night that didn’t sit well with Dad. And so, he wants to be alone. Can you understand?”

Charlie sat back and thought for a moment, blinking his eyes. He placed his thin hand under his chin, a tiny caricature of Rodin’s The Thinker. I thought at first he was playing around but then realized he was doing just that, thinking. And processing. And letting everything sink into that wonderful brain of his.

“Did he say anything about me?” Charlie asked.

“No, should he have?”

“Just wondering. And I get it. Sometimes I need to be alone, too, but finding alone time and space at our house is always hard.” A thoughtful smile passed across his face.

My gaze turned toward my mom, who sat with Lexie on her lap, reading an ABC board book. Finding alone time and space of my